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THE BEGINNING HOUR (standard:drama, 3057 words)
Author: Danny RavenAdded: Dec 30 2007Views/Reads: 1653/1086Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
We still don't know the truth about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy....perhaps it was like this.


‘A golden age of poetry and power Of which this noonday's the beginning


The slim, black-haired man finished his coffee, threw some money on the
table and left the café. Mexico City was still busy this late in the 
year and in a few minutes he was just one of the hundreds strolling 
along the crowded streets. Not that there was anything unusual about 
him anyway – he was casually dressed, was wearing sunglasses and had a 
camera slung over his shoulder. 

He stopped now and then to look in some shop windows or at some leathers
but he didn't buy anything. 

Further along the street he came across a line of taxis waiting for
business. He strolled over and leaned in at the open window of the 
first and gave the driver an address before climbing in the back. 

Fifteen minutes later they had left the crowds behind and were driving
slowly along a backstreet of non-descript buildings and drab grey 
government offices. The black-haired man was leaning forward in his 
seat, glancing at all the buildings as they passed. 

When he spotted the one he was looking for he gave no indication that
he'd seen it and asked the driver to stop further along the street at 
the address he'd given earlier. 

After the taxi had gone, there was an oppressive quiet about the area,
broken only by the distant hum of the traffic from the busier part of 
the city. He waited on the corner awhile, the hot afternoon sun beating 
down on him. 

Satisfied that he hadn't been followed, he headed back down the empty
street, casually glancing round now and then. As he approached the 
building he wanted, he looked at his watch. He had timed it perfectly. 

He smiled and walked into the Cuban Embassy. 


Inside, the small reception room was cool after the dusty heat of the
street. He removed his sunglasses and mopped his face with a 
handkerchief. Across the room, a door opened and a clerk appeared. 

There was no conversation. The black-haired man reached into his jacket
pocket, withdrew his passport and handed it over. The clerk glanced at 
the name and the photograph then withdrew. 

He was staring at an oil painting of Fidel Castro when the door opened
again. He turned and a uniformed, bearded man was standing in the 
doorway. The man was holding his passport and smiling, his teeth white 
against the dark beard. 

He held the door open and in heavily accented English said, “Come in, Mr
Oswald. We've been expecting you.” 


Two hours later, Lee Harvey Oswald was sitting at a table at another of
the city's many outdoor cafés. He drank some coffe then took out an 
envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He opened the envelope and with 
a slightly trembling hand, removed the single small sheet of paper. All 
that had been typed on it was - N22. 

He took out a small notebook and flicked it open to November. Running
his finger down the column of dates, he came to the twenty second. Next 
to it was written – Dallas. 

He replaced the notebook then burned the small sheet of paper, letting
the ashes fall and grinding them underfoot. He leaned back in his chair 
and drank some more coffee. 

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