|THE BEGINNING HOUR (standard:drama, 3057 words)|
|Author: Danny Raven||Added: Dec 30 2007||Views/Reads: 1497/979||Story 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.|
THE BEGINNING HOUR ‘A golden age of poetry and power Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.' I 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. Click here to read the rest of this story (328 more lines)
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