How did he know how to find the apartment? How the hell did he get up to the balcony? Answer: He’s a Green Beret. They can do anything.
She finally managed to operate the door’s lock, and slid it open. “Boy, talk about timing!” Jack said. “Shall we do it right here on the balcony, or do we have a bed?”
She threw herself into his arms.
After a moment, he asked, “Hey, baby. What’s with the tears?”
“I’m happy,” Marjorie said. “That’s all. Welcome home, baby.”
[ THREE ]
SECRET
Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia
FROM : Assistant Director For Administration
FROM: 7 January 1965 1415 GMT
SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #32.)
TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter
Counselor To The President
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
By Courier
In compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: “Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara,” dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:
1. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Conraky, Guinea) SUBJECT met at 1945 GMT 6 January 1965 with Guinean President Sékou TOURÉ at the presidential palace. Also present was Senghor a LABE, President of Senegal.
2. (Reliability Scale Three) (From CIA sources) Both TOURÉ and a LABE expressed sympathy for African liberation movements, but neither requested any kind of assistance from SUBJECT to achieve liberation, nor offered any Guinean or Senegalese help, even though SUBJECT repeatedly suggested Cubans could safely offer aid covertly.
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
[ FOUR ]
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
1505 10 January 1965
Room 637 actually was a small suite. There was an outer office, with room for two desks, facing each other, with room to pass between them; two filing cabinets against one wall, and a battered leather couch against the other. Next to the couch there was a clothes tree and a door leading to a small washroom. Directly across from the door to the corridor was a door leading to the inner office. It was smaller than the outer office, and held a desk pushed up against the wall, two straight-backed chairs, and a clothes tree.
Chief Warrant Officer James L. Finton sat at one of the desks in the outer office, and Miss Mary Margaret Dunne at the other.
Five minutes before one of the telephones—the one connected to the White House Secure telephone switchboard—had rung, and when she answered it, a male voice had demanded, without any other preliminaries, “Is Felter there?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Mary Margaret had replied.
The line had gone dead.
Mary Margaret had immediately informed the colonel of the call and she had been keeping one eye on the telephone ever since, expecting a second call, ordering the colonel to immediately report to the Oval Office, or the Presidential Apartments, or the private entrance to the White House, or the lawn, where the helicopters landed.
The door to 637 opened, and the President of the United States walked in.
“Afternoon,” he said to Mary Margaret.
“Wait here,” he said to the two Secret Service agents who followed him into the office.
“Stand at ease, son,” he said to CWO Finton, who had popped to rigid attention behind his desk.
“There?” he asked of Mary Margaret, pointing to the washroom door.
“There, Mr. President,” Mary Margaret said, pointing to the door to the colonel’s office.
The President walked to the door and opened it without knocking.
The three men in the room, two of them in uniform, stood up.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Felter said. “I didn’t know you were coming here, sir.”
“I needed a breath of fresh air,” Johnson said, “and I realized I had never seen your office. So here I am.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a pretty shitty office,” Johnson said. “You want me to get you a better one?”
“This serves my needs very well, sir. But thank you.”
Johnson turned to look at the two men in uniform.
“Well,” the President said, offering his hand to one of them. “Look who’s here! And looking a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. How are you, Major?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” Father Lunsford said.
“Who are you?” the President inquired of the other man in uniform.
“My name is Lowell, Mr. President,” Craig Lowell said.
“I’ve been hearing about you,” he said. “You don’t look like an investment banker.”
“I try not to, Mr. President,” Lowell replied.
“They told me about that,” the President said, and then stabbed at Lowell’s chest with his finger. “But not about that. I guess the Distinguished Service Cross doesn’t fit in with the picture somebody was—just a couple of minutes ago—trying to paint of you as a Wall Street investment banker playing at being