The Oval Office. White House. Washington, D.C.

“I want to see the files, Moshe,” Yousef insisted.
“What files are you referring to, sir?”
“You know damn well what I’m referring to. The conspiracy files. I promised the American people answers to their questions.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, sir.”
“I didn’t ask you if it was a good idea. I asked you to get me the files.”
Reluctantly, Moshe got up and left the office.

* * *

An hour later, Moshe reentered the Oval Office with a stack of manila folders. “Here they are, sir.”
“Great job, Moshe. Put them here on my desk and cancel my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. I want to see who really killed Kennedy and what part we played in 9/11.”
Yousef opened up the first folder. “What the hell is this, Moshe?”
Moshe walked over to the president’s desk.
“It’s all redacted! Every page, blank!” Yousef insisted.
“Yes, sir. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“You mean to say that the President of the United States can’t access the information?
“It is my understanding that no one can. sir.”
“Well understand this, Moshe, I am going to learn what others have done out of their ego and arrogance; what harm they’ve caused to this great nation of ours. I’m going to learn about them and then I’m going to go on the air and tell the American people what their country’s leaders have done in the past.”
“That might open up a can of worms that we can’t put the lid on afterwards,” Moshe warned.
“You’re my chief of staff. You’ve been involved in Washington politics for decades. You know every dark hallway, every unmarked passage, every dirty little secret this town holds. Now you’re telling me you can’t even get me a classified file when my security clearance is number one in the country.”
“The information isn’t in any file, sir,” Moshe explained.
“Then where is it, goddamn it!”
“It’s in one man’s head.”
“You mean to tell me that all that information, all its implications, all the dirty-dealing, all the crimes is entrusted to one man?”
“Yes, sir. That is my understanding. He knows what has occurred all the way back to World War One.”
“World War One?” Yousef repeated. “What the hell does World War One have to do with conspiracies?”
“That I don’t know sir. I was just told by one of the old archivers at the Library of Congress that the man exists.”
“Well let’s get his ass in here…today, Moshe.”
“What if he doesn’t want to come, sir?”
“Then make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

* * *

The sun went from rising in the east to setting in the west before Moshe’s phone rang
“Sir,” Mary began, “there’s a man out here that says you sent for him.”
“Show him in, Mary.”
“Yes, sir, but…”
“But what?” Moshe asked
“Well, sir, he’s in a wheel chair and I don’t think he has the energy to push himself in.”
“All right, Mary,” Moshe responded. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to your desk. I’ll come out and escort him in.”
“Yes sir.”
Moshe left the room and went into the hall.
There sat a very old, frail man in a wheel chair. His head and arms shook like he was in a hurricane.
Parkinson’s, Moshe thought.
“Let me help you, sir,” Moshe said.
“And just who are you, boy?”
“I’m Moshe Aaron, sir, the president’s chief of staff.”
“Moshe, huh,” the man considered. “You some kinda Jew, boy?”
“I am Jewish, sir. But I don’t see how that applies to the current situation.”
“You know about Truman, boy?” the old man said with a sneer on his face.
“Yes, sir, vice-president under Roosevelt, then thirty-third President of the United States. Guided the country through the start of the cold war.”
“Very good, boy, as far as you took it.”
“Well then why don’t you enlighten me, sir?”
“Truman hated Jews. Never let a Jew step into his house his entire life. Thought they were heathens, money changers, devils.”
“Well, you could say that about a lot of people, sir.”
“Boy, I’ve seen ‘em with horns on their heads.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous?”
“You think that’s bad?” the old man suggested. “I watched them unscrew light bulbs in libraries and then sell them outside for ten cents apiece.”
““You’re on some type of drug, sir?”
“My son’s a police officer and he said he arrested them lots of times for breaking open parking meters.”
“And what punishment do you think would fit that crime?” Moshe asked derogatorily.
“I think we should poison every piece of prune Danish in the world. It’ll kill all the Jews. They’re the only ones that eat that crap!”
“You ever try electric shock therapy, sir?” Moshe asked, preparing to push the man down a flight of steps where he’d wind up under his chair, every bone in his body broken, his head lying in a pool of blood, his teeth scattered like pebbles on a beach.
“I’m telling’ the truth about Jews, boy. You ought to be takin’ notes. Now get you fuckin’ hands off my chair. I’ll wheel myself into other room; you just get the door.”
“Yes, sir,” Moshe seethed.
The man gathered enough strength to push himself in, while Moshe walked behind, debating whether to choke the life out of the guy.
“Mr. President,” Moshe began, “this is…”
“You can just call me, ‘Sir.’”
“”And you can call me Mr. President,” Yousef countered.
“I’ll call you, ‘Boy’…’cause that’s what you are.”
“I’m the President of the United States, sir. And I will be respected.”
“You want respect?”
“That’s right.”
“Then get your shoe box and brushes and Shinola and do my wing-tips until they shine like the sun.”
Yousef took a few steps towards the man. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me. Are you deaf and stupid?”
“You can’t call the president of the United States a ‘shoe-shine man’.”
“No? Well I just did. And if you don’t like that, take your pick of these: towel head, camel jockey, paki, haji.”
“How about you just go out the way you came in,” Yousef insisted. “And don’t steal anything on the way out you dumpster-divin’, white trash.”
“You’re the one who sent for me, boy. I didn’t need to drag my ass away from the TV while Pat Robertson was on.”
“I was expecting someone with manners and humility. So, if you’re done insulting me, you can leave forthwith.”
“Oh, legalize! You an attorney, boy?”
“I graduated Stanford Law!”
“Oh, well, if I had known that, I would have been more respectful. Don’t need no frivolous lawsuits fillin’ up the trashcans in my home. ‘course I do save ‘em to wipe my ass with when I run out of toilet paper.”
“Well, it’s too late for that now.” Yousef walked back to take his seat at the desk. “You can show yourself out. I’ve got important people to see.”
“I’m the most important person you’ll ever see, boy.”
“You won’t even tell me your name and I’m supposed to believe that?”
“I’m a ghost who lives in the shadows. I know everything that’s worth knowin’.”
“You? A wrinkled up old man who won’t even tell me his name?”
“Names are for tombstones, boy.”
“Who you calling, boy, you white cracker?” Yousef demanded.
“Ha! Got your goat, didn’t I boy?”
“Cracker. Cracker ass cracker,” Yousef spewed.
“Porch monkey,” the old man retaliated.
“Honky, Honky.”
The old man broke out laughing. “Shit, I ain’t laughed so hard since Kennedy’s head exploded like a ripe melon.”
“You’re insane!” Yousef insisted.
“And you’re a watermelon-eatin’, seed-spittin’, chicken-chokin’ ass wipe.”
“Ofay, cracker. Cracker ass cracker,” Yousef spat.
“Spear-chucker,” the old man retaliated.
“You banjo-playin, in-bred moonshiner,” Yousef said.
“Go on, boy. You’re on a roll!”
“Peckerwood,” Yousef shot back.
“Tar baby,” the old man responded.
“Hick, bumpkin,” Yousef said.
“Hah! That’s a good one boy! Haven’t heard that in years!” the man said, tears of laughter running down his face.
“You going to tell me what you’re doing’ here, or should I have the Secret Service roll your skinny ass out of here, cracker.”
“No mama’s boy’s gonna tell me what to do, where to go, or when to go.”
“You damn ofay cracker, cracker ass cracker,” Yousef retaliated.
“Ha. Now you got it, you jitter-buggin’ Zulu.”
“Zulu?” Yousef repeated, smacking his hand on the desk so hard papers fluttered. “Who you callin’ a Zulu, Whitey?”
“You just a home grown jungle bunny to me, boy.”
“You cracker, ofay, Honky. Mayonnaise-eatin’ cracker ass cracker,” Yousef yelled.
“Burr head.”
“Moshe!” Yousef yelled. “Take this White piece of shit out of my office and shoot him.”
“But this is the man you sent for, sir.”
“I sent for this Honky?”
“Yes, sir. He’s the one man still alive who knows about all the conspiracies.”
“And so I have to eat crow if I want to learn about all that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid so,” Moshe replied.
“Shit,” Yousef said, slumping back into his chair.
“Ain’t; that a bitch, boy?” the old man suggested. “You got to choke all that hate down and pay your respects to a man who’s probably your daddy.”
“Well, you know your mammy got real tired of that dark meat and started playin’ the field. So I got just as good a chance of me being your daddy as any one of hundred men do.”
“Ah, you White trash, ofay cripple.”
“Oh, excellent, boy. Now, if that’s all that’s ammunition you got, how about we get down to business?”
“Right,” Yousef caved it. “Where do we start?”
The old man held out a single sheet of paper. He waggled it at Moshe. “Here, Jew boy,” he said, “give this to the coon.”
Moshe was stunned. Here, a man, a crippled old red-neck, was cursing the President of the United States and Yousef Moustafa was eating it all, having it shoved down his throat.
Moshe dutifully walked over, took the page from the old man and handed it to the president.
Yousef perused the sheet but did not take the time to read it. “What’s this?” he asked, thrusting it back at the old man.
“It’s your suicide note.”
“Huh? What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost whatever is left of your senile, Alzheimer’s-riddled brain? Why would I ever sign this?” he asked, trying to unstick the note from his hand like it was infected with leprosy.
“Because you want to know every secret, every dirty little piece of blackmail, felony, murder, genocide, coup de etad, war crime, and parking ticket anyone who was ever in government or supported an elected official got caught doing.”
“Don’t you think that you’re taking this game a little too far?” Yousef asked.
“Oh, it’s no game, boy. You want the information, you sign the paper.”
“Suppose I don’t sign, but instead call my AG and have him charge you with blackmail and terrorist threats?
“Who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to, boy? I’ve survived five wars and dealt with seventeen a-hole presidents; dealt with the dictators and puppets of fifty-five countries, made deals involving billions of dollars, and millions of lives. Gonna have to be someone a whole lot more smarter than you to take me down. Now, you gonna sign it or do I wheel my ass outta here?”
“No one’s going to believe I committed suicide if something happens to me,” Yousef assured.
“You remember Vic Forester, White House Counsel under Stinson?”
“Yes,” Yousef replied. “Killed himself in his car; despondent over his work.”
“That’s what the evidence showed and the police investigation confirmed.”
“You believe in the tooth fairy and unicorns, boy?”
“You’re telling me he was murdered?” Yousef asked.
“Depends on your definition of murder. “It was his finger on the trigger but there was another hand wrapped around his that squeezed off the shot.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Yeah? They bought the single shooter theory of Kennedy…bullets that change direction, all kinds of stupid shit. Don’t forget, you’re Black. Ain’t nobody goona miss you after the evening news is over.”
“And forensics isn’t going to show that it was murder?”
“Forensics?” the old man repeated. “You remember what happened to Kennedy’s forensics report that showed he was shot from the front?”
“Yes, all the notes disappeared.”
“Disappeared shit. I got ‘em.”
“You deaf, boy?”
“You’d never get away with it. This isn’t the ‘60s.”
“We already used up most of the obvious ways to kill people. That’s why we’re hopin’ for a little cooperation from you. Runnin’ outta ideas.”
“What about me?” Moshe asked. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll spill the beans?”
“You’re nobody, Jew boy. We could take you out with some plutonium in your chicken noodle soup…or maybe a pin prick with ricin or a syringe filled with air, give you an artificial heart-attack. Truth is, nobody gives a fuck about you, boy. Maybe just stuff some lox down your throat so you choke to death on Jewish soul food. We control the police, the coroners. So it don’t matter.”
“How dare you threaten my chief of staff,” Yousef demanded.
“Of course we could do it the long slow way: impeach your ass.”
“I was elected with an absolute majority in the Senate and House,” Yousef argued. “No way you could ever get the votes.”
“I’ve got enough senators and congressmen in my pocket to hang your bony ass,” the old man assured.
“You’re dreaming,” Yousef argued.
“You want to test me?”
“No,” Yousef admitted, then signed the paper and handed it back to the old man who folded it neatly and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Now, can we get on with it?” Yousef asked.
“How about we start at the beginning: World War I,” the old man suggested.
“You remember that?” Yousef asked, incredulous.
“Remember? Shit, boy, I helped J.P. cause it.”
“J.P.?” Yousef repeated.
“Morgan. You flunk history, boy?”
“But I thought J.P. Morgan died before the First World War?”
“He did. I’m talkin’ about J.P. Junior.”
“Oh, I didn’t–.”
“You just let me do the thinkin’ and talkin’.”
“Fine. Go ahead,” Yousef said.
“What do you think war is about?” the old man asked.
“Race, religion, politics, natural resources,” Yousef replied.
“Wrong,” the old man assured. “Profit. It’s about profit.”
“I can’t believe that; I don’t want to believe that,” Yousef insisted
“You’re naive, son. Just days after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, President Wilson met with my boss. Morgan wanted to make loans to the French government and the Rothschild Bank. Wilson was concerned that approving such an extension of capital might detract from the neutrality position that he had adopted.
“J.P. realized Wilson was not going to go to war, so Morgan got together a group of men, bought control of the twenty-five most influential newspapers in the country so they could mould public opinion against Germany and in favor of American entry into the war.
“The people didn’t want war… But the speculators, the employers, the plutocracy – they want it.
“J.P. whipped up their blood until the people were savages, willing to fight and die for freedom.
“Morgan made the loans he committed to. And that investment turned a tidy profit. For every soldier who died in battle, the international bankers made a profit of ten thousand dollars.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Yousef exclaimed.
“I thought you was an A-rab, boy?”
“It’s just an expression. Go on with what you were saying.”
“Between 1915 and 1917, the United States lent Germany twenty-seven million dollars. At the same time the United States lent the United Kingdom, France, and their allies two point three billion dollars. When the Russian government began to topple after the February Revolution, the Wall Street banks put pressure on Wilson to come to the aid of their allies…
“…and their outstanding loans,” Yousef surmised.
“Exactly. Each side hoped to blockade the other, and prevent any war materials getting through. German subs stalked British waters, looking for enemy vessels to sink.
“Passenger ships were considered off limits. But the Lusitania didn’t qualify. The Germans learned it was transporting arms for the allies. That was the first ‘False Flag.’”
“What’s a false flag?” Moshe asked.
“I’ll get to that later. You just remember the dead count.”
“Right,” Moshe agreed.
“The Lusitania ferried people and essential goods between the United States and Great Britain. A German U-boat torpedoed the Lusitania. Almost immediately, a second explosion rocked the ship. That explosion was caused by the ignition of ammunition hidden in the cargo hold. Of the 1,959 people on board, 1,198 died, including 128 Americans.
“The sinking of the Lusitania was on the front page of every J.P. Morgan controlled newspaper. Just days later, the U.S. declared war on Germany.
“But the story of those loans didn’t stop with the end of WWI. The debts led to the global economic crisis in the 1930s. The countries that borrowed money: France, England, Germany, Russia, struggled to pay their war reparations. That led to policies that sucked the life out of global trade. In 1932 Britain defaulted on its WWI debts to Wall Street banks, followed by France and almost everyone other allied nation.
“How’s that grab you, Sonny boy?”
“Incredible!” Yousef exclaimed.
“No, son, incredible is what happened after that,” the old man assured. “And that takes us up to WWII.
“You got any Bourbon here, sonny?” the old man asked.
Yousef was so enthralled with the man’s story, he did not want there to be any excuse for him leaving. Yousef pressed the intercom. “Mary, get us a bottle of bourbon…,” he said, then looked at the old man for clarification.
“Elmer T. Lee Single Barrel Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey,” the old man said. “And throw in some peanuts. We’re gonna be here for awhile.”
“You hear that, Mary?” Yousef asked.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“Okay, let’s proceed,” Yousef insisted.
“In 1941, America was isolationist. Congress didn’t want to go to war again. The American people believed it was Europe’s war and had little to do with us. Roosevelt thought different. He felt that the war would soon come to the shores of America. Military intelligence had broken the Japanese code months before. Roosevelt knew the Jap plans to bomb Pearl Harbor. He allowed the attack to happen so that there would be unanimous support for the war.”
“Wow,” Yousef responded.
“Two thousand four hundred and two Americans were killed and one thousand two hundred and eighty-two injured at Pearl Harbor,” the old man said. “Keep that figure in mind. It was the second false flag.”
“What’s a ‘False Flag’?” Yousef asked.
“You want the formal definition, sonny?”
“False flag describes covert operations that are designed in such a way that the operations appear as though they are being carried out by an enemy other than those who actually planned and executed them…or was allowed to happen by those in power with something to gain.
“I get it.”
“This next piece concerns you, Jew boy,” the old man said.
“How so?” Moshe asked.
“From April 1942 to February 1943, British Intelligence intercepted and decoded radio messages sent by the German Police, which included daily prisoner returns and death tolls for ten concentration camps, including Auschwitz. But the US didn’t raise its immigration quotas and the British prohibited Jews seeking refuge and the British Mandate of Palestine remained in place.
“Millions were dying in consentration camps. Either gassed or starved,” the old man explained. “You’d think that countries and companies would do everything they could to help.”
“Yes, I do,” Moshe said, then added, “I did.”
“The Catholic Church stood by, some say coordinated, the round up and killing of Jews in Poland.
“You see…everybody had their own agenda…and it wasn’t based on empathy or fairness or compassion. It was dollars or revenge. They were all dirty. Right up tp and including the fucking Pope.”
“But other countries joined the alliance against Germany, Italy and Russia,” Moshe insisted.
“Yeah, they helped…themselves. The Swiss banking was built on the dormant funds and deposits that were unclaimed. Companies like Ford, General Motors, Messerschmitt, IBM, Rolls Royce, Coca-Cola, and the American aviation quartet: Boeing, Northrop, Grumman and Lockheed got rich.”
“In the allied war effort, right?” Yousef asked.
“Nope, not just the Allies. They supplied Nazi Germany right up to, and even after Pearl Harbor. After Germany invaded Poland and began exterminating the Jews, and even after the U.S. declared war on Germany, they still supplied the axis countries.
“Then they switched from supplying Germany with war material, and started supplying the allies,” Yousef concluded.
“Of course!” the old man responded. “But they gouged the American government, demanding top dollar for all their efforts. They knew America had nowhere else to turn and took every advantage of that.”
“It was a fucking feeding frenzy. Jews and non-Jews sank their teeth into a world that was running red with blood. The likes of Morgan and the other Robber Barons and Goldman Sachs were not innocent spectators during WWII, they were busy doing what they do best, making money for themselves. And that brings us to Vietnam and Kennedy, which are tied together.”
“So which do we start with?” Yousef asked.
There was a tapping on the door, then Mary stuck her head in. “The items you ordered are here, sir. Shall I send them in?”
Yousef looked at the old man who said, “Sure, why the hell not. I need to whet my whistle.”
A navy orderly brought in the Bourbon and an assortment of nuts. He set them down on the serving table then quickly exited the room.
For the next few minutes, the president, Moshe and the old man indulged themselves in the fare.

* * *

The old man belched, farted and cleared his throat, indicating his was ready to continue.
“There’s been a millions goddamn pages written about the Kennedy assassination. It would take a lifetime to list and refute or confirm every single incident. So, I’m going to go over the highlights.
“But first, tell me, do you believe that the CIA and the Mafia tried to assassinate Castro?”
“Definitely; there’s plenty of proof about that,” Yousef replied.
“Well, if you believe in that, then you have to believe that they were involved in the Kennedy assassination.”
“How so?”
“When Castro took over from Bautista, he closed down the casinos and took all the Mafia’s assets and money. That cost Meyer Lansky and the Mafia two hundred and fifty million dollars. They wanted Castro dead and their assets recovered.
“And the CIA saw communism just ninety miles from our shores; a threat too great to accept.
“Enter Robert Maheu,” the old man explained.
“He was Howard Hugh’s number one man, wasn’t’ he?” Yousef asked.
“A real smart guy,” the old man confirmed. “Graduated Holy Cross and Georgetown University. In 1941, during his law studies at Georgetown, he was hired by the FBI and worked as a counter-intelligence officer in Europe during World War II. Maheu also worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. They gave him ‘cut-out’ assignments; jobs the Agency could not officially be involved. Maheu’s investigative agency was said to be the model for the television series, ‘Mission Impossible.’”
“No shit!” Yousef said.
“Yes, shit,” the old man said.
“In the summer of 1960, the CIA recruited Maheu to approach the West Coast representative of the Chicago mob, Johnny Roselli. When Maheu contacted Roselli, Maheu hid the fact that he was sent by the CIA, instead portraying himself an advocate for international corporations. He offered to pay a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to have Castro killed, but Roselli declined. Later, at the Fountainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, Roselli introduced Maheu to two men he referred to as ‘Sam Gold’ and ‘Joe.’ Sam Gold was Sam Giancana: head of the Chicago Mob; ‘Joe’ was Santo Trafficante, Jr., the Tampa, Florida boss and one of the most powerful mobsters in pre-revolution Cuba.
“Sam Giancana and Santo Trafficante were both on the FBI’s 10-most-wanted list, and–.”
“And that didn’t worry the C.I.A.?” Yousef asked.
“Hell no. They trusted mob guys more than they did other government agencies. They discussed the terms of Castro’s demise, with Giancana suggesting that the usual mob method of a quick bullet to the head be tossed in favor of something more delicate, like poison.
“After that, the CIA and the Mafia kept in close contact.
“In February, 1960 President Eisenhower authorized the CIA to recruit fourteen Cubans living in exile in Miami and begin training them to overthrow Castro.
“Meanwhile, Kennedy came to power in ’61. Kennedy had serious doubts about the wisdom of the Bay of Pigs plan. However, CIA officers told him they could keep U.S. involvement in the invasion a secret and, if all went according to plan, they would be rid of communism near our shores.
“Things went into the shitter right from the get-go. Castro knew of the CIA’s plans to wipe out his air force so he moved the planes. Then, when the men landed, the radio towers were broadcasting the invasion over loud speakers. It was like a fuckin’ radio show for the whole country to enjoy…like an afternoon soap opera. Then the boats they used hit coral reefs on the way in and sunk. It was a total cluster fuck.
“Kennedy was livid but so was the CIA. They were sure Kennedy would send in support when he saw the invasion going south.”
“But he didn’t,” Yousef said.
“That was Strike One. Kennedy didn’t support the Bay of Pigs troops. Over a hundred were killed and over a thousand were captured. Then he threatened to disband the CIA and pull all the troops out of Viet Nam. Strike two.”
“J.F.K.’s father, Joe Kennedy made a deal with the Mafia. Sam Giancana in Illinois and Santo Traficante in Florida promised to hand the election to John. In return, Joe promised the mob that the Kennedy’s would lay off the Mafia. But John’s first step when he got elected was to appoint his brother Bobby Attorney General and Bobby went after the Mob right away. And that was–.”
“Strike three,” Yousef said.
“Three strikes and you’re out,” the old man confirmed.
“You’ll note that right after the assassination, Johnson authorized more troops for Vietnam.”
“I guess he didn’t want to wind up holding his brains in his own hands,” Yousef said.
”I ain’t gonna get into what people saw or heard on the ground in Dallas that day. It’s enough to say that when police rushed to where they thought the shots came from: the grassy knoll, the school book depository building, there were heavily armed men in suits that showed secret Service IDs. Problem was, there were no secret service men outside of the motorcade. Their orders are to stay with the president at all times.
“But here’s something very few people know. Gen. Charles Cabell was a deputy director of the CIA and an integral part of the Bay of Pigs planning. After that fuck up, Kennedy fired him. He went back to the Pentagon as a Lieutenant General. His brother, Earle Cabell, was mayor of Dallas. On Monday, November 18th, the Dallas Morning News said the motorcade would travel straight down Main Street. On Wednesday the paper reiterated that. On Thursday, November 21, 1963, the Dallas paper had a map with the motorcade going straight down Main and not making any turns. Twelve hours before the event, Mayor Cabell’s office made a change in the route. Instead of traveling straight down Main through the middle of Dealey Plaza, which was the route published in the newspaper the previous day, the motorcade turned right on Houston and went over to the Texas School Book Depository at Elm and Houston. It then turned left and headed down Elm. President Kennedy was shot and killed on Elm.
“The route was changed at the last hour to both make the assassination possible and to be able to accuse Oswald who was set up in the School Book Depository, and had scoped out the shot days before the motorcade route was changed.
“If you’re interested to know who it was…”
“Yes, very interested,” Yousef replied.
“There were three shooters, six shots. A man was in the School Book Building. Charles Nicoletti was in the Daltex Building opposite of the Texas School Book Depository. James Files was on the grassy knoll. Files fired the kill shot.
“What about Oswald?” Yousef asked.
“What about him?” the old man asked.
“Was he part of the conspiracy?”
“Oswald never fired a shot.”
“But I thought…?” Yousef began.
“He wasn’t even on the sixth floor of the depository building. He was in the lunch room, four floors lower, on the complete opposite of the building. And when they did a paraffin test, there was no residue on Oswald’s hands.”
“I never heard that,” Yousef admitted.
“He was a patsy; set up. Told where to be, where to go.”
“My God!”
“The question you should have asked is, ‘Why three shooters’?”
“But you just said Oswald never fired a shot.”
“Someone else was in the School Book Depository Building.”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Right. So why three shooters?”
“Triangulation: the first rule of any pre-set killing. No well-funded, well-thought out operation would ever depend on one shooter, or even two.
“The reason people thought there were only three shots is because a number of shots were so close together they sounded like one.”
“You want to hear something?” the old man asked. He handed a tape to Moshe. “Play this.”
Moshe put the tape in a machine and turned it on… “Bobby and Jack’s top priority is to take down Jimmy Hoffa and me. Me! Carlos Marcello! Them thinkin’ that they’re more powerful than me? Who the fuck does he think he is? This is my territory, my state. I bought it from governor Huey Long. We’re the mother-fcukin’ Mafia: La Cosa Nostra. We’ve been around for four hundred years and some snot nose, Ivy League pricks are going to get rid of us? Well, we’re goin’ get rid of them.”
“Where’d you get that?” Yousef asked.
“That don’t mater. It’s just something to give you a taste of the times,” the old man said.
“That’s a lot of mouths to silence,” Yousef suggested.
“Everyone was tight-lipped…at first. Jack Ruby, an associate of Carlos Marcello, took care of Oswald. Oh, did I mention that Ruby was working with the CIA since 1956. They had him on the inside of groups running guns to Castro. He tipped off the CIA and they kept busting the gun runners but Ruby, naturally, walked every time.”
“I never heard that,” Yousef admitted.
“Yeah, well Ruby cracked in prison. He was granted a new trial and was going to talk. But he died of cancer just a few weeks later.”
“That’s convenient,” Yousef said.
“Yeah, convenient…like Alexander Litvinenko, a former officer of the Russian Federal Security Service and KGB, who suddenly fell ill and was hospitalized just before he was going to make as statement to a reporter. He died three weeks later of acute radiation syndrome.”
“Then, Charles Nicoletti got a bullet in the back of the head. Hoffa wound up in a fifty-five gallon drum. Then Roselli just after he was going to talk. Then GInancana was shot six times around the mouth to indicate he was a squealer.”
The old man downed three fingers of bourbon and a handful of nuts, savoring the combination. When he regained his focus, he asked, “Where’d I leave off, boy?”
“The Kennedy assassination,” Moshe said.
“Right. Well, after Kennedy conveniently passed away, the CIA went rogue. They killed a dozen democratically elected leaders in Africa in the sixties.
“But the OSS before them was just as bad. You heard of Operation Paperclip?”
“No,” Yousef said with certainty.
“In 1945, while other countries were hunting down Nazi war criminals for arrest, the U.S. intelligence community was smuggling them into America, unpunished, for their use against the Soviets. Reinhard Gehlen, Hitler’s master spy who had built up an intelligence network in the Soviet Union, SS intelligence officers Alfred Six and Emil Augsburg, who massacred Jews in the Holocaust, Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon, Otto von Bolschwing, the Holocaust mastermind who worked with Eichmann, and SS Colonel Otto Skorzeny, a personal friend of Hitler’s.”
“And nobody else knows that?” Yousef asked.
“It got buried so deep so fast you couldn’t even be sure it ever happened.”
“I never–.”
“Let’s not get side tracked.”
“Right,” Yousef agreed.
“In 1947, the OSS became the CIA. One of their first operations was called Mockingbird. The CIA recruited American news organizations and journalists to become spies. Eventually, they got The Washington Post, ABC, NBC, CBS, AP, UPI, Reuters, Hearst Newspapers, and a shit load more.”
“So they’re all working for the CIA?” Yousef asked.
“In one way or another,” the old man replied.
“Incredible,” Yousef said.
“What’s incredible is people who actually think they’re hearing the news on radio, or watching TV or reading a newspaper.”
“You’re saying they’re not?”
“Hell no. They’re hearing the agenda of the government agencies and the big transnational corporations. The news is filtered, white-washed, tweaked to make you think and act exactly as they want you to. Fear of drug crazed bikers rape your wife or daughter, terrorists coming ashore in boats, the next country we’re almost at war with. People are so fucking stupid that they quickly forget that today’s enemy was yesterday’s ally.”
Yousef picked up the bottle of bourbon and wagged it at the old man who nodded. Yousef filled the glass, then his own.
“1953. Iran. The CIA overthrew the democratically elected Mohammed Mossadegh after he threatened to nationalize British oil. Replaced him with the Shah of Iran, whose secret police, SAVAK, were as brutal as the Gestapo.
“1953. The CIA began experiments on mind control, giving LSD and other drugs to American subjects without their knowledge or against their will; caused more than a few of them to commit suicide. One of the people they experimented on was Whitey Bulger. You heard of him?”
“Of course,” Yousef responded. “A gangster who ran Boston. Killed a dozen people.”
“Nineteen, but who’s counting. When he was in prison, they offered him a deal: Take part in a medical study and get his sentence reduced. They fed that already crazy bastard LSD on fifty different occasions. The government created a killing machine just like the Frankenstein monster. Whatever was left of his humanity was eaten away by that acid.”
“That’s one hell of a story.”
“Sure, but let’s not get off track.”
“1954. Guatemala. The CIA overthrew the democratically elected Jacob Arbenz in a military coup. Arbenz threatened to nationalize the Rockefeller-owned United Fruit Company, in which CIA Director Allen Dulles also owned stock. Arbenz was replaced with a series of right-wing dictators who killed over a hundred thousand Guatemalans in the next in the next years.
“1954-1958. North Vietnam. The CIA attempted to prop up Ngo Dinh Diem. Their failure resulted in escalating American intervention, culminating in the Vietnam War.”
“Okay,” Yousef said. “I think I get the idea.”
“No, you don’t get the fucking idea. If you did, you wouldn’t have cut me off. Now sit the hell back and let me finish.”
“1956. Hungary. Radio Free Europe incited Hungary to revolt by broadcasting Khrushchev’s Secret Speech, in which he denounced Stalin. It also promised that America would help the Hungarians fight. The aid never came. Hungarians launch an armed revolt, which invited a Soviet invasion. The conflict killed thirty thousand Hungarians.
“1957. Laos. The CIA carried out coups to nullify Laos’ democratic elections. After the CIA’s army was defeated, we started bombing; dropped more bombs on Laos than all the U.S. bombs dropped in World War II. A quarter of all Laotians became refugees, many living in caves.
“1956. Dominican Republic. The CIA assassinated Rafael Trujillo, a dictator Washington has supported since 1930. Trujillo’s business interests had grown so large they began competing with American businesses.
“1957. Zaire. The CIA assassinated the democratically elected Patrice Lumumba. Public support for Lumumba ran so high that the CIA couldn’t install his opponents in power. Four years of massacres followed.
“1964. Ecuador. A CIA-backed military coup overthrew President Arosemana, whose independent policies became unacceptable to Washington. A military junta assumed command, cancelled the 1964 elections, and began killing the opposition.
“1964. Brazil. A CIA-backed military coup overthrew the democratically elected government of Joao Goulart. The junta that replaces it became one of the most bloodthirsty in history. General Castelo Branco created Latin America’s first death squads, to kill Branco’s political opponents. Later it was revealed that the CIA trained the death squads.
“1965. Indonesia. The CIA overthrew the democratically elected Sukarno with a military coup because he declared neutrality in the Cold War. His successor, General Suharto, massacred between five hundred thousand and one million civilians. The CIA supplied the names of countless suspects.
“1966. Zaire. A CIA-backed military coup installed Mobutu Sese Seko as dictator. Mobutu, one of the worst sub-humans that ever lived, stole all the foreign aide designated for the country’s poor. Millions starved while he bought Mercedes cars and had villas all over the world.”
“I wanted to know everything, Yousef said. “Now I’m not so sure. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Well you’d better take something to settle your stomach because it gets a hell of a lot worse from here.”
Yousef downed a shot of the Bourbon in preparation for what was to follow.
“1967. Greece. A CIA-backed military coup overthrew the government. During the next six years, the military junta tortured and killed political opponents. When a Greek ambassador objected to President Johnson about U.S. involvement, Johnson told him: ‘Fuck your parliament and fuck your constitution.’
“1968. Operation CHAOS. CIA agents went undercover as student radicals to spy on and disrupt campus organizations protesting the Vietnam War. They were searching for Russian instigators, which they never found.
“1969. Bolivia. A CIA-organized military operation captured Che Guevara. The CIA wanted to keep him alive for interrogation, but the Bolivian government executed him to prevent calls for clemency.
“1970. Cambodia. The CIA overthrew Prince Sahounek for keeping Cambodia out of the Vietnam War. He was replaced by CIA puppet Lon Nol, who led the Khmer Rouge, which massacred millions of its own people.
“Now you can ask me why I took the time to list twelve CIA operations.”
“You’ve got my attention. Why?”
“Because they fucked up every single one of those operations. Chose the wrong side, overthrew peaceful, democratic regimens so that dictators, despots, insane killing machines could rule those countries. Can you imagine the IQ of these people? Somewhere between orangutan and retarded. They got every single one of those operations wrong. Every one! Hell, a blind man throwing darts at aboard could have done better that that.”

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