The One Who Shouldn't Be Alive

Chapter Four: Santiago de Cuba

It was mid-morning by the time we were on our way to Santiago. We rode in silence in the back of an older black sedan, with an identical vehicle both in front of and behind us. The windows were tinted to the point that I could barely see through them from the inside, but this reassured me. The less eyes able to discern that I was not actually Jackie Kennedy, the better.

I was dressed in clothing I hardly considered fashionable given the time period in which I had grown up, but as I had looked in the hotel mirror that morning, I couldn't help but think I looked the part. My hair was different and my eyes were not so wide set as Jackie's, but the clothing would conceal the majority of our differences. My dress was bright yellow and my hat matched. It sloped to one side—a trademark of Jackie Kennedy's style—and as much as it irritated me, I kept my complaints to myself. The President seemed either unwilling or unable to look at me, in spite of his sitting just a short distance away, but I understood why. The agent who had provided the clothing to me that morning had also informed me that the clothes were not imitations. These had actually been worn by Jackie Kennedy herself, and on several occasions besides.

The car lurched and I realized we were turning into a lengthy driveway, but we stopped at the end where there was a large iron gate connecting two enormous stone walls. From our vantage point, I couldn't see much, but we started moving up the driveway not long thereafter.

From beside me, John Kennedy finally spoke.

"Remember, Miss Morris," he said quietly, though he still wouldn't look at me, "Jackie always called me Jack, not John. If you need to refer to me, you must call me Jack."

I would have nodded only, but as I knew he wasn't watching me, I told him I understood.

"You must be gracious and charming and above all, you must be respectful to Mister Castro. He is an intelligent man, and he has a great deal of experience in flushing out imposters."

"You're telling me this now?" I gasped, shaking my head at him and watching as he finally turned to look at me. I saw his eyes flick up and down my person and then settle on my face.

"We have the element of surprise, Miss Morris. He has no reason to suspect you are anyone other than the First Lady of the United States."

"How will I know when I'm able to leave the meeting?"

The motorcade stopped.

"It has all been worked out, Miss Morris. You will know, I assure you."

Despite the President's assurance, I felt anything but reassured. An agent appeared on either side of the car and opened both doors. I stepped out in unison with Kennedy on the opposite side, steeling my nerves and tipping my hat to the agent as the First Lady might have done. He closed the door behind me and then ushered me with one arm to rejoin the President for the nervous walk toward the Castro Mansion. There was a large congregation of men standing in a wall along either side of the driveway, each of them dressed identically in dark green pants, jackets and hats, and each bearing a long brown rifle. They eyed us with suspicion as we walked toward the porch and the smaller group of four men who stood at the top of its stairs. The Secret Service agents hovered behind and to each side of myself and President Kennedy, impossibly and uncomfortably close, but I understood their reasons for doing so. This was a tense situation, given the existing state of affairs between the United States and Cuba, made more tense by our reasons for coming.

As we stopped at the base of the stairs, I instantly recognized the man who came forward from behind the other four. It was Fidel Castro, younger and with a less prominent beard, but it was him all the same. He stood at the forefront for a long moment, regarding myself and John Kennedy.