Wendell Donahue had driven them to the airport and seemed relieved to find out he wasn't going to Shady Point with them. "Call me if anything develops on this end," Garcia had told the FBI ASAC, "and I mean anything."
Donahue had nodded vigorously. "I will. Absolutely, I will."
"There are some important people monitoring this situation," Garcia had added. "Play it well, you'll be able to finish out your career. Play it really well...you'll be the next special agent in charge." It had been a lie, but a believable lie. Donahue had practically saluted before he drove away.
Now as the G-V cruised at 450 miles per hour, 25,000 feet above West Virginia, Garcia and Blackstone sat in the main cabin, across a coffee table from each other in matching overstuffed leather chairs. Agency front companies rarely skimped on luxury. There was a pot of coffee and two mugs on the table. Blackstone spiked his coffee with a minibar-sized bottle of Jim Beam while Garcia argued on his satellite phone with one of the CIA liaisons at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland.
"We'll be wheels down in an hour and a half," Garcia said. "That's how long you have to get me an exact address on him."
"That's ridiculous," the Agency liaison said. "This guy has been off the grid for...years. And besides, I don't work for you. In fact, I don't even know you."
"You may not know me," Garcia said, "but you do work for me, because you work for Uncle Sam, and right now, I'm Uncle Sam. My clearance and my priority come from the very top. You're free to waste time verifying that if you want, but I promise you, you have ninety minutes to find him, or find a new job."
Garcia ended the call before the man could respond.
"You really have that kind of stroke?" Blackstone asked as he took a sip of his spiked coffee.
"Ask me again in ninety minutes and we'll find out."
Blackstone pulled another mini-bottle of bourbon from his pocket and offered it to Garcia.
Garcia laid the sat phone on the coffee table and shook his head. "No, thanks."
"Snagged them from the galley. Saw bourbon, vodka, and gin, but no rum. That's your drink, right?"
"Yes, it is," Garcia said. "And I plan to drink a whole bottle of añejo when this is over," Garcia said. "But if I start now, I'll just fall asleep."
Blackstone checked his watch. "That's why I'm drinking. Well, that and I like to drink. I'm planning on catching about an hour's worth of Z's before we hit Fort Smith."
"Why Fort Smith?"
"Closest airport that can handle a jet. It's on the state line, forty minutes by car from Shady Point. I have a fully-equipped tactical team meeting us on the Tarmac." Blackstone pointed to the sat phone. "Think your guy can get us an address by the time we land?"
"He better."
Blackstone took another sip of juiced coffee. "Then we can put this thing-whatever the fuck it is-to bed."
"What kind of operators are on your team?"
"All of our operators come from Special Forces, Rangers, SEALs, or Marine Recon."
"So hard cases," Garcia said. "Like you?"
Blackstone smiled. "I served my country."
"Army?"
"Seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment."
"I worked with some Rangers in Vietnam, in MAC-SOG and on the Phoenix Program."
"That was before my time," Blackstone said. "But I've heard about it. You guys did some good work, kidnappings, assassinations, what they now call enhanced interrogations. Very effective."
"We still lost the war."
"The politicians lost the war because they couldn't make the hard decisions. Just like that chickenshit we got now did in Iraq and is about to do again in Afghanistan."
"I don't keep up with the news," Garcia said. "Not since I retired."
"How long's that been?"
"Fifteen years."
"Enjoying it?"
Garcia nodded. "So much so that I want to hurry up and get back to it."
"I hear that."
"What about you?" Garcia asked. "How long have you been working contract?"
"Since '08 when I got out."
"Iraq?"
"Twice. Afghanistan once."
"Why'd you get out?"
Blackstone drained his coffee cup. "You already know the answer to that, don't you?"
Garcia shook his head. "No. This job came up...unexpectedly. The missus and I were supposed to be at a garden show today in Coral Gables."
Blackstone eyed Garcia for several seconds. "I'm glad I got out when I did because I have zero confidence in our current commander-in-chief."
"That doesn't sound like the whole story."
"It isn't."
Garcia didn't say anything.
"My second tour in Iraq was as a company XO," Blackstone said, "but my tour got cut short when I caught a couple of seven-point-six-two rounds, one in my lung, the other in my hip. They patched me up in Landstuhl and sent me home to Benning, where I made captain and spent a year as CO of a training company, teaching eighteen- and nineteen-year-old ranger wannabes how to fight. I hated it. So I worked a transfer to a line unit and deployed to Afghanistan as a company commander. Figured if I did a good job I'd come home with gold leaves, pick up one more promo along the way, and finish out my twenty as a light colonel."
"But?" Garcia said.
Blackstone sighed. "But I had a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The bullet in my hip was too close to the femoral artery, so the doc in Germany decided to leave it where it was. But it didn't heal right. It hurt all the time."
"You got hooked?"
Blackstone nodded. "Just pain pills as long as I was stateside."
"And then what?"
"I deployed to Afghanistan."
"The Super Walmart of heroin."
"I didn't jump into the hard stuff right away. Started with morphine. But I sure found my way to it quick enough. And it made my hip and everything else feel a whole lot better. Until I got caught."
"How'd that happen?"
"My connection was a supply sergeant from Harlem. He was shipping the shit back home. Army CID busted him, and he played his hole card, a company commander on his customer list. The Army kept it quiet. Officers aren't supposed to be junkies. Officially, I got riffed, released due to a reduction in force."
"That's what the Agency does with its problem children too," Garcia said.
"The only good thing was that before they gave me the boot, the Army sent me back to Landstuhl to get cleaned up and to have somebody take another look at my hip. This time they took the bullet out."
"Did you stay clean?"
Blackstone raised his empty coffee cup. "Except for an occasional toot of Kentucky's finest."
Smiling, Garcia said, "That don't make you bad."
"Now you tell me something."
"What's that?"
"Is this really about what I think it's about?"
Garcia poured himself a cup of coffee. No booze. "I guess that depends on what you think it's about."
"Dallas," Blackstone said. "November 1963."
Trying hard to keep his voice neutral, Garcia said, "Why would you think that?"
"Because I spent ten days following a crazy seventy-year-old Frenchman around, a Frenchman whose file said he was a paratrooper, who fought in Algeria, who tried to assassinate the president of France in 1962."
"What's that got to do with Dallas?"
"Don't treat me like an idiot," Blackstone said. "I may only be a grunt, but I know how to read and I've seen my share of the ten thousand or so documentaries about JFK, plus that stupid movie. So I'm pretty familiar with all the big conspiracy theories. And some of the little ones too. Like the one that says there was a Frenchman involved, that he was the second shooter, the one who made the head shot. But me following this particular Frenchman around, all that did was get me thinking about it."
"Something else convinced you?"
"You did."
"Me?"
"What are you, about seven
ty?"
"Give or take."
"Cuban?"
Garcia nodded, not liking where this was going.
"So back in '63 you would have been full of piss and vinegar. A real firebrand."
"Everybody is at that age."
"But not everybody is neck deep in spook shit," Blackstone said. "And doing their graduate work at MAC-SOG and the Phoenix Program."
"A lot of people were involved in that."
"But even that didn't convince me that this whole op was about Dallas."
"What did?"
"The fact that they brought you out of mothballs to quarterback it."
Garcia stared at Blackstone. "What happened in Dallas is ancient history. My job is to make sure it stays that way." He took a long swallow of the lukewarm coffee. "Just so you know, I didn't survive forty years in the Agency to spend my retirement in prison."
Blackstone nodded.
Chapter 27
"I hadn't seen my...I hadn't seen Gordon McCay since I was a kid, since probably fifth grade. And I hadn't heard from him in years. I think the last thing I got from him was a card when I graduated from high school. A card and a copy of his latest book."
***
"It's good to see you, son," Gordon McCay said. His eyes were moist as he turned from Jake to Favreau. "But why...how?"
"You two know each other?" Jake said, then immediately felt stupid. "Of course, you know each other, or I wouldn't be here." He turned to Favreau. "The question is, why am I...Why are we here?"
Everyone was staring at Favreau as he reached out a hand to Gordon McCay. "I'm Andre Favreau."
Gordon shook his hand. "Gordon McCay. Glad to finally meet you."
"So you two don't know each other?" Jake asked, more confused than ever.
"We've corresponded," Gordon said.
With a gesture to Stacy, Favreau added, "And may I introduce Miss Stacy Chapman."
Gordon took her hand. "It's a pleasure."
"What are we doing here?" Jake demanded, still staring at Favreau.
"I'll explain everything," Favreau said. "But first, I suggest we go inside."
"Yes. Yes, of course," Gordon said, stepping out of the way, then casting a nervous glance into the motorhome. "It's just that...I wasn't expecting company."
Jake didn't move.
"I think that's a good idea," Stacy said.
Jake still didn't move.
Stacy laid a hand on his shoulder. "Jake, we can't stay out here." She took a quick look around the trailer park. "Our pictures are probably already on the news."
"What happened?" Gordon asked.
"Long story," Stacy said. "But one we should talk about inside."
Gordon waved them in. "Come in, please."
Stacy led the way. Jake gave Favreau a hard look, then followed her. Favreau came in last.
The inside of the Winnebago was just as shabby as the outside. The main cabin was a cramped amalgamation of den, dining room, and galley. Homemade plywood shelves lined the walls and sagged under the weight of scores of books. Stacks of cardboard file boxes overflowing with file folders took up a big chunk of the floor space. The fold-down dinner table had been converted into a desk and was covered with legal pads full of handwritten notes, piles of printed reports, and discarded Diet Coke cans. Sitting a bit incongruously on the table, amid all the dreck, was a gleaming MacBook Pro laptop computer, connected by wire to a tall modem with a column of flashing lights of various colors. The overall look of the cabin was that of a cross between a makeshift research library and an unsuccessful garage sale, stuffed into a thirty-foot aluminum box.
Gordon shut the door and locked it, then pointed to a tattered sofa and a couple of wooden chairs with flat cushions arranged around a stunted coffee table. The coffee table too was covered with books, files, and notes. "Have a seat and I'll make some coffee."
"I don't want any coffee," Jake said.
"Let's at least have a seat," Stacy said. "So we can talk."
Jake eyed the sofa for a moment, then took a seat on one end. Stacy sat next to him. "I'd actually love some coffee," she said. "Thank you."
The galley was a tiny space wedged between the den and the cab and equipped with a two-burner stove, a compact refrigerator, a small sink, and a mini-microwave. Gordon put on a pot of coffee. Favreau sat in one of the chairs.
A few awkward minutes passed, during which no one said anything. Jake noticed the coffee table was bolted to the floor, which was covered in worn-out shag carpet. He assumed the table was bolted down so it wouldn't move when the motorhome was on the road, although he doubted this old clunker had gone anywhere in a long time. Through a narrow curtained door at the rear of the main cabin, he glimpsed a tiny bedroom and bathroom.
Then Gordon set four mismatched mugs of steaming coffee on the table. "I'm sorry I'm out of cream, but I do have sugar," he said as he placed a chipped China bowl on the table and laid a spoon beside it. Inside the bowl was an assortment of sugar packets that looked to have been pilfered from restaurants and coffee shops. Gordon sat in the chair next to Favreau, across the table from Stacy and Jake.
Stacy ripped the tops off two packs of sugar and dumped them into her coffee. She didn't bother with the spoon. Andre drank his black. Gordon picked up his cup but didn't take a sip.
Jake left his untouched. "I told you I didn't want coffee."
Gordon set his cup down without drinking from it. "How's your mother?"
"I'm not here to talk about my mother," Jake said. "Although...to be honest, I don't know what else to talk about, because I have no idea why I'm here." He turned to Favreau. "How do you two know each other?"
Gordon cleared his throat. "Like I said, we've corresponded, but this is the first time we've actually met in person."
"Corresponded about what?" Jake asked.
Gordon glanced at Favreau, then said, "Andre is helping me with some research...for a new project."
"We're not here to help you write a book," Jake said. "People are chasing us. They're trying to kill us."
Gordon looked at Favreau again as if expecting some elaboration, but all Favreau did was nod. Jake wasn't sure if the nod meant Favreau was merely confirming what Jake had just said, or if it meant he and Gordon knew a lot more than they were saying. Jake guessed it was the latter.
"Okay, enough with the sidelong glances and secret handshakes," Jake said. Then he turned to Favreau. "You stole an airplane and flew us halfway across the country to Shady Point, Oklahoma, because you said there was someone here who could help us. Now, it turns out that someone...used to be my father. Why?"
"I promise you, son, this is the first I've heard of any of this," Gordon McCay said. "I had no idea you—"
"Let's get something straight right now," Jake said. "My name is not son. It's Jake. Jake Miller."
Gordon didn't say anything, but there was pain written in his expression. Jake recognized it easily enough. And again he was struck by how much of himself he saw in the face staring back at him. It was like looking into some kind of magic mirror, one that aged you.
Stacy looked across the low coffee table at Favreau and Gordon. "How do you two know each other? I know you said you've been corresponding, but corresponding about what?"
"I'm an investigative journalist," Gordon said. "I specialize in conspiracies and government cover-ups. A lot of my work deals with the Kennedy assassination."
Jake rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."
"I've read his books," Favreau said, speaking directly to Stacy and ignoring Jake. "A few months ago I sent him an email. Since then we've been exchanging information...about what really happened."
"About how you killed Kennedy," Jake said, hoping his tone carried the full measure of his derision.
"I believe him...Jake," Gordon said.
Jake snorted.
Gordon leaned forward in the chair and braced his elbows on his knees. "I've studied this case for decades, and what he says," he nodded at Favreau, "fits perfectly
with everything I've learned about what happened that day in Dallas."
Jake stared across the low-slung table at the man who had once been his father and shook his head. "He said he read your books. The reason you think his story fits so well is because he concocted a scenario to match your own kooky theory."
"I've read a lot books about that day," Favreau said, "and your father's books are the most—"
"He's not my father," Jake snapped.
Stacy laid a hand on Jake's arm. She looked at Favreau. "Why would you kill President Kennedy?"
Jake opened his mouth to protest the insanity of the question, but Stacy cut him off. "Please, Jake. We've come all this way and been through so much. I just want to hear what he has to say."
Jake leaned back into the old sofa. It creaked under the pressure.
Favreau glanced at Gordon, then looked across at Stacy and Jake and took a deep breath. "I was shown proof that President Kennedy had been compromised."
"What do you mean compromised?" Stacy asked.
"He's talking about Ellen Rometsch," Gordon said, pronouncing the last name Rome-etch.
Favreau nodded.
Jake looked back and forth between Gordon and Favreau. Finally, he said, "Okay, I'll bite. Who's Ellen Rometsch?"
Gordon stood and walked to one of the stacks of old cardboard file boxes and dug a worn accordion folder from the top box. He returned to his seat and held the folder in his lap. It was stuffed with documents, and the elastic cord that was supposed to hold the folder closed had snapped, leaving the two frayed ends dangling. A thick rubber band now held the flap closed. Gordon slid the rubber band off and thumbed through the folder's contents. He pulled out a color copy of an eight-by-ten-inch photograph and laid it on the coffee table.
Jake stared at the photograph. It was a head and shoulders studio portrait of a beautiful woman in her late twenties. Her dark hair was arranged in an old-fashioned beehive, and she wore a white jacket with a thin choker around her neck. The woman's pouty lips were thick with lipstick, and her eyes reflected a glint of mischief. She looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor.
"That's Ellen Rometsch," Gordon said. "She was a Soviet spy, and for two years she had an affair with President Kennedy."
The Second Shooter Page 11
