So he got off at Broom and Law streets. A check of his watch showed it was 8:20 a.m. He was already late and was going to be even later now that he had to walk the rest of the way. Late to George's and then late to work. But George was his friend, and he'd promised to do his friend a favor.
Fluker had never been to George's apartment. He had the address written down and he knew it was a tall building, something like thirty stories. The sidewalk was crowded with people headed toward Dealey Plaza. Fluker hated crowds. He scanned the skyline to the west. He saw a few tall buildings. One taller than the others. That might be it. It was, at least, in the right direction.
He walked west.
***
"How do I know you're not full of shit?" Blackstone said.
Downtown traffic was tied up in knots. The Dallas Police, backed up by state troopers, had thrown a cordon around Dealey Plaza that extended east to west from Lamar Street to the Stemmons Freeway, and north to south from Ross Avenue to Wood Street. Everything inside the perimeter was locked down. Only people on foot were allowed into Dealey Plaza to hear the president's speech, and they were thoroughly searched by police and Secret Service. Every window inside the security zone with a line of sight to the front steps of the County Administration Building was closed and sealed.
The lead Tahoe was barely moving. The follow-up Tahoe with the four operators inched along behind it.
"Full of shit about what?" Max Garcia asked.
Blackstone glanced over at him, then looked back at the road. "About today. About what's going to happen. About everything."
"You have a control officer, right?" Garcia asked.
"Of course."
"Who relays orders and provides logistical support."
"That's what control officers do."
"Did you call him last night?"
"Yes."
"And what did he tell you?"
"Nothing about an earth-shaking plan being executed today."
"But what did he tell you?"
"My instructions," Blackstone said, "are to back you up and provide you with full operational support."
"Does that sound like I'm full of shit?"
"No, I guess not."
"All right then."
"Still doesn't explain why I'm here."
Garcia reached for his briefcase.
"Hey," Blackstone said, dropping his right hand to the pistol on his hip. "You be careful what you pull out of that thing."
"Just pictures," Garcia said. Moving slowly so as not to make Blackstone nervous, he opened the briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of 8 1/2 x 11-inch paper. Each sheet was a copy of what had been mocked up to look like a wanted poster. Under a bold banner that read 'ALERT—WANTED FOR QUESTIONING' were mugshot-style photographs of Jake Miller and Stacy Chapman, taken from their FBI credentials; and Andre Favreau, taken from his passport. Garcia hadn't been able to find a photograph of Gordon McCay. Below the photos was an 800 number. There was no mention of what government agency had produced the posters or any specific charges.
"Where'd you get those?" Blackstone said.
"I had somebody at Langley put the poster together for me last night and email me a PDF. Then I used my US Marshals badge to convince the front desk clerk to make copies."
"What are you going to do with them?"
"There are at least two hundred cops and Secret Service agents out here," Garcia said. "That's two hundred pairs of eyes we can have looking for these people, but we have to show them who to look for."
"That's pretty old school, but still a good idea," Blackstone said. "You're just going to pass them out by hand?"
"That's exactly what I'm going to do."
"What are you going to say they're wanted for?"
"Miller is a highly-trained FBI agent, armed and extremely dangerous," Garcia said. "He has recently manifested paranoid behavior, violent delusions, and an obsession with political assassination. He's traveling with three companions, a known terrorist and international fugitive, a mentally unbalanced conspiracy advocate who thinks the president is Satan, and a female accomplice trained in intelligence work. The Marshals Service feels these four people are a serious threat to the president."
Blackstone nodded. "That's good. That's really good."
"I'm glad you approve."
Garcia looked at the line of traffic stretching to a police barricade a half a mile ahead. The cops were forcing every car to turn. "That's the perimeter up there. Let's get out and walk."
"Why?"
Garcia pointed to the people walking down the sidewalks on either side of them, all headed toward Dealey Plaza. They were moving faster than the cars. "Number one, we'll get there quicker. Number two, we can cover more ground if we split up. Let two of your men take this vehicle. They have radios, right?"
Blackstone nodded.
"I'll give each pair a stack of posters. They can put those ATF credentials to work and pass the posters out to every cop they see."
Pointing to the 800 number at the bottom of the poster, Blackstone asked, "Where does that ring?"
"An off-site in Virginia. Any legit calls get forwarded to me."
Blackstone edged the Tahoe toward the curb.
Garcia pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase. This one was dense with typing. "If they get arrested, I have a federal writ ordering their immediate transfer into our custody."
Blackstone pulled to the curb and stopped. He glanced at the paper in Garcia's hand as the follow-up Tahoe pulled in behind them. "Is it real?" he asked.
"What do you think?" Garcia said.
***
Jake felt conspicuous as hell in the green Cadillac, jouncing through traffic in stops and starts. The congestion had started at the I-635 Loop and had gotten progressively worse the closer they got to downtown. Some of it was normal morning rush-hour traffic, but a lot of it had to be due to the president's visit. There was nothing he and the others could do except fight their way through it and hope the Dallas Police Department hadn't gotten a report about a stolen lime green Cadillac.
From the back seat, Gordon said, "Now that we have wheels, the question is, do we have a plan?"
Jake had been thinking about that very thing. Which was why he'd turned off the stereo again. Listening to the '70s funk songs had brought smiles to all their faces and helped relieve the incredible pressure of their predicament, if only for a little while, but Lionel Richie and company could not change their situation.
He turned in his seat so he could see Gordon and Stacy. "It's a public event. We're four people among thousands, all trying to jam through a few checkpoints. They'll probably run a wand over us, but we won't be carrying weapons, so there'll be no reason for them to even notice us."
"What if they ask for ID?" Gordon asked.
"They won't," Jake said. "There are too many people. A cursory check for weapons is all they'll be able to manage."
"Getting into Dealey Plaza won't help us find the shooter," Stacy said. "Especially if he's a thousand yards out."
"I realize that," Jake said. "But there's no way we can search every building within sight of the president. Maybe once we're in the plaza we can spot—"
"The shooter's building was circled on the satellite photograph," Favreau said. "There were also photographs of two buildings...taken from the ground. One was the Book Depository."
Jake looked at Favreau but didn't speak, didn't want to interrupt his train of thought.
Favreau continued. "The other building was definitely the shooter's. There were notes on the photograph...and a number." He turned to Jake. "I know what the building looks like. I can find it. And I remember the number, two-two-zero-five."
"Is that an apartment number?" Stacy asked.
Favreau glanced at her in the mirror. "I don't know."
"It's a start," Jake said. "A lead. More than we had. And better than wandering around Dealey Plaza hoping to spot the sniper poking his rifle out an open window a thousand yards away."
"How do we find the building?" Gordon asked.
Looking down the highway, Jake saw a line of cars extending several miles. He pointed to an exit sign a hundred yards ahead. "Take the next exit and get off the highway. There's no need to go to Dealey Plaza. We know it's a thousand-yard shot. That's...a little over half a mile. We'll circle the plaza, start on the outside and work our way in."
A car horn shrieked behind the Cadillac as Favreau bulled his way into the next lane, cutting off a middle-aged woman driving an old minivan with a faded yellow 'BABY ON BOARD' sign stuck to the windshield. Jake gave her an apologetic wave, thinking that if she could hear him, he would say something like, Please excuse my friend. He's not rude. He's just French. But she raised her middle finger and shook it at him, her lips mouthing something Jake was glad he couldn't hear but was pretty sure he understood.
Chapter 47
Blackstone stopped on the sidewalk a block from the pedestrian-only checkpoint into Dealey Plaza, where at least a hundred people were waiting in line. Four uniformed Dallas cops and two men in suits, whom Garcia took to be Secret Service, were manning the checkpoint. One of the cops ran a handheld magnetometer over each person who entered. It was a slow process.
Garcia asked, "What's wrong?"
"Something's been bugging me," Blackstone said.
"What?"
"If you're not involved operationally with...what's happening today, then why do you even know about it?"
"I told you," Garcia said. "I'm only here to find the Frenchman."
"That's my point," Blackstone said. "You mentioned regime change yesterday, so you've known about this for a while. But there was no need for you to know, not if we had caught Favreau in DC or Oklahoma."
"You're right," Garcia said, knowing that anyone experienced in operational security, as Blackstone certainly was, would see the flaw in his explanation for knowing about what was planned for today in Dealey Plaza. Now he had to explain the part he had left out. Blackstone was staring at him, waiting for more. "I'm not involved with the main operation." He nodded toward the plaza. "Not with what's going on in there. I'm just here for the Frenchman, but the people who worked this up asked me to review the plan, as a sort of consultant."
"No offense," Blackstone said. "But why you? You're retired. Right?" Saying the last word with more than a hint of skepticism.
"They asked me to review the plan because I was here in '63."
Blackstone stared at Garcia for a long moment. Then he said, "On that day? You were here on that day?"
Garcia glanced up the street. He could see the top floors of the old School Book Depository. He looked back at Blackstone and nodded. "I was here," he said, "fifty years ago today."
"Doing what? Exactly."
"I helped plan it," Garcia said. "But when it came time to execute the plan, I recommended against it." He could still taste the bitterness, like bile on the back of his tongue. "My recommendation was duly noted. And overruled."
"Were you here when it actually happened?"
"Yes," Garcia said, "but more as an observer than a participant."
Blackstone continued to stare at Garcia. The crowd flowed around them, paying no more attention to them then if they had been a pair of telephone polls or lampposts blocking part of the sidewalk. Finally, Blackstone said, "What about the Frenchman?"
"What about him?"
"What was his involvement?"
"He was on my team."
"So I was right."
"About what?"
"Favreau was the second shooter," Blackstone whispered. "He took out JFK."
"I didn't say that. I said he was on my team."
Blackstone pressed on. "And he knows enough to take everybody down."
"There are only a few us left," Garcia said. "But there are a few more who know about. Some of them weren't even alive at the time. But they have an institutional interest in making sure the past stays in the past."
"Meaning your old outfit couldn't survive the truth coming out."
Garcia nodded.
"So why is he here?" Blackstone asked.
"He wants to stop it from happening again," Garcia said. "And I suspect he wants to come clean about what happened fifty years ago. He's got lung cancer and seeks to unburden himself before the clock runs out."
"The people running this operation," Blackstone said, "the ones who asked you to review the plan, did they ask for your recommendation?"
"They did."
"And?"
"I said it was a bad idea. A terrible idea, actually."
"Then why are they going through with it?"
"Because just like last time," Garcia said, "my vote didn't count."
***
Fluker found the building with less trouble than he thought. Turned out, it was the tall one. As he stood on the sidewalk and craned his neck to glance up at the top of the high-rise, the sight of the fast-moving clouds scuttling past the glass-and-chrome monolith made him dizzy.
He looked down at his watch, mainly as a stationary focal point, something to get his head straight. It took several seconds, maybe half a minute, but it worked. The dizziness faded, then disappeared. He also noted that it was 8:45 a.m.
Fluker circled around to the back of the building and walked up a set of concrete steps to the loading dock. The big bay door was closed. They probably keep it closed for security, Fluker thought, unless there was a delivery coming. Next to the bay door was a standard-sized steel door. It too was closed. And probably locked, Fluker expected. But out of habit, he tugged on it and was surprised when it opened. He peeked in but didn't see anyone. "Hello," he called out. "George?"
Nothing.
He stepped inside. The door was on some kind of spring and pulled closed behind him. He was in a huge room that seemed to be used for storage and maybe maintenance. Wire cages ran along one wall and locked inside them was a lot of equipment. Most of it Fluker didn't recognize. He'd never been that handy. He had a knack for taking certain things apart and putting them back together, an M-60 machine gun or a Chevy small-block 305, but he wasn't so good using tools to build things from scratch. Which, he thought, probably explained why he worked where he did. Some of the equipment locked up behind the cage doors he did recognize and knew how to operate. There was an industrial carpet cleaner and a floor buffer, plus weed trimmers and a riding lawnmower. Stuff he'd used in Basic Training in the Army.
What he didn't see was George. His friend was supposed to meet him here. But maybe because Fluker was late with all of that traffic, having to walk the last mile, George had already left. George was a busy man. He didn't have time to wait around.
Fluker stepped farther into the cavernous room. No one seemed to be around. He took a few more steps. Then he saw a beat-up plastic case, five feet long and two feet wide, leaning upright against the wall. A folded piece of paper taped to the front of the case had his name handwritten on it in big black letters: 'RAY FLUKER'.
He walked to the case. Then glanced around again. Well, it had his name on it. No mistaking that. The tape was stretched across the seam of the folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper without removing it. The note, written in the same hand and with the same black marker as his name, read:
Ray,
Washer and dryer delivered. Got them upstairs by myself, but threw my damn back out. Still need your help, pal. Can you bring up this heavy case?
—George
Fluker smiled at the note. George had mentioned something to him once about having a bad back. From football, was it? No, maybe he said soccer. Or lacrosse. Rowing. Some fancy sport. You should have waited on me, pal. I would have helped you haul them up. That's what friends do. They help each other.
Fluker pulled the note off the plastic case, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket. He was going to save it. Then he tilted the oblong case away from the wall. Giving it a test lift, he realized it wasn't that heavy, maybe thirty-five, forty pounds. It was more awkward than heav
y. He bent a little and hefted it onto his shoulder. Now what?
He scanned the big room, feeling more like he belonged here, helping a friend who lived in the building. If anybody asked, he had a legitimate note in his pocket.
There was a service elevator in the back. Fluker lugged the case into the elevator and punched the button for George's floor. The metal door slid shut and the elevator rattled as it lumbered upward. It was going to be a long ride, so Fluker set the box down easy. Up in the top corner of the elevator car to his right, he saw a tiny security camera. He nodded into the lens, hoping he looked like he belonged here enough so that whoever was monitoring the camera wouldn't activate some sort of intercom and ask him a bunch of questions. Or worse, an alarm. He had the note from George, but he was already late and didn't want to disappoint George any further.
Finally, the cage-like elevator jerked to a stop and the door banged open. Fluker hefted the case easily onto his shoulder. His injuries had affected his brain more than his back. He was proud of the fact that he was still strong. Sometimes at work, guys would ask him to lift things for them. It made him happy.
He stepped out of the elevator into a kind of service area. A metal door led out. He opened it and found himself at the end of a long, carpeted hallway with framed pictures on the walls. He walked past the main elevators and past a comfortable-looking sofa. He had never felt like he had to sit down to wait for an elevator, but maybe some people did. Old folks, maybe disabled people. Who knew? Maybe rich people just liked to sit down a lot.
George's apartment was about three-quarters of the way down the hall. Fluker stood in front of the door, the long box still balanced on his shoulder but angled along the wall now so he could reach the door. He wasn't sure if he should knock or ring the bell. Seems like he'd heard somewhere that friends knocked, strangers and salesmen rang the bell.
The Second Shooter Page 20
