‘And what’s that?’
‘Our history,’ he said, his voice now soft. ‘Our nation is healing, Sergeant, but we don’t have our history. Philadelphia is a fine city and President Romney a fine man, but he’s not in the District of Columbia. Washington was much more than our capital. It was the center that held this nation together, and we’re still missing that center. And that’s what was so important about Colonel Sawson.’
Now the throbbing seemed even worse. ‘Sir?’
‘His other duties,’ the general said. ‘He was a Civil Defense liaison officer, working with different departments and agencies, and part of his work was dealing with the National Archives. One of his last jobs was securing two important pieces of paper, documents that are priceless to his country. Securing those documents before Washington was attacked.’
Carl looked back at the general, remembering again what Merl’s landlord had said, about Merl and important papers. Paper and ink. ‘The Constitution and the Declaration of Independence?’
A slow nod. ‘The same. They were taken out of the National Archives before the bombing, they’ve been lost for a decade, and Colonel Sawson knew where they were hidden. Lord knows why he kept it secret all these years. There are other pieces of our history from Washington, still scattered across this country, mostly in private hands or second-rate museums. A draft of the Gettysburg Address, in Lincoln’s own writing. A wheelchair that once belonged to Roosevelt. Trinkets and bits and pieces of our past. We need to get our history back, our sense as a nation.’
Carl remembered that onetime downstairs neighbor of his, the one that had a gavel used in the U.S. Senate. ‘And Colonel Sawson’s death ...’
‘Was because of those two documents. And that’s why people are after you, Sergeant.’
‘So, who are these people?’ he asked.
The general put his cigar in the ashtray and opened the top drawer of his desk. He took out a light brown manila envelope and removed several eight-by-ten black-and-white photos and fanned them out in front of him. Carl blinked and looked down and then looked away. A host of emotions were racing through him, emotions of betrayal and distrust and affection and shame, all at once.
‘Do you know this woman?’ the general asked.
‘You know I do.’
‘And who is she?’
‘She’s Sandy Price, of the Times,’ he said, still refusing to look for any length of time at the surveillance photos, showing Sandy departing from a BOAC airliner, Sandy checking into her hotel, Sandy walking down the streets of Boston, and, finally, Sandy in front of Merl Sawson’s apartment building. ‘And ...’
And what, Sergeant?’
‘She’s a spy.’
A nod. ‘That she is.’
~ * ~
General Curtis put the photos back in the envelope and returned them to his desk drawer. ‘This Sandy Price is on assignment from their foreign intelligence service, MI6. We believe she came to Boston to meet with Colonel Sawson, to set up some sort of exchange where he would pass the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution over to MI6 for some sort of consideration. Money and travel out of the United States, most likely. But I don’t have to tell you what went wrong. Either the British played rough, or the French or the Germans got to him first.’
Something in Carl sickened at hearing the general. ‘And what would the British, or the French, or even the goddam Belgians want with the Declaration of Independence and our Constitution?’
The general picked up his cigar, carefully examined it, and then relit it with a bulky lighter that had an Air Force emblem on its side. ‘What they want to do is to influence the next election, that’s what. They can read the polls just as well as everybody else. Everyone knows that Rockefeller is a shoo-in, and some of our so-called friends overseas don’t like that.’ ‘Including the British?’
He snapped the lighter shut with a self-satisfied click. ‘Some British — including your newspaper friend—and most of the Germans and French. Let’s face facts, shall we? The success of our relief and recovery efforts these past ten years has depended on the generosity of succeeding British governments. It’s not been easy for them, spending money on us, year after year. Some in their government want to cut us off. And it’s not been easy for us either, playing little brother to a big brother. No, not easy at all. But we do what we can to survive.’
The general put the lighter down on the desk. ‘With a Rockefeller election, our special relationship with the British will continue. With a McGovern administration, it won’t.’
I’m sure, Carl thought with some bitterness. I’m sure you’re right. ‘And how do the Constitution and Declaration play into that?’ he asked.
The general shook his head. ‘Can’t you see it, Sergeant? Two weeks before the election, McGovern appears on television, holding up the original Declaration of Independence and Constitution, secretly delivered to him by those in Britain who want to leave us alone. Says it’s a sign from above that we should return to our roots, return to a time when we were equal among nations, respected for what our nation stood for. To stand alone again. That it’s a time to join him in a new crusade, to come home, America. Hell, Sergeant, you’re a writer. You could probably do his speech with your eyes closed.’
‘And what’s the alternative? To have Rockefeller make the same speech, except he’d ask for people to vote straight Republican?’
‘No, he’d never do anything like that. If those documents do get found—thanks to you, we hope—nobody would say anything, not until the election was over. Then Rockefeller’d just announce that the government now had them, and that they’d be on display in Philadelphia. We cannot allow the British government to choose our next president. Which is why we need to get those documents first. We need your help in preventing them from falling into the hands of McGovern’s campaign.’
Carl blinked hard. First Jim Rowley and now General Ramsey Curtis, all asking for his help. Damn it, Merl, it would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had told me everything right up front, he thought. Out loud he said, ‘I think you have the wrong man, general. I’ve been out of the service for four years. I’m a newspaper reporter now, that’s all.’
General Curtis leaned forward, stabbing the air again with die cigar. ‘And that’s the point, Landry! You’re a reporter. You can ask questions, keep on asking questions, when you get back to Boston. You won’t have any problems with Major Devane—in fact, he’ll be your ally once he knows that you’re engaged in a matter of the utmost national security.’
Carl clasped his hands together, mostly to keep them from shaking. ‘In other words, go back and look into Colonel Sawson’s death again, to see what I can find out.’
A firm nod. ‘That’s exactly what we want you to do. You can remain in the shadows and do your work, and nobody -not MI6, the German Security Service, or the French Foreign Bureau—will know you’re working for us.’
‘But there’s one other thing,’ Carl said.
‘The matter of the Times woman?’
‘Yes.’
The general shrugged. ‘That matter is already out of our hands. We’ve notified her embassy in Philadelphia that she is to depart the country in seven days, for conduct not compatible with her job as a journalist. I understand she’s now back in Boston. And I can’t see the value of you trying to contact her.’
Again, that conflict of emotions. Betrayal and love, all a: the same time. ‘I understand.’
The phone on his desk buzzed and the general picked up the receiver. All right, I got it.’ He put the phone down and stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment, will you?’
‘Of course.’
The general went to the nearby side door and opened it up, and Carl could hear some low voices. He leaned forward in his chair and looked through the open door. It led into a sitting room, where a low fire crackled in the fireplace. Men in dark business suits were sitting on leather chairs and couches, talking among themselves, by another large, empty desk
. General Curtis stood by the nearest chair, where a man was looking up at him, talking animatedly, moving one hand - the one that didn’t hold a brandy snifter—back and forth.
Carl couldn’t make out what they were saying but he could see what was going on. The man in the chair glanced through the open door. Dark-rimmed glasses and a ready smile: it was the governor of New York State and Republican presidential candidate Nelson Rockefeller. Then the door gently closed.
Carl took a deep breath. Curtis was an overwhelming presence, a man who seemed to take away all the excess oxygen in a room. He rubbed his hands, got up, and walked around the small office. He was too nervous to sit still, and if he thought he could, he would have run out of this building as fast as possible.
Sure. Escape from one of the most heavily guarded compounds in these United States. How far do you think you’d get?
Instead, he looked around at the photographs, plaques and certificates that hung on the walls. There were pictures of General Curtis when he was in the Army Air Force in World War II, both in England and in the Pacific, and there were photos of him at the controls of B-17 and B-29 bombers. Another showed him on an airfield in South Korea. Later photos showed him at SAC Headquarters in Omaha and at the controls of B-47 and B-52 jet bombers. And there were formal, color photographs, as well: General Curtis with President Eisenhower, General Curtis with President Dillon, General Curtis with President Romney.
But there were no photos of General Curtis with President Kennedy.
One corner of the room had been blocked off by a waist-nigh wooden railing. Inside the railing and near the wall was a stand, and on top of the stand was a small chunk of what looked like brick, embedded in a cube of heavy glass. Small plaques set every eight inches or so along the railing said DO NOT CROSS. In the center of the railing was a larger plaque:
PRESENTED IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION TO GENERAL RAMSEY ‘THE RAMMER’ CURTIS FOR HIS YEARS OF SERVICE TO HIS NATION UPON HIS RETIREMENT, AUGUST 1, 1971
A PIECE OF RED SQUARE, MOSCOW, USSR RETRIEVED MAY DAY, 1971, BY THE 177th RADIOLOGICAL SURVEY SQUADRON STRATEGIC AIR COMMAND
‘PEACE IS OUR PROFESSION’
Carl felt sick to his stomach. Sure, peace. The peace of the grave, the peace of the dead. Some peace. He wondered who would mourn for them, centuries from now, the dead Americans, Russians, Cubans, Chinese, Indians, Ukrainians Poles. Nobody, that’s who. Who, after all, now mourned the ancient dead of Rome, Egypt, Assyria, and Greece?
That voice again, from Caz’s brother: history is written not only by the victors, but by the survivors.
Carl looked down at the general’s desk. It was clean, save for the crystal ashtray, the cigarette lighter, and a blotter. Off to the side was a phone and an intercom system. There were three switches for the intercom: off, one-way, and two-way. He took a deep breath, flipped the switch to one-way, and bent over to listen through the tiny speaker.
Voices, a mix of men’s voices, but he could make out the general’s clear enough:
‘... he’ll do an okay job. I’ve just put the fear of God and the Rammer into him ...’
And other voices as well:
‘... can he be trusted?’
‘...not an issue of trust. It’s reliability, it’s getting the job done ...’
‘…and damn it, trust brings me back again to those Limeys. In a short time there’s going to be tens of thousands of them in this country…’
‘…know you don’t like it, but what’s the alternative?’
The general again: ‘You know the alternative. Chaos and riots in every street. We have to keep the lid on, and the Brits are the key...’
‘... suppose they don’t leave when they’re done? Suppose they do something else while they’re here?’
‘... like what...’
‘…shit, maybe arrest us all... who knows ... foreign troops on our soil, they can do what they damn please…’
The general, again: ‘…any funny business, there’ll be consequences... see what we did to Moscow ... lobbing one down the chimney at Buckingham Palace should take care of things...’
Some laughter, and Carl quickly flipped the intercom switch off and went back to his chair, legs quietly shaking. He thought about what he had just learned, about what was going on, and realized with a start that not once in the discussions had he heard the voice of Governor Rockefeller.
~ * ~
After another minute or so, General Curtis came back into study and said, ‘Well, Sergeant, I have something to show you, if you don’t mind wasting an hour or so with a retired old fart like myself.’
Carl stood up, wiping his hands on his pants, feeling like he was trapped in an asylum not only run by the inmates but inmates bent on dragging everyone on the outside into their way of life. ‘Go right ahead, sir.’
He kept pace with the general as they went out of the study, down a hallway, and then outside into the cool fall air. Two Air Force officers in dress blues stayed behind them at a respectful pace, and the general kept up a running commentary as they walked down a gravel path that was flanked on both sides by white picket fence.
‘This is my retirement farm, though I don’t get much time off, as you can see,’ the general said, walking with his hands in his pockets, puffing away at the cigar. ‘But I never complain.’ He stopped and looked around, at the farmland and buildings and the grass and trees. ‘Ten years ago, I was in an airborne command post, watching everything go to the shit, and I didn’t know if I’d live to the end of the hour, never mind the end of the day. Remember earlier, we were speaking about luck? Lucky for all of us that we were able to get a comm line to the Soviets, and end the damn thing. I knew that whatever I had remaining of my life, that I would dedicate it to rebuilding this nation and its people. You were overseas during the war, weren’t you?’
‘I was, sir. In South Vietnam.’
The general kicked at a pebble. ‘South Vietnam. I was there once, for a briefing and tour.’
That you were, Carl thought, remembering that same day from a different vantage point, as the general went on: ‘Little shit-ass country, we had no business being there. That’s what I told everyone, everyone who listened, but Kennedy and his boys had other plans. Like Cuba. He and his brother and his clan, they were humiliated at the Bay of Pigs, a couple of months after the inauguration, and who could blame them? It was Eisenhower’s job, Eisenhower’s plan, Eisenhower’s boys who put that fiasco together. But when the shit hit the fan, old Jack wouldn’t provide air support to the rebels, and they were slaughtered on the beaches. Poor bastards. But you could tell, the moment the news hit that missiles were in Cuba, that JFK didn’t have the balls for seeing the job through right. We should have gone in early and fast, with the element of surprise. That’s what we needed, but how the hell could we surprise them, with him blabbering all over the air-waves and that pantywaist Stevenson up in the UN, showing off our U2 photos?’
Carl felt that he should stay quiet and let the general rave. He spared a quick glance at the two Air Force officers behind them and saw knowing smiles on their faces. They had heard these remarks before, he was sure. Over and over again, repeated and reedited, making sure that this particular survivor’s story made the history books.
The general took a deep puff of his cigar, resumed walking. ‘JFK was just a rich kid, playing at being a grown-up, but the time he tried to play grown-up, it blew up all around him. He had help all his life, you know that? When his PT boat got run down in the South Pacific, any other Navy commander would have been court-martialed. But his father the booze muggier and ambassador, along with the Kennedy machine, they got him off. They also got him a seat in the House of representatives, and they helped steal the election in 1960.’
The general stopped and stared at him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. ‘Funny, isn’t it? They say the dead voted that November night in Illinois, the dead voted to put Kennedy over the top. Makes you wonder if the dead were lonely and wanted some companions. A fe
w million more companions. Well, they certainly got their wish, less than two years later.’
‘General,’ Carl said, staring right back, thinking suddenly of Caz and the others, the ones who had kept an old dream alive for a decade. ‘I have a question.’
‘Shoot.’
‘You still have connections, still have resources. You know about the “JFK Lives” cult. What’s the real story? Could Kennedy have gotten out of DC in time?’
The general’s eyes narrowed and his bushy eyebrows bunched together. ‘For ten years I’ve had to hear about those nutty stories, and I’m quite sick of them.’
Resurrection Day Page 42
