CHAPTER 64
TOM KELLY
1962
What I would give for Google and e-mail right now, Tom thought as he slogged his way through messages from both the “official” clandestine pipeline and from Back Channel. He had to find out who was sending these rogue demands. Each member of the ExComm had issued a lockdown on his own staff and the number of people who were involved in the negotiations was cut to bare bones. Virtually no one outside of the president’s trusted circle was in the know now, but the messages continued. Kill Castro. Take him out or the president will move the ships in closer to Cuba and prepare for a ground invasion. None of it made sense. If this person had a death wish it looked like he might just get his way.
Volkov kept sending translated cables and Tom began to compare the time stamps against the messages the United States government was getting from their own contacts. Something about the timing of the messages bothered Tom. Rather than waiting for a response from the Soviets as one would expect when a demand is made, reiterations of the demand were coming fast and furiously. This wasn’t the work of a seasoned diplomat. Tom wasn’t one either, but he could tell from the timing of the government messages that they were very careful to allow enough time for consideration and response. Nobody wanted to increase the pressure that could result in a tragic outcome. But these rogue messages were relentless in their aggressiveness. Whoever was sending these seemed to know he wouldn’t stay hidden for long and he was pushing hard to get the Soviet premier to buckle under his frequent demands.
For all the initial mistrust between Director McCone and himself, Tom had recognized quickly that the CIA leader was a thoughtful and reasonable man with a strong grasp on the Soviet mindset. Anyone working in lockstep with him would not be pursuing an agenda in this way. Tom mentally crossed the CIA off the list of possible leaks and moved on to the National Security Director’s staff. No matter how much he dug or how cynically he viewed high-level government agencies, he just couldn’t pin the action to a probable group.
There had to be a third party involved, someone outside the president’s sphere of influence. But how did someone get in at this level? The thought struck him as ironic as he had been the outsider who infiltrated Back Channel. That had to be it. There was a government outsider injecting himself into these proceedings with the potential for dangerous consequences. Who was he and would there be time to find him before the damage was done?
Tom whipped open his hotel room door and summoned Ethan York from the hallway. He wrote a quick note to Robert Kennedy with his latest hypothesis and suggested they were looking for someone on the fringe of the agencies of the ExComm. It had to be someone with either past access or enough insider knowledge to know how to get into the pipeline. When he was finished he sealed the note inside an envelope and wrote the word “confidential” across the seam of the seal.
“Take this directly to the attorney general,” he told the young intern. “Don’t give it to anyone else under any circumstances.”
Ethan was nodding his head eagerly, but Tom wasn’t finished admonishing him.
“I’m serious, Ethan. If the Secretary of Defense, National Security Advisor, president’s secretary, and the Secret Service tell you to hand this over you smile politely and refuse to hand it to anyone but Robert Kennedy himself. You put this into his hands. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Kelly. I will give this envelope to no one except AG Kennedy, even if I have to eat it to protect it. I won’t let you down,” Ethan answered.
Before Tom had left the White House for the Willard, the two Kennedys had determined that Tom would send messages hand-delivered by Ethan York and that only Robert Kennedy would be allowed to receive them. The president indicated he would not ask for the messages so there would be no conflict as to chain of command. This would allow for a direct line between Tom and Robert Kennedy and nobody could try to pull rank by saying “the president said to give it to me.” Both Kennedys were prepared to back the intern if it turned into a showdown between him and half the cabinet. There could be no more leaks.
Ethan put the envelope in his coat pocket and walked quickly to the White House. His pass allowed him to come and go quickly from the West Wing and within moments he was standing by, waiting for Robert Kennedy to pen his response to Tom, which would be sealed in the same manner. Once he had it, he returned to the Willard and put the return envelope into Tom’s hands. He had been gone for less than thirty minutes total. Tom sent Ethan back into the hallway and read the message.
Understood. Will have personnel records for the past five years examined for possibilities. We can’t discount the possibility this could be a Soviet spy trying to create the illusion that we have a rogue agent. Official messages will continue to reassure Khrushchev that the Castro demand is not coming from us. Report back ASAP.
Tom thought about the possibility of a Soviet spy trying to make it look like the United States was demanding action on Castro. He just couldn’t figure out what the end game would be for that kind of demand from their standpoint. He knew he was in way over his head. The only thing he knew to do was to put on his writer’s hat and try and imagine what scenarios might exist. If he was going to write the story, who would this character be and what did he stand to gain? It was a long shot with no viable possibility of success, but it was all he had. He kept digging and over the next few hours sent Ethan back and forth to the White House several times. Against all protocol he eventually invited the young man into his suite and started to bounce theories off him. Pretty soon Tom realized that being top of his class at Fort Mill High School was a bigger deal than he had thought. Ethan was smart and highly versed in history and government. He was also very deliberate in his thought process and some of the questions he asked sent Tom down a different path than he had considered before. It was a path he desperately wanted to avoid because if this line of thinking was correct then everything they were doing could be playing right into the hands of a madman.
CHAPTER 65
CALVIN WALKER
1963
As he lunged at the man with the detonator, Calvin’s life seemed to morph into slow motion. He felt his feet leave the ground and saw the man turn to him with a look of panic on his face. He held the box in his left hand and as Calvin soared through the air at him he brought his right hand up and put his finger over the button.
At that moment, Calvin felt something hot hit him in the abdomen. It ripped and tore through him, blazing a path through his flesh. At the same time he felt the skin on his legs heating up and being torn from the bone. The wind was knocked out of him and he saw blood spraying everywhere. He didn’t feel anything else, nor did he comprehend the blood that now seemed to be all around him was actually pouring from multiple wounds to his own body. He had been too late, and as he lay dying the last thought that went through his mind was of his family all together the last time they visited Lookout Mountain.
CHAPTER 66
OLIVIA FORDHAM
1913
Edward Chase arrived at the Jefferson Suite with a bottle of wine and two exquisite glasses.
“It’s not ladylike in 1913 to get drunk,” Olivia said dryly.
“Is that a concern for you?”
“Hell, no. I just wanted you to know I recognize that. Come in, Edward.”
They sat in the first parlor and toasted the end of the long day.
“I don’t suppose Victoria sent a message for you to deliver?” Olivia asked.
“No. She hasn’t come downstairs since she got in.”
“If she hasn’t done it by now she probably won’t. I guess that means I’ve failed at least part of the task.”
“I’m never told for sure what the task is, Olivia. Perhaps it was only to get her to stay and be part of the march. Maybe that’s all you had to do and I believe you’ve done that.”
“But you know that’s not all.”
“I know.”
“Have you ever had anyone fail wha
t they’ve been sent back to do?”
Chase looked away. He had experienced a failure. Many years had passed since it had happened, but the consequences were catastrophic and he couldn’t tell her that. He didn’t have to. She could almost read his mind.
“Have you ever had someone negate their own existence?”
He kept sitting there staring into his glass. “No. I’ve never seen this happen before.”
“And you don’t know what will happen to me.”
“I don’t.”
“What usually happens when this is over?”
“Typically, you would fall asleep again and wake up back where you were when this all started. You would lose no time and go about the business you came for. Some people don’t even realize they’ve been anywhere. Most just think they’ve had a vivid dream, but others assume they had too much wine with dinner or some bad fish,” he said in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood.
“What about the others? There have to be some who question the experience.”
“Yes, there are some. Occasionally they seek me out to see if I give anything away and other times they go back to the scene of the experience to see if they can make sense of it.”
“Have any gone to the lengths you went to in order to understand it? To maybe become like you?”
“None that I know of. And I hope that never happens. I’m not sure if this is a life I would wish on another person.”
They were silent for a few moments, each lost in private thought. Olivia spoke first.
“So maybe I just won’t wake up. Just cease to exist.” She paused. “Will there be any sign I was ever here in the hotel? What happens to my things?”
More silence.
“There won’t be any sign of me anywhere, will there? No life lived in New York. No business, no institute. I guess with my health condition I eventually wouldn’t remember those things anyway. I guess I always thought someone would.”
“I can’t say for sure, Olivia, but I have to believe that there’s still a chance we’re missing something.”
“It’s been bothering me that the story I always heard about my grandparents meeting involved a carriage accident. I remembered it because I thought it was special that they lived in a time people still traveled around in carriages. It didn’t happen that way yesterday so maybe this whole thing was already decided.”
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. It’s my fault that you’re here and if I could change this please know I would do it in a second.”
The man looked distraught and Olivia felt for him. Strangely, she felt peaceful about her own situation.
“I don’t think I would change it Edward. I never knew my grandfather and I could never have imagined my grandmother as a young, impressionable girl full of fire and zeal. I don’t know how much more of life as I’ve known it I really had left anyway so this has been a gift in a way.” She reached out and touched his hand. “You cannot blame yourself, my dear friend. Tomorrow I will spend another day with my grandmother and I’ll watch her becoming the woman she grew to be.”
“This is not over, Olivia. I will spend every moment tomorrow looking for that missing element.”
“Please do. And if you don’t find it we must both accept it and move on.”
He stood to leave and asked if there was anything else she needed for the evening.
“I’m fine, but I would appreciate if you could send up the maids to help me dress in the morning. There is a splendidly fashionable concoction in the closet and I can’t think of a better day to wear it.”
“Consider it done. Goodnight, Olivia.”
“Goodnight, Edward.”
CHAPTER 67
CATHERINE PARKER
1865
The shouting. The screaming. “Sic semper tyrannis!” Thus always to tyrants. Catherine had seen Booth’s awkward landing on the stage and heard him shout his battle cry. She heard the agonized screams of Mary Lincoln and the shouts of Major Rathbone. The outer door to the state box had been barred from the inside and Rathbone swung it open, screaming for help and bleeding. Confusion reigned as the audience tried to figure out what had happened. Was this part of the play? Soon enough it was obvious it wasn’t and panic set in. Catherine saw Laura Keene run to center stage and plead with the audience to remain calm. Booth had disappeared backstage and the realization was becoming clear that the president had been attacked. The call for a doctor rang out and a man ran into the box.
Without thinking, Catherine got to her feet and started walking as though she was being drawn to the scene of the crime. She entered the box and pressed herself against the back wall watching the surreal images play out before her. Major Rathbone was standing against the front rail of the box wrapping his bleeding arm. Mary Lincoln had been moved from her husband’s side when the doctor got there. She was seated on the settee alternating between moments of shock and others of agonizing keening. Clara Harris was by her side doing all she could to comfort the traumatized woman. And there, on the floor at her feet, was the president. He was so tall he seemed to take up most of the floor space. Blood seeped into the red carpet as the doctor probed his body looking for the wound. He soon found it, a single hole in the president’s skull. Dr. Leale removed the clot that had formed and the blood flowed more quickly. The face Catherine knew so well from photos was drawn and pale. She could see the life draining from him. The doctor spoke, but to Catherine’s ears it sounded like he was underwater.
“His wound is mortal. It is impossible for him to recover,” he said simply.
Just then Laura appeared in the doorway. In a strange turn of events she moved to the president’s side. The doctor backed away and Laura Keene, the most famous actress in the world, cradled the president’s bleeding head in her lap while his wife sobbed at the news he had been fatally injured.
The roaring in Catherine’s ears got louder and louder until all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating. Do they know this is my fault? That I could have stopped it? That I’m the reason this man’s blood is spilling onto the floor and this woman who has suffered the loss of two children is now facing the tragedy that will finally send her over the edge? They don’t even know my name, but this is my doing. She wanted to faint, maybe even to die. Anything to stop the rising sense of shame and remorse she felt. The cries of Mary Lincoln condemned her by their very rawness.
Some men arrived to carry the president from the box to a place where he could be more comfortable. A place to die away from the scene of violence. Catherine felt herself moving toward Laura. As she laid the president’s head down on the floor and backed away Catherine was there to help her to her feet. Laura looked at her with unseeing eyes and the two women embraced. Catherine felt Laura’s knees buckle and as she started to fall Catherine caught her and lent her support as she walked her out of the state box to a seat in the dress circle.
The president was carried down the stairs and across the street to a boarding house. Catherine knew from the history books that he would languish all night and die early the next morning. There was nothing she could do now. Her deed was done and the blood could never be washed from her hands.
As the crowd left the theatre to stand in the street outside the boarding house, the cast of the play and the theatre staff became concerned about repercussions. They hustled the rest of the patrons outside and locked the doors. Laura had been in shock and was led away by one of her dressers. Catherine watched her walk away and then left with the other patrons. Laura had not looked back. Though she could not have known, Catherine felt her only friend knew she was to blame. Out on the street now herself she couldn’t bear to stand with the crowd. As she made her way from the vicinity of the theatre she waded through a mass of people just arriving as the news spread. Word was getting around about Secretary of State William Seward being attacked at his home. Rumors were rampant, some true and others clearly embellished. But nothing could be worse than the truth. She was bumped and jostled for several blocks until sh
e broke free and for the second night in a row she walked the streets of the nation’s capital alone.
CHAPTER 68
TOM KELLY
1962
“Run it again, Ethan. Tell me why you think it could be him,” Tom said as he paced from one side of the room to the other.
“It’s the pacing. The messages only take into account one line of communication when clearly there are two going on simultaneously. Everything in ‘channel one’ checks out with ‘channel two’ but everything in ‘channel two’ doesn’t check out with ‘channel one.’” He picked up a stack of messages and laid them out two at a time, side by side until he had two columns of seven messages each.
“Here, look at the way these line up. The time stamps are within a couple of minutes of each other and they relate to one another, see?” Ethan asked.
“Right,” Tom answered.
“But these four,” Ethan pulled four slips of paper from the columns and put them in a grouping of their own. “These don’t relate at all to the others. There’s a check and balance going on everywhere else, but not with these. And it’s not just what they say, it’s how and when they say it.”
Tom leaned over the four messages and instantly he saw what Ethan was talking about. The thought crossed his mind that he was taking advice from a teenager using highly classified documents, but he figured it wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened to him all week to be sure. And he couldn’t argue with what he was seeing. Maybe he’d just been too tired to see it before. Or, more likely, he didn’t want to see it.
“I’m not sure there’s another explanation, Mr. Kelly. Maybe if you let me take this to the guys at the White House they can make sense of it,” Ethan offered.
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