The trespassers mounted the cobwebby stairs under the building and jimmied the door open. Watchful for guards, they navigated to the sixth floor records department where top-secret documents were stored. Ten minutes of systematic searching through file cabinets rewarded them with the folder they sought.
Viktor snapped pictures of its contents with a mini-camera while Dmitriy stood sentry. Hearing a guard approach, he hissed at Viktor to stop flashing the camera. Both men ducked behind a desk. Dmitriy pointed his gun while Viktor held his breath. Fortunately, the watchman was complacent. He superficially shone his flashlight around the room, saw nothing, and returned to his rounds.
The KGB spies completed their task and hurried back down to the old train tracks, leaving no trace of their handiwork.
7:00 AM – PDT
10:00 AM – EDT
J. Edgar Hoover sat in his regal Department of Justice office flanked by a US flag on his right and an FBI flag on his left. He glared across his mahogany desk at his right-hand man, Clyde Tolson, who had been summoned for a clandestine Sunday meeting. “I will not stand for this, Clyde. The bumbling brothers are scheming against me. Pressure to go after the mob was bad enough, but every day there’s a new interference. They’re so close to me they’re practically in my shorts.” A vein in his temple throbbed. “New processes and procedures instituted to turn my agency into a paper-pushing bureaucratic clearinghouse. Status reports, progress updates—it’s a load of bull. They’re dying for a way to trip me up and usurp my authority in my domain. And I think I know what their objective is.”
Tolson’s eyes gleamed as he perched on the edge of his seat.
“But I need confirmation. And the only way to do that is to find out what is going on . . .” Hoover paused for emphasis “. . . at the White House.”
“I understand.”
“This is a tricky operation. One that’s extremely risky, but absolutely necessary to ensure my survival. I need to know what their intentions are.” The FBI director gazed at his underling. “This is an assignment I would trust to no one but you, Clyde.”
“Thank you.” Pride suffused Tolson.
“Here is the device.” Hoover handed him a tiny electronic gadget manufactured to resemble a housefly. “I need you to plant this in JFK’s desk lamp. In the Oval Office.”
Tolson’s bravado faltered as he accepted the bug. How could he possibly get away with spying on Kennedy?
Hoover continued, immune to his deputy’s distress. “At the meeting tomorrow, I’ll distract the president and his little brother, and you take care of the rest.”
Tolson felt his forehead get clammy, but he could not let the big man down. “You can count on me, J. Edgar.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
MONDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1963 AND 2013
3:00 AM – PDT
5:00 AM – CDT
With newfound confidence, Viktor entered the decryption codes into the shortwave and settled back alongside his cohort, Dmitriy. Viktor’s sparsely furnished quarters in the Oak Cliff community in Dallas offered a temporary safe haven for the spies. Needing to maintain their anonymity, both KGB operatives had set up residences in large, multi-unit apartment blocks. They would not be fraternizing with the neighbors.
The transmission from Section Chief Leonid again came one minute late at 5:01 am. Their boss demanded a detailed account of the information gleaned at the Federal Building the previous day.
Viktor strolled back and forth while Dmitriy laid out the illicit photos and explained the particulars of the motorcade route.
At the other end of the airwaves, the Leonid-pretender listened through the static and concluded that the plans were unfolding as expected. He proceeded to notify the cell members that their target would be the rear passenger on the right-hand side of the third car.
Shocked, Viktor stopped pacing. Could their mission be that brazen? He glanced down at the materials to confirm the identity of the victim. No doubt. Although apprehensive about the high-profile assignment, Viktor promised to fulfill his sworn duty to the homeland.
Conversely, Dmitriy embraced the opportunity to employ his lethal skills once again.
Abruptly, the communication terminated.
5:00 PM – PDT
8:00 PM – EDT
Lyndon Baines Johnson flopped into the overstuffed easy chair in his book-lined study. After a jam-packed day, the vice president’s suit looked even more rumpled than usual.
His wife of twenty-nine years sat on the couch in a pressed, peter-pan-collared dress, a single strand of pearls encircling her neck. Her sable hair was groomed into a popular style—teased full on the crown with a short flip at the ends. Although married to a prominent politician, Mrs. Johnson often came across as someone who had wed beneath her station in life. “How was your day, dear?”
He rubbed his graying temples. “Lady Bird, I’m tuckered out from all this campaigning. Why it seems all we do lately is worry about reelection. Kennedy doesn’t care about much else.”
She hummed her agreement, “Mm hm.”
The vice president stared straight ahead. Next month, he and the president would tour Johnson’s own beloved home state, relentlessly begging for votes. It mortified him that the incumbents were in danger of losing Texas just because JFK was a liberal Yankee.
But LBJ hadn’t told his spouse of the ultimate betrayal. Rumors floated that Kennedy planned to drop him from the ticket. Ingrate! He wouldn’t have even won in 1960 if it hadn’t been for Lyndon Baines Johnson carrying Texas. That pond scum Nixon would have been Commander in Chief now. The Southerner narrowed his eyes. “I’m being used.”
“I know, I know. He surely doesn’t appreciate you, does he?”
Johnson shook his head. “And this Cuban mess. It keeps escalating.” Who would have thought an island dictatorship ninety miles off the coast of Florida would cause such a threat? But it had. Barely three months into their term, JFK had launched the Bay of Pigs catastrophe. He’d sent in CIA-trained Cuban exiles to overthrow Fidel Castro’s communist regime. He promised US Air Force support; however, he failed to deliver. The tactic could have succeeded, but the coward scaled back the operation to create plausible deniability for America. Fool!
That event was the catalyst for the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. Military intelligence discovered that Castro had allowed the USSR to secretly plant nukes on his country’s soil. The medium and intermediate-range ballistic missiles had the ability to strike the Continental United States. The world stood on the brink of its first all-out nuclear war. A US Naval blockade preventing weapons and supplies from being shipped to Cuba from Russia averted the disaster by a slim margin.
Johnson harrumphed. Why hadn’t Kennedy learned his lesson? Castro remained in charge, and JFK continued to taunt the Latin madman. “And now this.”
The Second Lady wrinkled her nose as her husband picked up a battered newspaper from September 9. Oh, golly, not that gosh darn news story again. She resolved to be patient.
LBJ read aloud from an article about a speech made at the Brazilian embassy in Havana. “‘Denouncing US-prompted raids on Cuban Territory, Castro said, “We are prepared to fight them and answer in kind. The United States leaders should think that if they are aiding terrorist plans to eliminate Cuban leaders, they themselves will not be safe.”’ This is a nightmare!” He slammed down the newspaper in impotent rage. “If Castro sends someone after Kennedy, you can bet he’ll place a bull’s-eye on my back as well. The president has put all of us in a terrible predicament.”
“Lyndon, I do believe you would make a much better president than he.”
Johnson sighed. “Someday, Bird, someday.”
9:58 PM – PDT
11:58 PM – CDT
Viktor waited with Dmitriy in the back meeting room of a downtown Dallas burlesque joint called the Carousel Club. “So, this American. He defected to the Soviet Union and then reneged. Do we know why?”
“Who cares? He probably found out it wasn�
��t the worker’s paradise he envisioned.” Dmitriy puffed out pungent tobacco smoke, and then crushed the Lucky Strike in the ashtray. “At least not for an unskilled laborer.” Both men chortled at the joke, knowing they enjoyed positions of prestige and power in their native country.
Suddenly they heard a commotion in the corridor outside their locked door. Shouting voices drowned out the faint sounds of laughter at the evening’s featured entertainer—a bawdy comedian on stage in the main venue. Dmitriy ordered Viktor to check out the disturbance while he covered him with gun drawn.
The irascible club owner was holding a scrawny patron in a headlock, dragging him toward the rear exit. The red-faced captive struggled and twisted to no avail, howling that he was supposed to be there. The proprietor ignored his protestations and punched the guy in the gut for disturbing a closed meeting.
The KGB men stood by, grinning and nudging each other. They knew how much the owner relished acting as his own bouncer. His temper was legendary.
Still pummeling the intruder, the proprietor noticed his audience. “I caught this deadbeat trying to sneak into the back.” Although he didn’t know why the pair rented the space, they paid a lot of money for privacy. That’s what counted. He guessed they were lawless businessmen, perhaps connected to organized crime.
Dmitriy decided the visitor had suffered enough. “It’s okay, Jack, he really is with us.”
The beady-eyed owner roughly pushed the man aside and straightened his skinny tie. “If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.
The patron defiantly lifted up his chin, as if to say I told you so, and followed the others into the room.
They sat down at the conference table. Dmitriy was ticked off that the so-called guest was staring at them with unabashed admiration. Before he had a chance to officially open the meeting, the weasely newcomer spoke in the most convoluted Russian Dmitriy had ever heard.
Dmitriy sliced his hand from left to right. “Enough. Stop mutilating our language.”
“Yes, sir, comrade sir.”
Dmitriy quashed an urge to smack the man in the face. “All we want to know is whether you currently have a job. Are you employed?”
“No, sir. Well, I would be, but you know how it is.” He smirked. “Most supervisors are afraid to hire someone smarter and cleverer than them. They don’t want to be upstaged. You know, embarrassed.”
Dmitriy renewed his resolve not to beat him senseless. “Fine. We need you to do something for us.” He leaned back and prepared to explain in the simplest terms possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1963 AND 2013
9:00 AM – PDT
11:00 AM – CDT
Fifty-six-year-old Superintendent Roy S. Truly sat in his second-floor office at the Texas School Book Depository on the corner of Houston and Elm Streets in Dallas. A three-decade veteran of the textbook warehouse, since 1934, he hooked his wireframe glasses over protruding ears and examined the application of the young man sitting across from him. Three days shy of his twenty-fourth birthday, the boy seemed to be quiet and well mannered.
With his soft-spoken southern drawl, Truly interviewed the candidate, asking about what experience he’d had and where he had worked.
The nice young fellow responded that he had just served his term in the Marine Corps and had received an honorable discharge. He listed some things of an office nature that he had learned to do in the service.
Truly raised his eyebrows in appreciation—a clean-cut ex-marine. And he used the word sir, which a lot of them didn’t do at this time. Nevertheless, he continued by questioning the boy about past activities and whether he had ever had any trouble with the police. The answer was negative. The superintendent nodded. No reason to check further back, owing to the recent discharge from the armed forces. Truly had no grounds to suspect the man was not being entirely truthful.
The candidate elaborated that he needed a job because he had a wife and child to take care of. And he was expecting another baby in a few days. He would be glad to have any type of work, and stressed that he really needed a job to support his family.
Truly considered himself to be a good judge of character, and his gut confirmed the applicant’s sincerity. However, because he had observed the candidate’s slight physique, he posed one more query. “Son, are you a hard worker? Able to lift heavy boxes?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Truly reasoned that service in the US Marine Corps likely involved rigorous physical training, and thus made his decision. “Congratulations. You’re hired.” He apologized for offering work of a temporary nature, since there were no openings for permanent jobs.
The latest hire beamed as he stood up, careful not to wince in pain. His abdomen ached from the previous night’s thrashing.
Truly shook his hand to seal the transaction.
“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Lee Harvey Oswald gushed. “I guarantee you won’t regret it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1963 AND 2013
7:00 PM – PST
Three weeks later—Quin snapped off the television, and gestured to the reinforced hatch they were supposed to be installing. “Come on guys, this thing ain’t attaching itself.”
As the rest of the team dragged themselves away, Dee stared at the blank screen, reflecting on the evening news broadcast they had just witnessed. The Russian premier had announced that the three US spies captured in Minsk had been convicted of his predecessor’s assassination and executed. He had then demanded that the American president publicly admit responsibility for the crime or risk the full fury of Soviet vengeance. Both sides were gearing up for the inevitable hostilities. Her gut churning, she turned to face her colleagues. “If the Russians attack, how do you suspect they’ll strike first?”
“Invasion.” Bick was fastening winch chains around the shiny brass hatch. “They’re not dumb enough to start another back-and-forth nuke volley like ’64. It’ll be an aerial assault and ground invasion supported by troops shipped down from Alaska.”
“Wouldn’t that be dangerous for us? If they came through California, we could be in their direct path.” Frank removed his glasses and began to clean them.
“Eureka is hardly a primary target. More probably Seattle or San Fran, and they’re hundreds of miles from here.” Sera wondered how he could be so paranoid. “I think you’ll be safe for the moment, Frank.”
“No way will it be a ground assault.” Sam strode over and rechecked the chains Bick had just secured. “The Soviets are seriously ticked off, like Kennedy was after they hit Jackie K. We violated their national pride.” Giving his approval to Bick’s work, Sam offered Quin a thumbs-up. “No doubt in my mind they’ll nuke, and not one city, but multiple targets simultaneously.”
“Kablooey! There goes the planet.” Quin gave a wry frown as he cranked the winch. The contraption creaked and groaned.
“You know, we’re contemplating what the USSR might do.” Jay steadied the swinging chains. “But it’s quite possible the US will launch preemptively.”
Dee noticed Sera’s pallid complexion and furrowed brow. “Sera, what’s wrong?”
“Anti-Matter,” she croaked. “What if either superpower deploys AM weapons?”
“Surely the military’s AM research ceased after they lost their preeminent Anti-Matter physicists.” Sam eyed Sera and Iggy.
“You might think so, but the warden had already enlisted NASA to review our progress. They could be attempting to continue the project, despite how inept their scientists are.” Iggy jerked her head up and looked at Sam and Frank. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Sam signaled Quin to lower the hatch onto the ship. “Most of the foremost experts left the space program in the recent past.” He obviously counted himself and Frank in their number.
“But as Sera said, the Russians could be working on AM bombs also, either independently or with help from the Americans.” Jay gazed up. “You kno
w how effective the KGB spy network is.”
From a ladder, Iggy dropped the hatch into place with a thunk. “Speculation on who strikes first and by what means is unproductive. We need to focus on reengineering this vessel and obtaining more Gadolinium-146.”
“Sure, piece of cake.” Frank didn’t hide his sarcastic tone. “We’ll just head on down to the local radioactive isotope superstore.”
7:10 PM – PST
Crammed into the stern of a fishy-smelling, decrepit rowboat on Sam’s property, Captain Sutherland listened to the conversation inside the boathouse with a miniature sound amplifier. Concealed by the dark evening, Sutherland congratulated himself on finally scoring a victory in his search. This Sam Morales character—an acquaintance of Frank’s—had literally disappeared after his resignation from NASA. The captain had located the virtual hermit by a fluke of luck; the man had registered his tourist submersible business with the IRS.
Sutherland felt a pang of longing on hearing Sera’s voice. He had to find a way to get her out of this. But what were they talking about? A vessel? And Gadolinium-146? He had to figure out what on earth they were planning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1963 AND 2013
2:00 PM - PST
Sera retreated to the back of the Eureka sporting goods store, searching for a door while praying her behavior would not arouse suspicion. Her euphoria at being on her first solo excursion had crashed, replaced by apprehension. After purchasing her burglar’s accessories—three pairs of gloves and three black ski masks—she had spotted a man standing in front of the next building, checking his watch. Although facing away, his frame and mannerisms seemed hauntingly familiar. Sutherland. Was she being paranoid or prudent?
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 15
