Kon glanced over his shoulder to face his attacker. Sera. “Not you again!”
Quin leapt over them and stopped in his tracks. “What the hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
1:47 PM – CST
For the past hour, FBI Special Agent Robert M. Barrett had raced around Dallas, trying to keep ahead of the bedlam and bloodshed plaguing the heart of the city. From the shooter’s roost at the Book Depository, he’d been summoned to the killer’s crossroads at Tenth and Patton. Now he had to fight his way through the frenzy outside the Texas Theater before bursting through the open pair of blue double doors.
He felt his peripheral knowledge coming together in a resounding hunch. He was following in the wake of destruction left by a prime suspect—who was currently being surrounded.
Inside the lobby, the first person Barrett encountered was a short guy with a tall shotgun going into the doggone theater. Barely over five feet, the fellow appeared even more puny next to his towering 12-gauge. This scenario spelled disaster. “What are you doing in here?”
“I heard on the CB they got that hoodlum corralled in there like a pig in a pen. I’m gonna get me that bastard.”
Ordinarily, Barrett believed Texans teemed with southern hospitality. However, when the locals got riled up, praise be if they didn’t crawl out of the cracks with their weapons. And they weren’t shy about waving ‘em around. “Hold on there, cowpoke. FBI.” The agent flashed his badge. “Why don’t you stay right here and don’t let a single person out until I say so.”
“Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir.”
At least this yahoo wouldn’t be blasting anyone. As Barrett hustled past, he made a mental note to dismiss the vigilante later, or he’d probably stand guard all day.
1:48 PM – CST
Quin thought time had stopped. The standoff felt like an eternity, although it couldn’t have lasted more than a minute. The surrealistic tableau on the aircraft remained the same.
On the floor behind him, both Sera and Kon struggled as they sat up and gawked in astonishment. At Quin’s feet, Viktor lay dead, his blood spilling onto the opulent carpet from a hole in his chest.
Frozen in position before them, Bick was pointing his gun at a man instantly recognizable as the first director of the FBI. J. Edgar Hoover was aiming back at Bick in retaliation.
Adding to the bizarro factor, a dandy in a double-breasted suit was holding Jay in a headlock with a .45 caliber pressed against his temple.
Life or death stuff.
Quin delicately lowered his Remington.
1:49 PM – CST
Oswald had Iggy and Dee trapped. Each time they crawled across the grimy floor toward an aisle, he matched their movements from side to side ten rows behind them. Iggy grimaced. The exercise was akin to the futile game of chasing your kid brother around a table. Adding to their predicament, the old-time theater’s downward slope toward the screen pitched too steeply for them to stay hidden from view. A fire exit to the left of the stage almost promised salvation, but they didn’t dare make a run for it lest Oswald simply picked them off.
Suddenly, a bright flash of sunlight flooded the venue. Iggy peered over the seats in front. A young man in a navy blue suit had opened the fire exit—the very door they had considered using for an escape—and several uniformed police officers entered from the back alley.
They were saved.
Iggy nudged Dee and whispered as she maneuvered into the seat, “Pretend we’re ordinary patrons.”
They both sat upright, eight rows from the front, on the right side of the center right section facing the screen. Not a moment too soon. The house lights came up, rendering the ornate interior in stark relief.
1:50 PM – CST
A man in civilian clothes met Patrolman M.N. McDonald of the Dallas Police Department as he entered the Texas Theater from the back alley. The tall gentleman in the suit told McDonald that the suspicious man who had ducked in without paying was sitting downstairs in the orchestra seats. And he was alone. McDonald would later learn that the informant, Johnny Calvin Brewer, worked as a manager down the street at Hardy’s shoe store.
From the stage where the movie flickered behind him, Brewer pointed at an individual in the third row from the rear, second seat from the aisle.
In full uniform, McDonald strode up the aisle nearest the suspect, while three other officers veered around to the next aisle in order to prevent the guy from fleeing. McDonald passed two women sitting mute, with expressions of fear plain on their faces. He then detoured into a row behind a pair of men. He wanted to make sure he didn’t overlook anything or miss anybody. You had to weigh information of that sort to make sure you got the right person. He told them to stand. He frisked them, all the while glancing over his shoulder at the main target, who sat immobile with his hands in his lap, watching.
Satisfied these two men were not concealing any weapons, McDonald exited the row and continued at a normal gait. Upon reaching the designated row, he stopped abruptly and barked an order. “Get on your feet.”
Wearing a dark brown shirt and dark trousers, the man rose immediately, bringing up both hands to shoulder height. “Well, it’s all over now.” His mouth twisted into an arrogant smirk.
McDonald instinctively reached forward to search the perpetrator’s waistband for weapons.
The man hauled back and punched the officer between the eyes with a cocked left fist. He simultaneously drew a Smith & Wesson .38 Special from his pants with his right hand.
The unexpected blow knocked McDonald’s cap clean off his balding head. He struck back with a swift right to the face while grabbing the offensive gun with his left hand. The lawman clutched the cylinder, holding fast to prevent it from rotating enough to fire. He felt the hammer snap against his left palm. Both men tumbled into the seats, grappling with each other.
McDonald jerked the butt of the pistol free. As he pulled it away, the firearm wrenched across his own cheek, gouging a four-inch gash in the skin.
“I got him!” As soon as McDonald hollered, he was swarmed by patrolmen, who helped subdue the suspect from all sides.
1:51 PM – CST
Quin stoically faced Hoover, flanked by Sera and Kon. Bick stood nearest the FBI director, while Jay remained secured in a headlock by the suited man, now known by all as Clyde Tolson. Hoover had ordered them to relinquish their weapons, or Jay would suffer the same fate as Viktor. The armed combatants had obeyed, knowing there was no choice but to comply.
Hoover targeted his pistol at Quin and Sera and made an assessment based on Jay’s intel. “I’m presuming you must be rebel astronaut Quin Dylan and redoubtable astrophysicist Sera Banks, our would-be heroes.”
Sera hissed, “Anti-Matter physicist, you has-been bureaucrat.”
Hoover ignored her as he aimed at Kon. “But you. You don’t look like any of the photos I’ve seen of the KGB cell. Who might you be?”
“I”—Kon spread his feet apart and crossed his wrists behind his back—“am Konstantin Davidovich, sent by the premier himself.” His spine straightened, as if from an involuntary manifestation of pride.
“Ah, the elusive Kon. I heard you were myortve.” Hoover sarcastically used the Russian word. “I mean dead. Pity it isn’t true.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, J. Edgar. But you have the advantage over me, I’m afraid. I expected to find Section Chief Leonid here, ready to whisk us away to freedom.”
“Yes, yes, your Leonid. A wellspring of information. He is unquestionably dead.”
“Now it finally makes sense.” Kon nodded. Frankly, he hadn’t thought the FBI had the balls. “Your audacity is impressive, Comrade Hoover.”
Quin brazenly stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. “What? What makes sense?”
“Don’t be thick, Quin.” Sera jabbed him with her elbow. “Hoover’s been posing as Leonid and calling the shots all along.”
“Excellent p
owers of deduction. Maybe you are a rocket scientist after all.” The FBI director guffawed.
While Hoover chuckled at his lame joke, Quin murmured out of the side of his mouth, “Keep up, babe, just trying to stall here.”
She scowled. How could you tell with Quin?
Tolson noticed the exchange and tightened his grip on Jay, who gave out a gurgling rasp.
Meanwhile, boiling anger was frothing up inside Bick, reaching his throat in a white-hot eruption. “You bastards! You promised to help us prevent the assassination.” As his emotions spewed forth, Bick checked himself. He had to remain detached. His mind started working furiously on a way to cause a diversion.
Hoover caressed the barrel of his gun. “I can’t help it if you jumped to your own conclusions. I said we would put the proper measures in place. And we did. Recognize that this is my time. My era. My decade, not yours. And my communications network has confirmed that I have succeeded.” Hoover arched his brows. “John F. Kennedy has uttered his last antimetabole.”
“Anti-mah-wha-boh-lee?” Quin slumped. “Jay, what the hell is he talking about?”
Sera held her breath, knowing Quin was putting on theatrics. However, they were all in the dark. Even Tolson eased up on Jay.
“It’s, um, an oratorical device where you repeat the same words or phrases in a juxtaposed manner that is seemingly contradictory to, as it were, emphasize a point.”
“Huh?” Quin dropped his guard.
“You know, like JFK’s most famous quotes.” Jay affected a phony New England accent. “‘Mankind must put an end to wah or wah will put an end to mankind.’ Or, ‘Let us never negotiate out of fee-ah, but let us never fee-ah to negotiate.’ And the legendary inaugural line, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—’”
“Will you shut up, Thesaurus Rex?” Kon couldn’t believe they were discussing obscure English linguistic devices. “He means Kennedy’s dead.”
“Correct.” Hoover smiled in triumph. “And now I’m best friends with the president of the United States.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
1:52 PM – CST
In the Texas Theater, thirty-four-year-old Gerald L. Hill, a sergeant in the Dallas Police Department, deftly manacled the suspect’s wrists with a pair of handcuffs. His cohorts formed more or less a wedge around the cop-killer, with an officer in front, one on either side, and Detective Paul Bentley next to Sergeant Hill bringing up the rear. They began marching him up the aisle toward the exit.
Hill scoffed in disgust as the shackled man put on a big show.
“I want a lawyer. I know my rights!” He raised his head to display his injuries. “Typical police brutality!”
Hill saw Bentley clench down on his unlit cigar as he grimly followed the entourage. The tiny abrasion and bruised eye had been unequal recompense for assaulting Officer McDonald and drawing a weapon on him.
“I am not resisting arrest!” The suspect shouted impotently as the onlookers glared. He tried again in vain, “I am not resisting arrest!”
They left the theater in quite a bit of excitement, with Hill feeling fat as he huffed and puffed from the little scuffle. But he wouldn’t have missed this event for the world.
They burst out of the double doors into the bright sunshine, where a hostile crowd had gathered. He estimated two hundred citizens were split up on each side of the entrance, kept at bay by policemen who were covering the facade of the building. How had word spread?
The rubberneckers jeered, making threats and calling out epithets. “That’s him! Murderer! String him up! Hang him!”
Too bad they couldn’t let the folks light torches, grab pitchforks, and have done with it.
Quite a bit of confusion reigned, but they kept moving rapidly to get him into the squad car waiting on West Jefferson. When the suspect was asked his name and address, he didn’t answer. He just sat there.
Hill knew this was not unusual immediately after an arrest. Because when a man is apprehended, he is keyed up and probably thinks that the best thing he can do is keep his mouth shut.
However, the scrawny guy disproved his theory by whining, “I don’t know why you are treating me like this. The only thing I have done is carry a pistol in a movie.”
From the middle of the front seat, Sergeant Hill whipped around to deliver a scornful retort. As his eyes grazed across the movie house, he noticed a poster advertising War is Hell! The tagline gave him pause.
There are some things that only the people that do them understand.
1:53 PM – CST
During the protracted silence following Hoover’s explosive comment, he had stepped aside to take a call from a brick-like air phone attached to the wall.
After he calmly hung up, the man appeared more elated than before. Sera observed his conceited smile. “You bastard, son-of-a-bitch psychopath. How dare you inflict your egomaniacal version of history on the rest of humanity? You’re mentally unstable.”
“I assure you, I am perfectly sane. However, you might want to question your own sanity. After all, what makes your revision of the future more correct than mine?”
Sera closed her eyes and turned away at the obvious flaw in her logic. “We’re fighting for a peaceful existence!”
Hoover leered at the contradiction. “My path is preordained. I have cultivated my empire for forty years, working alongside six administrations through ten presidential terms. Politicians come and go, but I remain the most powerful man in Washington. When JFK conspired to dethrone me, he sealed his own fate.”
Hoover nodded at Jay. “Thanks to the insight into the future your team provided, I discovered the KGB were inept. I wouldn’t have expected them to miss their target. So, I put the proper measures in place. Now, the First Lady lives on, Kennedy is dead, and there will be no nuclear war. I even conjured up a disposable scapegoat. After I take care of the loose ends, no one will ever connect me to this distasteful business. J. Edgar Hoover always wins.”
Quin watched in revulsion. Rather than being unnerved by the threats, his attention span had waned. “What the hell is this? Is this supposed to be the bad-guy soliloquy where he justifies his actions in a long, boring speech before shooting us all dead?”
“You’ve got more brains than you let on.” Hoover used his free hand to motion to Tolson.
The associate director shoved Jay to the floor.
“Hey!” Quin complained.
Bick started forward, as if to assist Jay, then changed his mind. “Sera, why don’t you give Jay a hand?”
Sera stared at Bick. It was out of character for him to put two civilians at the forefront. Nevertheless, she bent down to help Jay.
“I thought we could discuss this situation like civilized people. But Hoover here seems to be delusional.” Bick gazed at the director. “He’s under the false impression he’s going to be a legend.” Bick deliberately turned to Quin, and spoke his next words with heavy emphasis. “He thinks he’s of the same caliber as Kiffin.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
1:54 PM – CST
Sera squelched the instinct to gasp as the name Kiffin echoed in her memory, flashing her back to Sam’s boathouse in 2013. She could see Quin’s hands demonstrating Bick’s aerial combat maneuver—the two leads drop while the wingmen rise. Her arm already around Jay’s shoulders, Sera pushed him back down. Jay fell to his knees with a grunt as she crouched beside him.
Bick and Quin both leapt high.
On cue, Hoover and Tolson were sucked into the Kiffin trap, not knowing what the hell was happening or where to aim their weapons.
Bick had launched himself at Hoover with a tackle that landed the FBI tsar on his butt. Bick tumbled off. Out of nowhere, Kon came sailing in like a missile, careening into Hoover as he sat up and pulled his trigger. The shot went wild, with the bullet punching a hole in the fuselage.
Quin had simultaneously hurdled over Sera and Jay, kicking his r
ight leg out in a sideways kung fu maneuver. “Heee-waaah!” He added the obligatory high-pitched sound effects to his half-baked plot to knock the pistol out of Tolson’s hand.
Having never practiced the martial arts, Quin lost his center of gravity and plowed into Tolson with a right shin. They both thudded to the floor while the gun bounced away.
Kon wrestled Hoover’s firearm from the furious director and handed it to Bick.
Quin retrieved Tolson’s six-shooter and trained it back on him in a James Bond stance, clutching it with two straight arms. He proudly acted as if every move had gone according to plan.
With the FBI men secure, Sera got up from her stooped position and slipped behind Kon. She wrenched his right wrist up his spine as high as it could go.
“Wait! What are you doing? I am helping. I am on your side!”
Bick took several steps back and aimed. “Shut up!” He covered both a sullen Hoover and a flabbergasted Kon with the revolver.
2:10 PM – CST
Seated in the living room at home base on Tenth and Denver, Sam willed himself not to blink. But he could tell Iggy wasn’t buying it. She could not comprehend his reason for leaving Ruby alone with the KGB at the Carousel. Sam reiterated his stated purpose—he could effect more good by going to Dealey than by hanging around baby-sitting the Russians.
Iggy spoke evenly, without judgment. “So, Dmitriy is dead.”
“I had no choice. It was self-defense.” His expression implored her to believe him as he offered an edited version of events. Arriving at the plaza, he had been stunned when Dmitriy surfaced, skulking around the stockade fence. After chasing the KGB man onto a moving train, he had been forced to kill him, or be killed.
Sam plucked his damp shirt from his chest. Not only was the president history, but he’d seen the police activity outside. The bombshell news that Dee’s grandfather had also been slain blinded him with regret. Stricken with grief, she was recuperating upstairs. Sam couldn’t bear it if everyone knew the gruesome part he’d played in this Greek tragedy.
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 36
