by Tim Baker
Ruby frowns at him. ‘What the hell are you, a commie?’
‘I’m a Marxist but not a Leninist-Marxist.’
Ruby bumps into boxes as he backs away, yanking open the elevator cage door. ‘Screwy!’ The door springs shut, nearly trapping his hand. ‘The both of you . . . ’ he shouts, his head disappearing past the floor. ‘Crazier than a pair of snakes on fire.’
Leon gives a long, hollow laugh. ‘That’s the problem with being a spy,’ he says, to no one in particular. ‘You end up believing half the things you only pretend to believe.’
Hastings stares at him. ‘That’s not just a problem with spies . . . ’ He places the case on top of an overturned box, snaps it open and is greeted by multiple portraits of McKinley and Cleveland.
‘Say, how much is in there?’
The case clicks shut. ‘Enough . . . ’
Leon scratches his thin hair. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m not doing this for money.’
‘What are you doing it for?’
‘Following orders . . . ’
‘Kid? Take it from me: that’s just about the worst reason to do anything.’
Leon wags a finger at him. ‘You need to trust your superiors.’
‘Even when it means killing a president?’
Leon stares at him, that goofy smile slowly vanishing. ‘Even when it means dropping the Bomb. That’s the thing about us. We don’t ask questions. We just do. And that’s why we always prevail.’
‘That’s some kind of certainty.’
‘Haven’t you ever felt it . . . ?’
Hastings thinks for a long moment. ‘Once, when I was deer hunting . . . But that was long ago.’
‘Well, I pity you . . . ’
‘Save your pity for yourself, kid, you might need it sooner than you think.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
But Hastings isn’t listening to the kid anymore. He’s listening to the approaching sirens.
He hurries to his window and assumes firing position. Leon is talking to him, but Hastings cannot hear. He is no longer on the sixth floor of a book depository, he is on the other end of his telescopic sight. His crosshairs panned across the crowds, freezing on a familiar face: a young man in white shirt and dark jacket. ‘What the hell is he doing there?’
‘Who?’ Leon asks, excitedly scanning the crowd with an old pair of Fuji binoculars.
‘Down there, along the curb . . . It’s the leader of Love Field Team, holding an open umbrella.’
That unnerving laugh again. ‘He’s nutty, it’s not even raining.’
‘Don’t you get it, you moron? It’s a goddamn signal. It’s not just us. He’s spotting gunfire on-target.’
‘What target?’
‘The president, goddamn it. He’s going to call in fire.’
There is the contained, metallic rasp of a bolt sliding open as Hastings cycles the carbine, the glint of the extracted cartridge rising, and then the fatal forward slamming, tunnelling gold as the cartridge is chambered, the weapon cocked and ready to kill.
The motorcade comes into his field of vision. The sirens retreat, the crowd of bystanders retracting, becoming part of the landscape.
Hastings waits: still, alone; outside of time.
Luchino fires. Hastings sees the twist of freed sunlight bursting from a bullet hole in a freeway sign.
Hastings immediately fires into the curb on Elm Street, ahead of the president’s car.
He reloads the rifle, resuming firing position, but this time his mind is not as empty as before. It is filling with a question. Why? Why no response from the Secret Service or police; why no evasive action? Two shots and still the cavalcade ploughs forward.
Luchino must be thinking the same thing, for he fires again, just over the limo, the bullet hitting at the back of Main Street. Hastings sees a bystander near the rail overpass react, struck in the face by debris.
Three shots. Still no response from police or security.
Hastings changes plan radically, shooting at the top left side of the presidential limo’s windshield, metal and glass fragments spritzing the air. He was taking the threat to the limo itself.
Luchino fires instantly, following Hastings’s lead, clipping the rearview mirror and furrowing out the tip of the windshield.
Still no reaction.
Five shots.
Nothing.
Then he sees it: the glint of metal coming from a storm water drain. ‘Jesus, what is that?’ he cries.
‘What?’
Hastings aims at the rifle barrel and fires, his shot hitting the grill of the drain. A bullet fragment purrs across the lawn on the sidewalk, scarring the grass.
‘Fuck, I missed.’
‘What is it?’
Hastings watches as the president’s body rocks backwards; as he clenches his fists and brings them up to his throat in a reflexive response.
‘He’s been hit!’ The gun from the storm drain disappears.
Leon leans over Hastings’s shoulder, shouting with excitement. ‘Where? Where?’
‘In the throat.’ Connally jerks in pain. It’s Luchino, forcing the issue. No one’s reacting on the ground; no one’s reacting inside the car. Someone’s got to do something dramatic. Luchino’s wounding passengers. Hastings follows suit, firing into the governor’s thigh.
Finally a response.
But not the one he ever expected.
The brake lights of the limo come on.
There’s a kill shot from the direction of the Grassy Knoll, the body of the president rocking backwards and to the left, an organic comet bursting from his cranium.
Hastings leaps to his feet, disassembling his weapon.
‘Did you see that . . . ? Did you see that?’ Leon is hollering. ‘Those boys are good, I tell you, those boys are real good!’
Hastings braces Leon against a wall, his elbow at his throat.
‘You know who did it?’
Leon can hardly speak. ‘Sure . . . ’ Hastings eases his arm off Leon’s windpipe. ‘The best outfit there ever was . . . ’ There is a sneer of triumph on his face. ‘Operation 40.’
CHAPTER 53
San Diego 1960
A Navy Hospital orderly walks down the empty corridor towards me, his eyes careful to avoid mine. He’s carrying something in his hands. A swollen brown manila envelope, stained at the bottom. ‘These are Captain Schiller’s personal effects . . . ’ The paper sticks to his hand when he pulls it away. There is the patter of blood from the rip. The mortal belongings of Captain Augustus Schiller Jr. His badge. His blood.
‘Do I need to sign anything?’ He gives me a look that tells me I do; that tells me he thinks I’m a troublemaker for even asking: a colossal pain in the ass at five o’clock in the morning. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come back tomorrow and sign the forms then . . . ’ The orderly nods at the lie, and turns without another word. I stand there watching him limp away. Then there’s nothing. No staff. No movement. Nothing. Just a buzz from a flickering light. If I had the strength, I’d bust it and shut it up for good.
This is the way I should have felt when I quit the Force. Bereft not just of answers but of possibilities. But I was too full of hatred and revenge back then. And I was certain I would taste it; certain that I’d find Tommy’s killer.
This is the way I should have felt when I first betrayed Cate barely three years into our marriage. At least the first time. And maybe even the second . . .
This is the way I should have felt when I came back from the Pacific, my pockets bulging with dog tags and bibles and letters for parents and sisters and girlfriends from comrades and buddies and smart-ass hotshots. From the ones that didn’t make it.
And now, when I finally feel the way I should, it’s all too late. For Schiller. For Tommy. For Cate. And especi
ally for me.
There’s light in the sky outside; it glows white and ghastly. I think of the old Chinese man in Manila, waking in his bed and screaming at the sight of all those bandages, all those white bandages, how he tore them off in a frenzy, and how he died, livid-skinned but naked and at peace later that day. Afterwards a local nurse explained it: white is the symbol of death for the Chinese. And like that old man, I can feel its power now: this white dawn sky is bringing nothing but trouble.
I fish around in my pockets, and then I remember that Cate’s car is back at La Jolla. A fifteen-mile walk. I start to thumb it.
I feel the car before I hear it, nosing the air ahead, pushing everything out of its way. Instinctively I step off the road. A blue and white Buick Roadmaster pulls up, driven by a young man in a black suit. In the back, staring at me with a handkerchief half obscuring his face, is Howard Hughes.
The chauffeur gets out, and opens the back door. He’s wearing buckskin gloves.
‘Nicholas, I’d like to speak with you . . . ’ I start to get in the back, but the chauffeur stops me. ‘What is that thing you’re holding?’ Hughes asks.
‘The personal effects of a friend of mine . . . ’
‘The police captain who was shot?’
I don’t answer. He seems to know enough without my help. He nods to the chauffeur. ‘Your hands, please . . . ’ the driver says. ‘Without the bag, sir.’
‘What the hell do you want with my hands?’
The chauffeur leans in close to me. ‘You need to wash them, sir. For Mr. Hughes . . . ’
I put Schiller’s envelope down on the road. The driver indicates that I should hold my hands out, and he pours something over them. I pull my hands away in pain.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Pure grain alcohol . . . ’ He hands me a box of Kleenex. I take a fistful and dry my hands. There is an embarrassed pause. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s to hold over your mouth . . . To halt transmission of germs, sir.’
‘You know what, I think I’ll walk . . . ’
‘I know about Big Bear Lake, Nicholas.‘
I get inside the car and go to close the door, but the chauffeur shakes his head and closes it for me. I turn to Hughes: two men sitting side by side, not touching, covering half our faces. ‘How do you know?’
‘The FBI is not the only organization that can tap a wire. I’ve been following you from the beginning, Nicholas.’
‘The beginning?’
‘Since the call came in about the Bannister kidnapping.’
‘And what about Big Bear Lake? You’re not planning . . . ?’
‘Believe me, Nicholas, if I were planning anything, it would have already happened by now.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t play games with me.’
‘Don’t you understand, Nicholas? I’m the Supersonic Santa Claus. You can have anything you want. Think about it. Anything. If I were you, I’d know what I’d want. I’d want out. Out of this town. Out of this country. Safe passage for me and my loved ones. As far away as possible.’
‘And if I were you, what would I want?’
He smiles behind his handkerchief. ‘Oh, that’s too easy. Knowledge, of course.’
‘What kind of knowledge?’
‘The only knowledge that counts, Nicholas: the one that grants peace of mind . . . ’ He nods at the chauffeur’s eyes watching us in the rearview mirror and the car starts to pull away. I look back at Schiller’s envelope, sitting by the side of the road. ‘Wait a minute, I need that. It’s Schiller’s.’
‘Captain Schiller has no more need of that than you. Besides, we should get a move on. It’s a long drive to Big Bear Lake . . . ’
CHAPTER 54
Dallas 1963
Outside in Dealey Plaza it’s pandemonium. Hastings shoves his way through the panicking crowds towards the Dal-Tex Building. ‘Putain!’ Luchino says, running towards him, a case in either hand. ‘What in the name of the God happened?’
‘They killed the president is what happened. It’s a setup. You. Me. JFK. Every person in this plaza. Every voter in this goddamn country. It’s all just one big con . . . ’ They walk fast through the turmoil, heading back to their car. ‘They set us up, and they set us up good. We fell for it. We thought Leon was the patsy, when all along it was us.’ Luchino suddenly veers back towards the plaza. Hastings follows. ‘What is it?’
‘Cesari and his men.’
‘Where?’
‘Up near our car . . . ’ He looks at Hastings. ‘They know about us.’
They try to cross the plaza, but Dallas Police push them back onto the sidewalk. ‘What is it, officer?’
‘They’re making arrests . . . ’
Luchino slaps Hastings’s arm, raising his chin towards a man who is being led out of the Dal-Tex Building. He holds up one of his cases. ‘It’s the one who brought me this.’
‘Gene Brading?’
Luchino nods. Ahead of them a jeering crowd has formed. Police are escorting Ned towards the sheriff’s office.
‘They’re rounding everyone up. We’ve got to get out of here . . . ’
They both walk fast, heading east up Main Street, against the flow of people still running towards Dealey Plaza. A cop standing next to his motorcycle stops them. ‘Where are you birds coming from?’
‘Dealey Plaza . . . ’
‘What’s in the bags?’
‘We’re travelling salesmen.’
‘Got some ID?’
‘Sure . . . ’
There is the squawk of static from his motorcycle radio. He goes over and listens for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘Goddamn dispatch!’ He turns back but Hastings and Luchino have disappeared.
Two blocks east they stop running. ‘Close, mon ami . . . ’
‘More than close. They’ve put us on the list of suspects. We need to split up.’
‘You will be all right?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Until we meet again, mon ami.’
‘So long, pal.’
They shake and then Luchino disappears. The crowds are thinning now, people hovering in doorways, gathered around radios. The flags along the motorcade route hang limp and defeated. A taxi slows beside him. Hastings glances at it. The back window rolls down, Leon waving him inside. Hastings hesitates, then gets in.
‘Where’s Napoleon?’
‘He’s gone back to Paris.’
‘That’s a quick getaway.’
‘What about you?’
Leon makes sure the cabbie isn’t eavesdropping. ‘Mexico. I got a plane waiting.’
Hastings nods. ‘Smart.’
‘That’s me. If you want, I could ask if there’s a spare seat.’
Hastings looks at Leon’s helpful smile. If he were a gambling man, he’d put everything he had on Leon not even making it to the airport. ‘Thanks, but I have my own plans . . . ’
‘South America?’
‘Alaska.’
That stuttering laugh again. ‘Hope you’ve packed your winter socks. This will be fine, thank you, driver . . . ’ They get out, the hack looking at his tip as though debating whether to toss it back at Leon or not. ‘One thing they taught me in Minsk. Tipping is antisocial. Here we are.’
Hastings looks all around. There was a movie house opposite. ‘What’s here?’
‘Rendezvous with Gerry Hemming. This is where I come in . . . ’
Hastings studies the terrain. Ambush territory. He feels as if they’d just been herded into a box canyon. He wants out. ‘Good luck, Leon . . . ’
The goofy smile slides off his face. ‘You’re not leaving?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing . . . ’ Hastings starts heading west. He’s going to find a car, hot-wire it, and ge
t the hell out of Dallas as fast as he can. He was booked on the 6:15 flight from Houston to LA and he wasn’t going to miss it.
Leon follows him. ‘It’s because you don’t think I have it in me, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . ’
Leon grabs his sleeve. ‘It’s because you don’t think I can do it, right?’
Hastings stops. ‘You’re making a scene.’
‘Answer me!’
A couple comes out to watch the ruckus. ‘Keep it down, for Christ’s sake! Do what?’
Leon pulls out his .38 Special. ‘Kill Gerry Hemming.’
There is a shout behind them. Someone’s seen the gun. Hastings pushes past him. ‘Do whatever you want, I’m getting out of here.’
Leon points the gun at him. ‘I stood by you back in Dealey Plaza, now it’s your turn to stick by me.’
‘You’re going to get us both killed, do you know that . . . ?’
‘Once a Marine, always a Marine . . . Here he comes!’ Hastings glances out of the corner of his eye. A Dallas Police patrol car pulls up next to them. A single, uniformed driver with a slick-backed duckbill. And no partner. It didn’t make sense. ‘Hey, Gerry, look what I’ve got for you.’ The driver gets out, his face just clearing the car’s cherry light when Leon pulls the trigger. Three shots. All point-blank. The officer staggers, then falls. ‘I got him, did you see me? I got him!’
Hastings pushes past Leon, staring at the fallen officer. ‘You idiot, that isn’t Hemming!’
Leon slowly circles round the squad car, staring at the bleeding man. ‘But it looked like Hemming. They told me Hemming would be here . . . ’ He stares at Hastings, his face a map of confusion.
Hastings doesn’t wait. He starts running. ‘Hey, come back! Please? Elvis? Come back!’
Hastings runs down Patton Avenue, looking back one last time. Leon is going into the movie theatre. He looks at his watch. Five hours to steal a car, drive 250 miles and catch a plane—without getting caught. And then, if he made it back to LA, the hard part would begin.
