The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  ‘You fought in the war?’ Marilyn asked, her eyes widening.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘in Italy and then in France.’

  Marilyn stared at him. The feeling she had had earlier when she had first seen him, came back. That something she had glimpsed in his face and the way his body moved. Now she knew what it was. It was safety. Rafferty possessed that rarest of things, the ability to make Marilyn feel safe. He was a protector.

  Marilyn stared into his eyes and knew she must have this man. It was an uncontrolled, unstoppable force. She broke the stare with a coquettish smile.

  ‘Did you kill any Germans?’ she asked.

  ‘Only the ones that tried to kill me first,’ he said.

  ‘So how many was that?’

  ‘I didn’t count them,’ he said.

  They were quiet for a few seconds while they just looked at each other.

  ‘So, what’s a soldier doing at a party like this?’ Marilyn asked with the smile returning. Rafferty smiled back.

  ‘I’m here with my boyhood guardian and his wife and another couple; friends of theirs. They own stock in Twentieth Century-Fox. They’re staying here as Zuckerman’s guests. They asked if I could be invited,’ Rafferty explained. ‘Oh, and no, I don’t know who the attractive dark haired woman in the alcove was. Her husband has probably taken her home by now.’

  Marilyn laughed.

  Rafferty thought her laughter sounded similar to something that might have helped inspire poets like Keats or Byron.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve seen the bedrooms in this mansion?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘Yeah, I have. They all have names. Richard’s, he’s my guardian, his is called the Onyx Room.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s extravagant and showy.’

  ‘Just like our guest,’ Marilyn said.

  ‘Yeah. That’s show business for you,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Will you show it to me? Please.’ Marilyn’s eyes were big, shiny discs and the outer edge of her hair shone halo-like in the light from the French doors. Rafferty led her around the house to the back. They walked through the kitchen and up a narrow staircase used by the servants. After passing a number of bedrooms they arrived at one with a black and gold plaque on the door: Onyx Room.

  Rafferty turned the ornate handle and they went in. The room was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the tall window. It produced a silvery glow on the carpet and the bed.

  Marilyn walked over to the window and looked out. Rafferty followed, and they stood close together. The room looked like a set from a black and white movie. She turned to him.

  ‘I shouldn’t be in here; in a bedroom with a strange man,’ she said, as though confessing a sin.

  ‘I don’t feel as if we’re strangers,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend or a wife?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘Neither. Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, not really knowing what a boyfriend was.

  ‘Do you want one?’ he asked her boldly. Marilyn studied his face He appeared monochrome in the dark and silvery light like a movie star from the silent era. His features were hard and his eyes black and shiny. The uncontrollable desire had seized her.

  ‘Yes, very much,’ she answered and lifted her arms and put them on his shoulders. She stepped closer and he realised she was going to kiss him.

  She closed her eyes and put her open mouth on his. Rafferty responded. He pushed forward, opened his mouth and wrapped his arms around her. Marilyn put one hand on his upper arm and the other behind his head. The sexual arousal she had felt earlier came rushing back. She felt protected, completely safe with this man even though she had only just met him.

  Having Marilyn's body pressed against him, the kissing and her touch brought an immediate response from Rafferty. His sexual arousal was immediate and strong. Marilyn felt him against her and moved her hand to touch him. He made a noise in his throat at her touch.

  They smiled at each other. She pushed off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. She reached his waistband then turned around.

  ‘Unzip me,’ she whispered. He found the zipper and pulled it down. She turned back and the intensity of their arousals in that moment crackled in the air around them.

  They quickly undressed. Within seconds, their clothes were on the floor and they were looking at each other’s naked bodies. They came together and kissed again; then moved onto the bed.

  Their bodies joined and the total sum of their existence amounted to one. Time stopped. It was the complete surrender of body, mind and soul. The sexual gods had found two more disciples, and they worshipped with abandon.

  9 June 25, 1949, Los Angeles, California

  Marilyn sat on the wooden bench in the park and read a book.

  The low sun filtered through the leaves and warmed her bare arms. It was too early for most people. The park had a stillness only ever found in the hour after first light.

  A middle-aged woman walked along the pathway and ambled past. Her figure was slim and her features pale and neat with a plainness that was not unattractive. Tortoiseshell glasses concealed her eyes. She wore court shoes, a knee length skirt and an ice blue silk blouse. A bow of black ribbon held her light brown. She was aged in her early forties but looked a little younger. She wore two rings on the same finger. They were her engagement ring, a large single sapphire and her wedding ring, a wide band of gold.

  Such a woman, unaccompanied, might have seemed out of place at such an early hour in the park had it not been for one thing. In her right hand, she held a long, thin lead. Attached to the other end of the lead was a dog.

  The woman walked to the nearest tree and then stopped. The dog sniffed the ground. The woman turned and gently tugged. The dog’s head came up. They approached the bench and then the woman gracefully sat. Marilyn glanced at her before continuing to read her book.

  The dog sat on the ground between them. It gazed up at Marilyn with purposeful, brown eyes. It had a hungry expression. Marilyn glanced at the animal several times.

  ‘She’s a basenji,’ the woman said.

  ‘A basen—’

  Marilyn attempted to repeat the name but couldn’t get to the end.

  ‘Yes, a basenji,’ the woman said with an understanding smile. ‘It’s a difficult word when one is unfamiliar.’

  Marilyn looked at the woman and then at the dog again. The animal was small, with a short, smooth black coat and a very curly tail. The dog panted and her tongue flashed across her wet nose. Marilyn decided she was quite sweet but not pretty.

  ‘She’s an African breed, quite rare; they’re unusual dogs because they don’t bark,’ the woman said.

  Marilyn looked again at the animal.

  ‘A dog that doesn’t bark?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘She never barks, not even a yap. She’s affectionate and loyal, but not much of a guard dog.’ There was a hint of mirth in the woman’s voice.

  Marilyn laughed.

  ‘Shall we stroll?’ the woman said. ‘Zulu needs some more exercise.’ She stood and gave the lead a tug.

  ‘Come on, Zulu,’ she said, offering encouragement. The dog obeyed silently.

  Marilyn watched, and then she followed.

  They strolled without talking. Zulu trotted obediently between them.

  Marilyn wore a light pinafore dress with sandals. Her long wavy hair bounced softly on her back. She put away her book in the open straw bag she carried, and took out her sunglasses.

  The pathway led them away from the centre of the park and they walked until they reached the northern edge. The woman turned to the right and stepped down onto a narrow, stony trail that led to a quiet corner. Here, the grass was longer, and a thick hedge partially obscured the boundary, which an iron railing and a line of tall firs marked clearly. An uneven, narrow footpath ran beside the balustrade, disappearing on the brow, marked by a row of flowering bushes.

  Marilyn followed, and t
he three of them walked in single file. The woman stepped off the footpath near the base of a tall redwood. She went beyond the tree and stopped at the edge. Zulu was at her side. In front of them, set into an old brick wall was an ornate, iron gate. The woman pushed it open. It creaked eerily. She and Zulu went down the steps and disappeared. Marilyn walked to the gate and looked through. She had visited the park several times but had never been to this place. It was a cemetery.

  The graves, marked by tombstones, stretched far into the distance. Pathways crossed between the trees, and benches rested on the grass verges. It was a park for the dead, Marilyn thought.

  Between the gravestones and the crucifixes, walked large black birds as though on sentry duty.

  Marilyn stood for a long moment and then skipped down the steps and ran to catch up.

  ‘I didn’t know this place was here,’ she said.

  The woman didn’t reply.

  They walked slowly together. Marilyn stopped to look at a grave and she read the inscription.

  There was a name, a date and words of love and valediction. It offered a glimpse of mortality and of the sadness and finality of death. She read another. The inscription spoke of God and of finding peace. They were words of comfort for those left behind, she thought.

  Marilyn did not believe in a religious God. Man, she believed, made his own purpose and his own rules; God and religion, as a faith, where fine but like truth and honesty they did not really exist. Humanity may have found a level of sophistication way above any other but the innate drive to survive and to reproduce remained its one true conviction.

  The woman and Zulu had turned off the path and gone ahead. Again, Marilyn ran to catch up. They passed beside a statue of an angel. The stone carving had a deliberate position. It appeared to be watching over the dead. Marilyn looked up at the angel’s face and saw the seraph had a mournful expression. The cemetery was a depressing place, she decided.

  The woman smiled warmly.

  Marilyn looked disappointed. She glanced down at the dog.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said the woman, ‘Zulu will never tell.’

  10 September 15, 1952, San Francisco, California

  Rafferty sipped his coffee and gazed through the mist.

  Across the bay, he could just make out the nearest side of Alcatraz. Even in the mist, it appeared closer than it really was.

  He wasn’t sure if he liked Frisco. The climate was good, and sometimes the sun shone, but the big painted houses, the hilly terrain, the bright trams and golden bridge all scored against it. In addition, Alcatraz was the cruellest of all federal prisons, positioned, as it was, in the bay, so close to such a free city.

  Rafferty emptied his coffee cup and paid the waitress. She smiled and pocketed the tip.

  His thoughts moved away from San Francisco and onto politics. Someone had recently told him that America’s biggest threat was the Soviet Union; that their communist philosophy was abhorrent to advocates of a market-driven, capitalist system; that the American political establishment shuddered at the thought of there being sympathisers in their midst; and that the Soviets must be stopped no matter the cost. Rafferty had just listened.

  He knew the Soviet intelligence network had tentacles that stretched around the globe. He also knew that black deeds achieved the ends; that God-fearing folk slept soundly in their beds free from sin, providing, of course, no one told them; their consciences remained untroubled, their hands remained clean and their denials felt honest, both to themselves and to those that heard them spoken. Rafferty knew all this too well. He had first seen it during the war, from his position as a combat soldier. Now, he had viewed it from Capitol Hill, the dizzy heights, and he understood how it worked. Politics, he had learnt, operated on fear; it was the fear of telling the truth and the fear of what the consequences of that truth might be. Rafferty disliked politicians.

  He drove away from the parking bay in his dirty Chevy rental and the engine coughed as though clearing its throat. It was only a short distance to the house. He parked on the street, away from the entrance, on the crest of a steep slope and waited.

  Surveillance was normally a job for the local police department or the FBI. However, law enforcement might not fully understand or appreciate Rafferty’s approach. They were concerned with arresting criminals, putting them in prison, and making it public for all to see. Rafferty had other ideas.

  The man left the house driving his shiny blue Cadillac. Rafferty watched, and then pulled away and followed.

  The professor drove north, along the coast road. It overlooked the Pacific Ocean and Rafferty enjoyed the open, sun-kissed views; perhaps San Francisco wasn’t such a bad place after all. The Cadillac drove slowly. Rafferty held back and thought about politics again. Time went by slowly.

  The flashing indicator preceded the brake lights. The Cadillac slowed and then turned. A wall and a hedgerow concealed the blind lane. Rafferty slowed the Chevy, waited and then followed. The narrow, dusty lane displayed a sign: Beach Access Only. Rafferty drove on. The lane sloped gently and then wound through a series of tight turns. The gradient steepened and Rafferty used the brake. The lane evened out and became a narrow track that without warning opened into a fenced parking area with a pathway on the far side that led onto the beach and the ocean beyond.

  Rafferty drove in slowly and rolled to a stop. The blue Caddy had parked at the front with its bumper against the railing, facing the beach. Rafferty carried on by and drove over to the far side where he parked at an angle facing the cliff. He adjusted his side rear-view mirror so he could watch without turning round.

  There were another five parked cars. They were all empty. Rafferty surreptitiously watched. The professor got out of his Caddy and walked around to the front. For a few moments, he stood and gazed at the ocean. Then, without warning, he dropped out of sight. The car obscured him. He remained out of sight for almost a minute. Then he stood and gazed for a while longer before getting back into his Cadillac and driving away. Rafferty smiled. He knew what the professor had done.

  Rafferty reversed the Chevy and parked in the spot where the Caddy had been. He got out and walked around to the front. He looked down and studied the ground but couldn’t see anything unusual. The earth was dry and dusty, there were stones and rocks with a few clumps of grass and a fence made of wooden posts. Rafferty continued to study the ground. Then his eyes stopped searching and they fixed on a rock set into the earth with a flattish surface. It didn’t look out of place, it was the same type as the others around it but there wasn’t another one quite the same.

  He dropped down and touched it with his fingers. With the flat of his hand, he rubbed the surface. As he felt it, he realised it was heavy but that it wasn’t as firmly set on the ground, as it seemed. His fingers found the edge and he pulled the slab up onto its side. He peered underneath and then he grinned.

  Under the rock, was a man-made hole; and in the hole rested a small metal box. Rafferty lifted it out and opened the lid. Inside, it contained a roll of film.

  He returned the film, replaced the box and then the rock. On the circular wooden post, nearest to the rock was a penknife cut. It was fresh. Below it was other cuts of varying ages.

  Rafferty had waited more than three hours. Sixteen cars had come and gone; mothers with their children, retired couples, dog walkers; they had all been watched but none of them had gone near the rock.

  As the late morning sun grew stronger and made the ocean surface sparkle with a million dancing lights, Rafferty wondered how long it would take.

  The beach was quieter and only four cars remained, two of which were at the front, parked near to the rock.

  A woman returned from the beach. A dog trotted beside her. She went towards her car. Rafferty remembered she had arrived twenty minutes earlier. He watched her carefully.

  The woman bent down and attached the lead to the dog’s collar. She unlocked her vehicle and opened the door, allowing the dog to jump onto the seat. She tied the
lead to the steering wheel and then moved around to the driver’s side.

  Rafferty watched closely. The woman disappeared from view. She had bent down. Rafferty broke cover; he jumped down from his concealed position and approached low from the far side.

  The woman reappeared and then walked to the passenger door and pushed it shut. She noticed Rafferty approaching.

  ‘Excuse me. Do you know the time please?’ he asked, calling out as he came up to her.

  ‘Sure,’ she answered, checking her wristwatch. ‘It’s just before twelve.’

  She smiled and turned away. She was close to the driver’s door. Rafferty had reached her. He grabbed her upper arm with his outstretched hand. The woman moved with great speed. It was unexpected. She spun, stepped and struck all in one movement. Her hand connected with force, chopping Rafferty across his throat. His grip faltered and she freed herself. He felt the pain to his windpipe, and he struggled for breath.

  The woman turned and jumped into the driver’s seat. She hurried to turn the key and the engine fired. As her hand found the gear stick, Rafferty reached her. He yanked open the door and grabbed her with both hands. She fought back with strength and ability, she had obviously had training, but she couldn’t match his strength and experience. Despite the karate chop to his throat, he was much too strong. After the initial struggle, during which Rafferty had had to defend himself against a skilled attack, he was able to pull her out and then subdue her with a powerful chop of his own to the back of her neck.

  The woman dropped and Rafferty held her down. He realised she was unconscious. He looked up. Inside the car, the dog was going berserk, pulling frantically at its lead. As he watched, he noticed something odd; despite all the madness, the dog wasn’t barking.

  Rafferty searched the woman for any concealed weapons but there weren’t any. He removed the film from her pocket and put it in his own. He picked her up and carried her to the Chevy. He put her in the passenger seat and tied her wrists and ankles together with a cord. He returned to her vehicle and switched off the engine. He fetched the dog from the passenger seat and then returned to the Chevy where he put the dog in the back seat and tied its lead to the door handle.