The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  Oswald went still while he thought. After a few moments, he spoke.

  ‘Oh right, yeah,’ he said, accepting the argument presented. ‘So what are they going to do and where do I fit in?’

  ‘They want to force a change of policy by having a change of administration,’ the man answered.

  Oswald thought again.

  ‘But the next election is over a year away, and anyway, the same guy will probably win,’ he said.

  ‘The change of administration doesn’t have anything to do with an election.’

  ‘Then how… revolution?’ Oswald said and laughed, amused by the thought.

  ‘It’s not so much a change of administration as a change of leadership,’ the man said.

  Oswald might have had numerous mental illnesses but he was, nevertheless, reasonably bright and quick-witted. As his mind worked it out, his face registered disbelief, shock, acceptance and then eagerness.

  The man continued.

  ‘Get your Italian Carcano rifle ready,’ the man said.

  ‘What happens to me afterwards?’ Oswald said.

  ‘Don’t worry, the FBI will sort everything out. You and your wife will go to live in Cuba. Castro will probably make you a national hero or something,’ the man said with a smile.

  Oswald smiled too.

  ‘Yeah, right, of course, yeah,’ he said.

  33 November 22, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  ‘God bless America,’ someone said, somewhere.

  Perhaps, it was on the radio, or in the line waiting for a bus, or someone sitting at home eating their breakfast in front of their television set.

  Didn't everybody feel it, wish it and want it to be true? The patriotic citizens of Dallas surely did, especially today. They had the honour of a visit. The great man, the man of vision, of change, of progress, together with his lovely wife was coming to see them. They were excited. He may not have been their personal choice, no, they wanted the other guy but that didn't matter, not today.

  The special Boeing 707 had landed on schedule at Dallas Love Field Airport. It was a perfect November day in the Texan capital with a milky blue sky and the bright, warming sunshine. Crowds had begun to form along the route from early morning. Many people wanted to see them. Some were planning to make a day of it, with a picnic and fun for the children. Their cameras were ready to record the occasion with photographs of the procession as it passed by and photographs of themselves. ‘This was the day he came to Dallas’.

  For a few lucky ones their cine camera would record the day’s events with actual moving pictures, they would treasure forever.

  The procession car was a shiny black, open top limousine. It dazzled in the midday sunshine and the broad, happy smiles from its occupants shone out. Following closely behind was the second car, also open top, carrying trained men dressed in dark suits cut to accommodate the bulge of their firearms. Some of them wore dark glasses. All of them wore expressions of prepared alertness. They were ready for anything.

  Motorcycle policeman rode alongside, flanking the cars in front and behind. Their white, polished helmets gleamed brightly through all the excitement of the motorcade as it travelled slowly along the streets.

  Hundreds of well-wishers lined the route, waving their flags, some cheering, some clapping, all of them straining to glimpse the man and his lovely wife. They wanted to see them in real life. What an occasion.

  It was after midday now.

  Another man, a different man, was sitting in his parked car. The parking lot bordered a wooden closed picket fence. It was on the rise, behind a grassy slope, a short distance back from the street.

  He rested his arm against the open window and waited. The people ahead, on the bank, were sparse and spread out. All the other cars were empty. There wasn't anybody directly between him and the street. The motorcade attracted everyone’s attention. He wore a lightweight suit and a Panama hat to keep the brightness from his eyes.

  A hundred or so yards away, in the sixth-floor corner window of the book depository building, Oswald waited with his rifle. The motorcade appeared on the street below and began to turn. Oswald held his Carcano rifle, ready to fire and took aim.

  The distinctive sound of a high-powered rifle shot vibrated through the Plaza; and then a second; and then a third.

  The bullet struck the man in the head. The force of the impact knocked his body. Brain fluid and matter ballooned from the fist-sized wound and then popped, sending its gruesome horror splattering over those nearby like a blender switched on before the lid was secured.

  The man sitting in his car watched the strike, watched the man’s head snap back with the force and saw his brains splatter through the air. He knew from experience he was dead. There was no need to see anymore. The screams drifted on the air like the sound of children at play in a summer meadow. The man drove away and the chilling sound faded from his ears.

  The presidential aeroplane waited on the runway at Dallas Love Field Airport.

  The pilots began their preparation for take-off.

  On board, many of the passengers sat in silence with their own thoughts; all were in varying states of shock.

  The tower had given the captain emergency clearance for take-off. His destination was Washington D.C. He completed his preflight checks. The Boeing 707 was ready to leave.

  Behind the cockpit, in the body of the plane, people were hastily organising a ceremony. Leading them was a middle-aged woman. She was a lawyer, an important lawyer. She was a federal judge. Her eyes searched the cabin and found the man and then the woman.

  ‘We should do this straight away,’ she told them firmly, as though she was the instrument of a greater power.

  The man nodded back gravely. The woman did not respond. It was not surprising.

  ‘Get me a bible, please,’ the judge said, instructing one of the aides. He didn’t know where to look but he began a search anyway.

  The man stood and moved towards the judge. The woman needed help to stand and the man went to assist. They gathered and prepared to do it.

  ‘Where’s that bible?’ the female federal judge called out.

  ‘We cannot find one, ma’am. The only thing we’ve found is this catholic book of prayers.’

  She was agitated for a moment until her professional poise returned.

  ‘Bring it here,’ she demanded.

  The aide carried it over and she took it.

  She turned back.

  ‘Place your left hand on the book,’ she said, placing it down for him. There was a brief pause as she thought and her mind continued to focus. ‘We should have a photographic record,’ she said, indicating to an aide. He searched for a few moments and then came across carrying a camera. ‘A verbal record can be made using that dictating machine,’ she said, instructing with a pointed finger.

  The federal judge did not have the words written down but she remembered the important ones.

  ‘Raise your right hand,’ she told him.

  ‘I, Lyndon Johnson, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President… So help me God.’

  As the flash bulb popped, Lyndon B. Johnson became the 36th President of the United States of America, onboard Air Force One. It was less than three hours since a gunman had shot the previous holder of the office dead. His widow stood alongside, dazed and unseeing. Still covered with the splatter of her husband’s brains.

  The King is dead. Long live the King.

  34 November 23, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  The final seduction, the man had to make, he knew, was made harder by its importance.

  Oswald and the others had been standard for a man of his experience. He hadn’t needed to take too many chances or rely on too many judged assumptions for those plays to work. This time, though, his own intelligence was incomplete and he would have to take a gamble. Had a police officer or anyone else killed Oswald before his arrest then it wouldn’t have become necessary, but nobody had.

  Ruby was aged in his ea
rly fifties. Born to Jewish Polish immigrants, he had a potato face with a receding hairline and dark, sunken eyes that often gave out a distant stare.

  The Dallas strip club was busy. It was after midnight and two girls, one blonde and the other brunette were gyrating beside one another wearing sparkly garments of diminishing size. Spotlight beams caught curling smoke above the heads of watching men and whitened the girls’ bare skin like an overexposed photograph. The man watched them for a minute or so, surprised by the spinal dexterity displayed. He broke his gaze and approached the crowded bar. The barman leant forward to hear the drink order.

  ‘I want to see Ruby,’ the man said.

  The barman looked closer, unsure of who the stranger was.

  ‘Wait here,’ he replied and walked away.

  The man leant on the bar and waited. His eyes were shaded behind dark glasses and he wore a sharp blue suit with a vermilion tie. He looked like he’d recently stepped off a plane from Miami.

  It was longer than fifteen minutes before Ruby appeared. He came up to the man, on his own, with an inquiring frown.

  ‘Yeah, what do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come with a message from the man in Miami,’ the man replied. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Ruby nodded and led the way. The man followed him beyond the tables to a flight of stairs against the far wall, which led to a corridor with a black door at the end. Inside, the room was dimly lit and untidy with scattered items of clothing on the floor and a bank of sofas with cushions and throws. There was a bar with bottles of liquor and a big mirror on the wall. The girls sometimes used the room.

  ‘Do you want something?’ Ruby asked while he filled a glass.

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘The man in Miami wants to collect on his favour.’

  Ruby looked up, over his glass, and the man saw him glance at his hand.

  ‘Yeah, what does he want?’ Ruby said.

  The man was hoping for that answer.

  ‘He wants you to hit Oswald,’ he said.

  Ruby went quite still. Even in the dim light, the man could see his face turn pale and his back tense.

  ‘Oswald is being held at police headquarters. In a few days, they’ll transfer him to the county jail. Reporters and photographers will surround him. Make sure you get up nice and close.’

  ‘Can’t somebody else do it?’

  ‘The man in Miami wants you to do it. You’re not going to let him down, are you?’

  Ruby didn’t answer.

  The man turned and left.

  35 December 24, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  Edward Rafferty didn’t know how many men he had killed.

  During his years as a soldier, the number must have been high; and then there were the others. He held his hands open and looked at them as though he expected to see blood.

  He stood in front of the tall window and gazed out across the street at the bare December trees. His sixth floor, Fifth Avenue corner apartment on the Upper East Side had a wide, open view of Central Park.

  It was just after 8am and the cold, dark day had rain stamped all over it.

  Rafferty finished his coffee and wondered what he was going to do. Since leaving, he had been here in Manhattan or in Long Island visiting Richard Tobias, his boyhood guardian, and Richard’s wife, Isabella. Isabella was quite some years the younger but she loved her husband utterly. The couple had enjoyed seeing more of him. Rafferty too had enjoyed seeing them, and doing nothing.

  He had run each day through the park or along the tracks by The Sound where as a boy he had hunted with an air rifle. Since turning forty, he felt he had to work a little harder on his fitness. The icy air on that morning’s run had burned his lungs but his sweat was proof he had pushed himself. He made a decision about what to do. Take a shower.

  As he turned away from the view and walked across the living room, the telephone rang. Only a handful of people knew his number.

  ‘Hello,’ he answered the call.

  ‘Is this Rafferty?’ an unknown man’s voice asked.

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘I’m a political aide at the White House. I have instructions to make an appointment for you, concerning national security issues, here in Washington. Are you available today, Mr. Rafferty?’ the man asked, and then paused for a reply.

  The line gently crackled.

  ‘Are you there? Mr. Rafferty?’

  The silent pause drifted.

  ‘Yeah, I’m available today,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘I’ve booked you on the Pan American flight leaving New York at midday. Men will meet you in Washington at the airport when you land and drive you to the White House. Do you have any questions, Mr. Rafferty?’

  ‘No,’ he answered and then cut the connection.

  As the jets of hot water washed away the soap from his head and body, Rafferty knew the administration was bringing him back in. He dressed in a blue-grey suit and a new white shirt.

  He sat at his walnut desk in the den and checked the contents of his leather briefcase. He lifted his semi-automatic 9mm Beretta and reloaded the 8-round box magazine. He heard the familiar snap of metallic sound as the catch engaged. The black steel, Italian made pistol was brand new. He had purchased it a few days earlier. In the corner of the case was a bandolier holding six spare magazines. There was also a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife in a leather scabbard with leg ties, his passport, driver’s license and a banded roll of cash. Rafferty snapped shut the briefcase and left his apartment. As he stepped outside it started to rain.

  The yellow cab did a stop-start, stop-start down Fifth as the traffic lights changed from red to green and back again. The windshield wipers swept back and forth making their familiar arcs.

  ‘Hope you aren’t in a hurry, bud. Traffic’s heavy this morning. The bridge is going to be thick. Could be an hour to get there,’ the cab driver said loudly, sharing his professional experience with the backseat.

  Rafferty didn’t reply.

  A few minutes later the yellow cab turned left onto the ramp; Rafferty could see the Brooklyn Bridge was clear and they drove straight across. They merged onto Grand Central Parkway East and travelled uninterrupted with about six miles left to go. The cab pulled up outside the new Worldport terminal, which the airport had opened the year before. The suspended, elliptical roof extended far beyond the terminal entrance, covering the passenger-loading bay. Rafferty checked his military Waltham wristwatch. The journey had taken just over forty minutes. The cab driver took the offered ten bucks with a wide smile.

  ‘Hey, I knew I’d get you here in under the hour,’ he said and laughed. Rafferty turned away without waiting for his change. He stopped and looked up at the sign. The airport had changed its name to John F. Kennedy International Airport.

  After checking in with the ground staff and drinking a coffee while waiting for the flight call, Rafferty walked down the Jetway, which connected the terminal with the docked aircraft. Once on board he settled into his seat and wondered about the specific reason for his return to Washington. It must be something difficult if they didn’t want to use one of the existing men.

  The jetliner was soon descending after the short flight and touched down in the rain at Washington Dulles International Airport. Rafferty walked into the arrivals area and spotted the Secret Service man almost immediately. He was dressed in a grey two-piece suit with a black tie and black shoes. His expression reminded Rafferty of a self-important, small town policeman. He must have been clever enough to recognise Rafferty from a description because as Rafferty came into view he stepped forward and approached.

  ‘Are you Rafferty?’ he asked, just like a cop. Rafferty nodded. ‘The car’s this way,’ he said and turned towards the exit doors. Rafferty didn’t like Secret Service men.

  Standing by the car, leaning against the driver’s door was a second one, dressed the same as the first. On seeing them approach, the second cop got in behind the wheel. The first cop got into the passen
ger seat and Rafferty sat in the back. They drove in silence.

  The black Ford Thunderbird splashed through the puddles as it turned right at Thomas Circle. A couple of minutes later they turned left at Vermont Avenue and Rafferty saw the White House shining brightly despite the wet weather.

  They parked the T-bird and took him in through a side entrance towards the rear.

  The first Secret Service man turned to Rafferty.

  ‘Raise your arms out to your sides, please,’ he said, exactly as a cop would do.

  Rafferty followed the instruction and the man searched him for any weapons. There weren’t any.

  ‘I need to look in your briefcase.’

  Rafferty gave it to him and he placed it on the round table. The catches clicked open and the man looked in. He lifted the Beretta and turned to Rafferty.

  ‘Careful, that’s loaded,’ Rafferty said. The cop put it back, clearly annoyed by the comment. Rafferty figured it was too soon for jokes. They must be still smarting. It was only a month since Dallas and losing a President, well, enough said. The man lifted out the roll of bills and again looked at Rafferty.

  ‘I’ve counted that,’ he said, unable to resist.

  The Presidential cop shut the briefcase.

  ‘This will have to stay here. You can collect it on your way out,’ he said, with obvious irritation.

  A smartly dressed woman in her late thirties with her hair tied back appeared at the door.

  ‘Mr. Rafferty, please come this way.’

  Rafferty followed her up the wide sweeping staircase to the State floor. He was unable to stop himself looking at the curve of her buttocks beneath the cloth material of her skirt. They crossed the spacious hall and stopped outside the third of three big doors. The woman knocked and they went in.

  ‘Mr. Rafferty, sir,’ she introduced him without removing her hand from the door handle.