by Mark Arundel
‘Thank you, Sandra.’
His deep voice and Texan accent carried clearly across the room from behind the desk. Sandra and her skirt left, to Rafferty’s regret, closing the door behind them.
Rafferty walked towards the desk and the man stood up, extending his hand. They shook firmly while holding each other’s gaze.
‘Good to see you, Rafferty.’
‘…sir.’
The two men sat in padded chairs beside the desk. The Red Room enjoyed expensive adornments and furnishings with a huge circular chandelier, antiques and the finest drapery. Jacqueline Kennedy had redecorated the whole house; this room was in the style of American Empire.
‘Now then, Rafferty,’ Johnson said bluntly. He was a straight-talking Texan. ‘It was a bad day when you left us. The Bay of Pigs was a sorry business, and you called it right; that day, here, when you got up and walked out. That took balls! I was mightily impressed. Balls, are what we need, plenty of them. Now, you can’t come back officially; no fancy title or money, but we sure need you. There’s a hell of a lot to do. Well, what do you say?’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Rafferty asked.
Johnson responded with a big grin.
‘As you know, I can’t be personally involved in anything which might compromise my public responsibilities; it’s important I have full and honest deniability should it become necessary.’
Rafferty had heard all this before. He still didn’t like politicians.
‘Someone will brief you, possibly William McGrath or someone else if he decides. It’ll be up to him. You and he go a long way back...’
‘…France, nineteen forty-four,’ Rafferty said.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Johnson said and then paused.
He’s not been able to get here today. He’s involved personally with the assassination investigation.’
Johnson paused before he continued.
‘It’s looking like the Cubans,’ he said.
On realising Johnson was going to talk about the investigation, Rafferty resisted the temptation to sit up. He didn’t want to appear overly interested.
Johnson continued.
‘As you probably know, Shetland Greene turned up dead in his Four Seasons hotel room in Mexico City. His own knife was sticking in his chest. He was working on a plot, using Cuban double agents, to get Castro. It seems they got him instead and then helped themselves to his ID badges. Before Oswald was silenced he told us he was recruited to carry out the shooting by FBI Agent Shetland Greene.’
Again, Johnson paused for a moment.
‘Castro knew we were after him; he must have decided to strike first and remove the threat.’
Rafferty thought he better say something.
‘Are we still going after Castro?’ he asked.
Johnson gave him a hangman’s smile.
‘Don’t worry; you’re not going to be doing that.’
Johnson’s expression turned serious and he shook his head.
‘No, removing Castro won’t change Cuba, not now. We’re going to call it off; we’ll have to learn to live with it.’
Rafferty considered what Johnson had just told him about the intelligence on Oswald and the Cubans. It was what he had expected to hear.
Johnson was speaking again.
‘We can’t allow the American people to think their President was killed by the Cubans. We’re going to have to tell them Oswald acted alone.’
‘Didn’t he?’ Rafferty asked.
Johnson paused as his face darkened and he considered whether to answer.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.’
‘...but maybe the Cubans?’
‘Yeah, it looks likely. Oswald was right. He was a patsy.’
Rafferty nodded.
‘Anyway, that’s now in the past. It’s the future we’re concerned with, and that future is South America and South East Asia,’ Johnson said, with the gravest of expressions creasing his rugged face. ‘As soon as the Director gets some time, I’ll get a meeting arranged.’
Johnson stood up and returned to his desk. He pushed the buzzer to summon Sandra.
‘It’s good to have you back, Rafferty.’
The meeting was over.
Sandra opened the door.
On the way back down, Rafferty couldn’t resist looking again; the angle from above wasn’t as good as the angle from below but it was still worth the look.
Back in the entrance hall, he picked up his briefcase from the table and then left through the same door.
In the Thunderbird, on the drive back to Dulles Airport, Rafferty sat in the front. The two Secret Service guys had worked out it didn’t require both of them to run the cab fare.
‘How was your meeting?’ the cop asked.
Rafferty ignored him.
The cop tried again.
‘We’re a bit frayed, you know, after Dallas. Things are going to be tough for a while,’ he said, honestly.
Rafferty didn’t respond to that, but since Dallas, there was one thing, about which he had wondered.
‘On that day in Dallas, why wasn’t one of your guys running alongside, next to the car?’ he asked.
‘Oh yeah, well, there was going to be but then it was stopped. Someone thought it wouldn’t look good, you know, with the voters in Texas,’ the Secret Service man explained.
Politicians were such idiots, Rafferty reminded himself.
The Ford pulled up outside the terminal building and Rafferty moved to get out. Before he could open the door, the Secret Service man spoke again.
‘Are you going after the son of a bitch who did it?’
Rafferty turned and looked at him.
‘Oswald did it,’ he said.
‘Did he? Some of our guys reckon Castro was involved. You going after him?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Rafferty said and then opened the car door and got out.
He walked through the entrance into the airport and checked himself in at the flight desk. The uniformed attendant was friendly and smiled sweetly.
Rafferty didn’t smile back.
36 Christmas Day, 1963, Manhattan, New York
Edward Rafferty ran through Central Park in his dark blue tracksuit.
The temperature was barely above freezing but still he sweated heavily. He pulled down the zipper on his top to avoid overheating.
It was just before 7am and the pathways were quiet, especially today, of course. It was probably one of only two days in the year when Manhattan was not such a manic place. Rafferty ran across East Drive and headed for home. He’d covered five miles and now he needed a coffee.
Riding up in the elevator, he checked his wristwatch. The doors slid open and he got off. As he unlocked his apartment door and went in, the telephone rang. Rafferty scowled; this was going to delay his coffee.
‘Hello,’ he said, answering the call.
‘It’s McGrath. I’m in Manhattan; can you meet me?’
‘...where?’
‘...the Burbank office on Fifth. It’s just down the road from you. You can walk.’
‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes,’ Rafferty said and then both men hung up.
Rafferty sipped his coffee while he stared at the trees. Johnson moves quickly, he thought.
In the shower, Rafferty considered matters and thought about William McGrath. McGrath would have been responsible for sanctioning the decision to bring him back. He knew that. The White House, though, had initiated it. Rafferty wondered about that.
William McGrath was a clever and capable man; always well dressed in expensive suits and silk ties from Paris. He possessed strong political abilities, which meant he had easily survived the Cuban crisis. He also had the perfect background: college man, a navy officer and then OSS (Office of Strategic Services). His work during the war and his spoken German and French had led him easily into the company. He had risen to the top because, as Rafferty knew, he was brave and fearless.
Raffer
ty dressed in his best suit and knotted an Italian silk burgundy tie. Well, he didn’t want to be outdone. He pulled on a cashmere overcoat, against the chilly December air.
He was just about to leave when the telephone rang.
‘Hello,’ he said, in his usual gruff way.
‘Hello, handsome, happy Christmas.’
The woman’s voice was warm and friendly, laced with additional holiday charm.
‘Hello, Isabella, happy Christmas,’ Rafferty said.
It was Isabella Tobias, the wife of his childhood guardian, Richard Tobias.
‘What time do you want me to send the car for you?’ Isabella asked sweetly.
‘I’m just on my way out. I’ve got an appointment I have to go to.’
‘...on Christmas Day?’
‘Yeah, it won’t take long. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’
‘...you better,’ Isabella said with exasperation. ‘If you don’t come today I’ll never forgive you.’
Rafferty laughed.
‘Trust me, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss a Players Christmas dinner for anything.’
‘Okay, but call me the minute you get back and I’ll send the car straight away to get you.’
‘See you later.’
‘Promise me.’
Rafferty grinned.
‘I promise,’ he said.
‘See you later, bye.’ Isabella replaced the receiver and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
Rafferty enjoyed the ten-minute walk to the Burbank office; there weren’t too many people on Fifth and the traffic was light. He arrived outside the tall, double glass doors, pressed the buzzer and checked his wristwatch. He heard the lock click open, pushed the metal handle and went in. The reception was empty and the building was silent. He went passed the Christmas tree, up the L-shaped staircase, across the first-floor landing and entered the corner office. Sitting in one of two easy chairs, drinking a cup of coffee was William McGrath. The two men looked at each other and then Rafferty focused on the cup of coffee. McGrath motioned towards the percolator on the desk, next to the waiting cup and saucer. Rafferty removed his overcoat, poured himself a coffee and sat down.
‘Sorry for the short notice; I hope you didn’t mind me calling you on Christmas Day morning. I’m here in New York for the holidays, and it’s been difficult to find any time, so I thought I’d try you,’ McGrath explained.
Rafferty nodded.
McGrath continued.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘as you know the decision has been taken to use you for specialist covert operations on an individual assignment basis. Your activities will be unofficial and without any political or administrative recognition. However, you will have full budget and organisational support. An assigned contact is in place and immediately available. She lives here in Manhattan and works out of this office. She will be available to you at all times, day or night, and her brief is for communication and response. You’re not to use your actual name in any communication; she will know you by your codename, which is Bluebeard. Her name is Karen Brekke; she’s new to the job. I haven’t met her. All the organisational arrangements are here in this file along with your covert identities and contacts. This envelope contains your passports, permits, ID cards, badges and so on.’
McGrath handed Rafferty a bound file and a manila envelope.
‘There’s also some cash in there,’ McGrath added.
Rafferty took the file.
‘Any questions?’ McGrath said.
‘What is it you want me to do?’ Rafferty said.
It was one of his most used questions. McGrath looked at him while he considered.
‘The South East Asian problem isn’t going to go away. There’s a determination in Washington to use the last resort, the military option,’ McGrath said, beginning to explain.
Rafferty interrupted him.
‘The military isn’t an option. Enforcing political doctrine using armed force in South East Asia doesn’t work. Don’t you remember Korea?’
‘Everyone remembers Korea.’
‘So why do we want to do it again?’
McGrath paused.
The two men sipped their coffee.
‘…because we can’t allow the spread of communism—if one falls...’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Rafferty, ‘so we’re going to stop communism by killing all the communists. That’s a great plan.’
McGrath shrugged. He seemed tired.
‘What is it you want me to do?’ Rafferty asked his question again.
McGrath put his coffee cup down and then smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand.
‘As it stands, we don’t have a legitimate reason to send in the troops. We need to find one. Whatever the plan ends up being, it’s going to need implementing, and that’s what you’ll be doing,’ McGrath told him.
Rafferty knew it was going to be something difficult.
‘So, you want me to carry out some half-ass plot which will allow the military to start hostile actions in Vietnam. When you say South East Asia it’s actually Vietnam you mean, right?’
McGrath studied him and then nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Vietnam. Killing Ngo Dinh Diem has only made the situation there worse. The Vietnamese National Liberation Front is growing in popularity and strength. They’re communists and the Soviets are backing them. Communism is spreading steadily from North to South, and if someone doesn’t stop it in Vietnam then others may follow. Perhaps it will mean killing every communist there.’
‘Well, when you’ve come up with a plan and you actually know what it is you want me to do, then let me know. In the meantime, I’ve got a Christmas dinner to go to,’ Rafferty told him. He stood and picked up his cashmere overcoat. McGrath’s expression hadn’t changed. Rafferty walked out and left McGrath to wash up the coffee cups.
While he walked back along Fifth, Rafferty unbuttoned his overcoat and took it off; it wasn’t cold enough for cashmere.
Back in his apartment, he checked his wristwatch. He lifted the receiver and dialled the number from memory.
‘Good morning, the Tobias residence,’ the elderly servant answered formally.
‘Hello, John,’ Rafferty said.
‘Good morning, Mr. Rafferty. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, John. Can I speak with Isabella please?’
‘Mrs. Tobias, yes, of course, one moment, sir.’
The line was silent for about one minute.
‘Are you ready?’ Isabella’s warm voice came on the line.
‘Yeah, I’m ready.’
‘Good, then I’ll send the car. How was your Christmas morning appointment?’ Isabella asked, knowing he wouldn’t tell her anything.
‘It was as expected,’ he replied.
Before the car arrived, Rafferty changed his clothes. He collected together his presents in a leather bag and then sat by the window and read the file McGrath had given him. He was hoping for some information on his logistics contact, Karen Brekke, but all it told him was her name and two telephone numbers, one work and one home. He wanted to know the reason why someone had chosen her. There was always a reason for everything that happened.
Sitting in the front passenger seat of Richard Tobias’s chauffeur driven Rolls Royce Phantom V, Rafferty’s thoughts went back over his conversation with William McGrath. In his mind, he was already formulating a plan to achieve their objective of getting political clearance to use military force. He would work on it over the coming days; there wasn’t any rush. Rafferty knew they’d be getting back to him, and he’d be interested to see what they had to say. In the meantime, he would enjoy Christmas and the New Year. Nineteen sixty-four was going to be a busy year.
The car passed into Nassau County and drove towards the north shore of Long Island. The white, turn-of-the-century, waterfront mansion came into view as the Rolls Royce turned from the village road and began the trip up the narrow country drive. This was Rafferty’s childhood home and it was
where he shot his first ever gun. He had been nine years old and that event had pretty much set the course for the rest of his life.
37 Christmas Day, 1963, Long Island, New York
The Rolls Royce stopped outside the mansion.
‘Thanks, Rob,’ Rafferty said, acknowledging the chauffeur as he grabbed his bag from the back seat, jumped out and pushed shut the car door.
The elderly, long serving John responded to the doorbell and greeted Rafferty with his usual formality.
‘Good morning, Mr. Rafferty.’
‘Happy Christmas, John,’ Rafferty replied. ‘Is Isabella in the drawing-room?’
‘Oh yes, happy Christmas, Mr. Rafferty. Yes, Mrs. Tobias is in the drawing room.’
Rafferty strode across the atrium and entered the drawing room. His eyes went to its occupants. Immediately, his attention focused on a woman he had not met before. She was sitting on the sofa beside the fire.
Isabella stood up to greet him and he smiled at her.
‘Oh good, you’re here.’ Isabella said, before embracing him with a kiss on the cheek. Isabella was now in her fifties but had kept all the attributes that had always made her a woman others admired. She was wearing a couture dress. Rafferty thought the tailor had made it from the same shiny gold material as many of the Christmas decorations.
‘I like your dress,’ he said, ‘it’s very festive.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s Chanel.’
‘Yeah, I thought so,’ he said. They both laughed. Isabella was still smiling as she turned to the woman sitting on the sofa.
‘Allow me to introduce you to one of our Christmas houseguests. This is Natalie. I’m sure you recognise her.’
Rafferty smiled politely as he looked at her and gently shook her offered hand. His mind raced as he tried to think why he would recognise her.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ he agreed. He didn’t recognise her at all. Isabella smiled at him mischievously.
‘Just before you arrived we were discussing Natalie’s career. Do you have a favourite one?’ Isabella asked him sweetly.
Rafferty hadn’t stopped thinking. He knew Richard still owned stock in Twentieth Century-Fox Corporation and after looking again at Natalie, who was mid-twenties and stunning, made a deduction and took a guess.