The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  When the movie was over and the lights came up, Natalie could instantly tell he had enjoyed it from his boyish grin.

  Outside, Times Square was bright and the people and traffic moved with energetic bustle.

  ‘Well, did you enjoy it; did I choose right?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘Yeah, it was good,’ he said. ‘You chose right.’

  He still thought it was mostly daft, though, but there was no point in saying so.

  Back in the apartment, Rafferty sipped a beer from the bottle.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ he asked.

  Natalie shook her head and smiled.

  Her fingers took the straps from her shoulders. She wriggled more than was necessary and it fell to the floor. She stood naked.

  Rafferty remembered a drawing he’d once seen of a wood sprite. Natalie’s skin was pale. She possessed an elfin quality.

  She shook her hair and stepped confidently with her arms by her sides, wanting him to see. She enjoyed men watching her.

  Rafferty pulled her close. She put her hands on his chest and lifted her face. They kissed and she arched her back.

  He quickly undressed. She studied his naked body. It was hard and square. Her finger traced a scar across his abdomen.

  ‘You’ve got the body of a soldier,’ she said.

  He took her by the wrist and she happily followed.

  A passion not easily found danced within, and afterwards, a great depth of contentment swept them tenderly into the sleep of the innocent.

  Rafferty’s breathing was slow and deep. He was asleep, Natalie was certain.

  She remained as still as possible while she raised her head. His sleeping face, in the gloom, was gentler as though he dreamt of boyish things. He moved and his face turned. She held her breath. Then she saw his eyelids flicker and she knew he was sound asleep.

  Carefully, she got out of bed, put on her robe and went to her open bag on the chair against the wall. In the gloom of the bedroom, she felt underneath her clothes and found what she wanted. It was a small flashlight. Beside it was a pocket camera with a flash attached and a folded piece of paper. She took them all out. With another long look back at the bed, she left the bedroom and tiptoed through the apartment to the den.

  She used the flashlight to guide her way. In her hand, the beam of light steadied and then the dull metal safe sucked in the brightness and shot it back like a fish caught by the sun.

  She sat on the thick carpet and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Natalie glanced back at the door with the worry of him catching her. She jumped up and tiptoed back the bedroom. He was still asleep. She felt so nervous. She hurried back to the den. Her heart was thumping and she moved her hair away from her face and pushed it behind her ear.

  She read the numbers from the piece of paper and entered them using the tumbler. She pushed down on the handle and it moved. There was a metallic click and she pulled firmly. The safe door sucked and then swung on its twin hinges and opened like a tomb. Natalie breathed in deeply and glanced over her shoulder. She was scared. Now she had to find the file and take the photographs, remembering to put things back in the exact same place.

  Back in the bedroom, Rafferty was dreaming. He had a nightmare often. He was racing to save Marilyn, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get to her. He knew if he failed, she would die. Just when he finally succeeded in reaching her, he was struck by the knowledge he was too late and that she was already dead. It was always at this point in the nightmare that he woke up.

  Natalie shone the flashlight into the safe. It had two shelves, three compartments. She searched for the file and found it. She pulled it out, put it on her knee and opened the cover. It contained around ten sheets of paper but it didn’t have any government or official identification. The first sheet of paper showed a detailed nautical map of the South China Sea and the coastline of Vietnam. She shifted her position with nervous attention, glanced over her shoulder and then reached for the camera.

  Rafferty came fully awake with a heart-stopping gasp. Still fresh, the nightmare cloaked his mind and made him lonely and angry. The sweat cooled on his neck and his breathing slowed. He dropped his head back onto the pillow. His body calmed and then he rubbed his eyes.

  Natalie positioned the sheet of paper, held the flashlight in her mouth, framed the camera and pushed the shutter. It clicked and flashed. She had successfully captured the first page.

  Rafferty opened his eyes and turned his head to look. She wasn’t asleep next to him. He lifted his head and scanned the bedroom. The door was ajar. Just then, a flash of light bounced against the wall outside the bedroom door. Rafferty sat up and stared. As he watched, he saw a second flash of light. He hadn’t imagined it. He got out of bed, put on his robe and walked to the door.

  Natalie continued to hold the small flashlight in her mouth, position each page, frame the photograph and click the shutter. The bright light bounced around the den and out into the hallway.

  Rafferty stepped outside the bedroom and stopped. He listened and stared into the murky gloom. He saw another flash. The light was coming from the den. His first thought was that there might be an intruder. He came fully awake with the possibility of danger. He stepped silently along the hallway, peering round into the living room and across to the entrance hall. It was gloomy but he could see the dark outline of the front door. It was unlikely anyone had entered through there. His weapons were all in the den so he crept quickly into the kitchen and pulled a knife from the wooden block. He felt its weight and balance, gripped the handle firmly and headed for the den.

  Natalie was reaching the end of her task. She only had two pages left to photograph.

  Rafferty stopped in the doorway and leant his upper body silently through the narrow opening. He immediately saw Natalie sitting on the floor in front of the open safe. She was taking photographs.

  Before he moved again, Rafferty scanned the whole room to ensure nobody else was there. Satisfied it was only him and her he stepped in unheard and held the knife at his waistline.

  Natalie positioned the final page, relieved to have nearly finished. She would be able to put it back, lock the safe, put the camera and flashlight back in her bag and get silently back into bed.

  Rafferty came right up behind her with the knife held tightly in his hand.

  Natalie was concentrating on sighting the picture through the viewfinder. She was preparing to push the shutter for the final time when he spoke.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ he said.

  Natalie jumped with shock and the flashlight fell from her mouth. She felt intense fear and immediately became overwhelmed with a feeling of guilt. Her face drained and she cowered. Natalie turned her head and stared up at him with big, guilty eyes. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes darted to his hand and the knife he held. He’s going to kill me, she thought. She tried to speak but her dry mouth had left her mute. Her body shivered with fear and she shook her head in a pitiful cry for mercy.

  He raised the knife.

  Natalie screamed.

  ‘No, please,’ she croaked, pleadingly, and raised her hands. Then, the tears came. They flooded her eyes and rolled along her lashes like water from a leaky pipe. She sobbed and turned her head away, lowering her face and crying loudly. Rafferty watched her for a moment before he lowered the knife.

  ‘You’re going to smudge the pages,’ he said.

  He leant over, collected the papers from her lap and moved them away from her falling tears.

  He switched on the desk lamp and its warm glow lit the den.

  Natalie’s crying lessened and she looked up at him through wet, questioning eyes. What was going to happen? What was he going to do? Rafferty met her eyes and stared back coldly. Natalie sobbed and lowered her head. More tears fell down her cheeks.

  Rafferty went to the cabinet against the wall, took out a tumbler and a bottle of bourbon. He splashed the liquor into the glass and walked back. He grasped Natalie’s upper arm. She turned and look
ed up at him with frightened eyes. He pulled her up roughly and steered her to the leather armchair pushing her back into it. She lost her balance and sat down heavily. He handed her the bourbon.

  ‘Drink it,’ he said. ‘It’ll counter the shock and dull the fear.’

  Natalie took it from him with a sniffle and wiped her eyes. The liquor tasted harsh and she wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Drink it,’ he said.

  She glanced up and then swallowed it down. Again, her nose wrinkled and she coughed. Rafferty pulled the empty glass from her hand and put it down while leaning back against the desk. He fixed her with his eyes. She had never seen his face so severe. She couldn’t hold his gaze and dropped her eyes.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  She lifted her face.

  ‘Start at the beginning and tell me everything,’ he said.

  Natalie swallowed and breathed in deeply.

  ‘His name is Marik Kasseri,’ she said. ‘He’s a Russian diplomat at the embassy in Ottawa.’

  ‘Go on,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘My mother arranged for me to meet him. She said he needed my help and that I should see him.’

  ‘...your mother?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Yes, my mother. My parents are Russian immigrants. They moved to California in the thirties, a few years before I was born.’

  She began to cry again.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still scared.’

  Her eyes were wet and big.

  ‘Go on,’ he said again.

  Natalie lifted her legs onto the chair and held them tightly in her arms.

  ‘May I have a tissue and a drink of water, please?’ she asked.

  Rafferty fetched them.

  Natalie blew her nose and sipped the water.

  ‘Marik Kasseri,’ she said, ‘he showed me a picture of you and told me that you worked for the government. He said that he needed to know what the government was planning to do about Vietnam. I told him I didn’t know anything about Vietnam. I don’t even know where it is.’

  She stopped and sipped more water.

  Rafferty nodded for her to continue.

  ‘He said he wanted me to make friends with you,’ she said. ‘He told me about Richard and Isabella and about their connection with Twentieth Century-Fox. I told him, I wouldn’t do it. He threatened me. He said he would have people harmed if I didn’t do what he wanted; people I love. He said it was a war, and that as a Russian I had to do it for Mother Russia. He was very menacing. He has a deep, ugly scar across his cheek. I was certain he had killed people. He really scared me.’

  Natalie sipped more water. She was feeling better.

  ‘He told me that you would have a safe in your apartment and that the safe would contain documents about Vietnam.’

  ‘So you seduced me for the purpose of spying on me for the Russians?’ he said.

  Several times Natalie’s lashes closed slowly over her shiny eyes before she answered.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t want to. I didn’t know what to do.’

  She wriggled in her seat and pulled her knees tighter.

  ‘What else?’ he said.

  ‘It was easy for me to get an invitation to visit with Isabella,’ Natalie said. ‘I told her I’d never been to New York before. She’s very kind and she loves movie stars.’

  ‘Do you speak Russian?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, a little. I spoke it with my parents as a child.’

  Natalie was now relieved he had caught her. She didn’t have the strength to be a spy. Telling him everything had released her from the horror.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she asked.

  Rafferty didn’t answer.

  He knew he could never trust her again. There would always be a doubt. He considered helping her but knew his help was useless. He remembered something McGrath had once told him. Confide a secret to a dumb man and he will speak. McGrath had claimed it was a Russian saying. Rafferty thought it could equally apply to any country.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Natalie asked again.

  She was staring up like a frightened child. He hardened himself inside like a soldier before a battle.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Natalie’s brow creased and her head moved slowly from side to side.

  ‘Nothing,’ she echoed. ‘What do you mean?’

  Rafferty shrugged.

  Natalie was suddenly frightened again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ she asked.

  ‘What help do you want?’

  ‘What am I going to do about Marik Kasseri?’ she said with a trace of panic making her voice catch in her throat.

  Rafferty fought his desire to hold her and to tell her everything would be okay. He maintained his discipline.

  ‘When you speak to him, tell him you tried but you couldn’t get the safe open,’ he said. ‘Then tell him you can’t help him anymore because I’ve told you I don’t want to see you again. Tell him you don’t think I’m interested in a relationship with you.’

  ‘He won’t believe that,’ she said.

  ‘Convince him. You’re an actress; lie to him. Make him believe it.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ she pleaded.

  Rafferty didn’t respond.

  ‘What happens if he doesn’t believe me?’ she asked. ‘What if he carries out his threat?’

  ‘He won’t. There’s no benefit in it for him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Carrying out a threat is only worthwhile if it leads to future compliance. If you can’t spy on me what else can you do for him?’

  Natalie didn’t understand. She made a soft clicking sound with her tongue while she shook her head.

  ‘Stand up to him and be strong,’ Rafferty said. ‘If he believes you can’t help him anymore, he’ll leave you alone.’

  Natalie seemed unsure and frightened.

  Rafferty thought she was going to cry again.

  She took two deep breaths and managed to calm and steady herself. Her eyes fixed on his face.

  ‘What about us?’ she said in a quiet voice.

  Rafferty held her eyes. His own were cold and hard.

  ‘We cannot see each other anymore,’ he said. ‘You must never contact me again.’

  Her eyes seemed to darken with the sound of his voice as though his spoken words carried a shadow that fell cruelly across her face.

  ‘It wasn’t all pretend,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied.

  He thought about saying more but she spoke again before he could decide.

  ‘I never lied once,’ she said.

  He didn’t believe her.

  In bed, she curled up against him like a kitten in a wicker basket and was asleep in seconds. He listened to her breathing and felt her hair fall against his skin. It was soft to the touch like a silk scarf. He lowered his lips and gently kissed her.

  48 January 2, 1964, Washington D.C.

  William McGrath refilled his jacket pocket with toffees from a tin he kept in the drawer of his desk.

  Rafferty sat on one of the Made in England chairs and watched him.

  McGrath spun a toffee wrapper and then offered one to Rafferty. He took it. They sucked for a few moments.

  ‘I’ve had a conversation with the FBI Director,’ McGrath said. ‘Before Oswald was killed, he told his lawyer he’d been recruited to carry out the shooting by an FBI Agent named Shetland Greene. The FBI Director received a letter from the lawyer. I think the Director wishes he’d never seen it. He had to begin an investigation. He gave it to a special agent in the National Security Branch.’

  McGrath paused while he chewed his toffee. Rafferty sat patiently and waited.

  ‘All they had was the name, Shetland Greene,’ McGrath said. ‘After realising they didn’t have an agent by that name, they started searching. They found a Mexico City police report. It showed the Four Seasons had found an American guest named Shetland
Greene murdered in his room. After questioning the Mexicans, they realised the incident remained uninvestigated on the request of the US embassy. The Director called the White House on it. They confirmed he was one of ours. They then discovered who the last colleague was to see him alive.’

  McGrath paused.

  Rafferty remained silent.

  ‘That, of course, was you,’ McGrath said.

  He took a sip from his coffee cup and his eyes settled on Rafferty’s face.

  ‘The FBI and the White House thinks it’s probable that the Cubans killed Greene and then used his FBI badge in the seduction of Oswald. Naturally, no one wants to hear that the Cubans were responsible.’

  Rafferty still didn’t speak.

  ‘However,’ said McGrath, ‘if the White House had the slightest doubt, it’s just possible, I suppose, that they might want to check out the last agent who saw Greene alive.’

  McGrath smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand.

  ‘To do that, they might bring him back in and then give him a brand new logistics controller. That person might be someone with an exceptional predisposition towards unrelated analytical deduction.’

  There was a long pause.

  McGrath wondered if Rafferty was going to speak.

  He didn’t.

  ‘Karen Brekke,’ said McGrath, holding Rafferty’s eyes, ‘is investigating the assassination.’

  49 January 3, 1964, Washington D.C.

  Rafferty watched McGrath eat a crème brûlée.

  The intelligence chief broke the hard caramelised top with a small spoon before lifting the rich baked custard to his mouth. He savoured the taste with the reverence of a man bowed to the artistry of French cuisine.

  It was late afternoon and Tricolor was almost empty. The lunchtime trade had returned to their offices. Only the waiter made a noise, as he set tables for the evening. An elderly couple watched him. They sat quiet and unhurried. The piano was silent and the familiar sound of the door of diners coming and going was absent.

  ‘I’m going to befriend her,’ Rafferty said.