The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  ‘Tricolor,’ she said. ‘Are you sure this is the right place? It looks expensive.’

  Rafferty took her arm and they went inside. The waiters moved courteously between tables that were all booked. Karen instantly sensed the atmosphere. The restaurant had a subdued charm without hurry or concern. It possessed a Gallic attitude of confidence and importance. The personality of an esoteric lover was how McGrath had once described it, known only by a few, abstruse, and seductive. Rafferty thought of his words now and remembered Marilyn.

  The head waiter showed them to a small table against the far wall. Karen took the offered menu.

  ‘Have you eaten here before?’ she asked.

  Rafferty nodded.

  While Karen read the menu, Rafferty glanced around the room. Sitting on his own, at a table from where he could observe but also remain hidden was William McGrath.

  ‘Shall we order?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Mm, yes,’ Karen said.

  McGrath had suggested the lunch.

  ‘It will make it easier for me to watch her,’ he had said, ‘and I want to see what she is like.’

  He was watching her now, and Rafferty resisted staring in his direction. Rafferty had spotted him when they first arrived. His head was down, sipping hot soup, slowly, from a balanced spoon. He might have been mistaken for an eccentric Frenchman.

  The menu was written in French. Karen ordered what she hoped was the chicken salad. Rafferty suggested wine and she nodded. He ordered a bottle of one with an attractive sounding name.

  ‘Performing a seduction is not a risk-free undertaking,’ Rafferty said, picking up the conversation from where they had left off earlier.

  ‘A seduction,’ she said and queried with a gentle lift of one thin eyebrow.

  ‘That’s what Shetland Greene was attempting with the two Cubans. Getting them to do what he wanted by steering their ideas, and then their actions.’

  ‘…and paying them money,’ she said.

  ‘Money is often involved, somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘So, did these Cubans kill him?’

  ‘Yes, it seems likely, or the Russians.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Kill him for what reason?’

  The waiter arrived with their food balanced on a tray, and while he transferred the plates to the table, Rafferty stole a glance at McGrath. Le Français excentrique was watching them with a surreptitious gaze over the rim of a ballooned, red wine glass.

  The waiter left and Karen looked from the food up to Rafferty’s face and repeated her question.

  ‘…why?’ she asked.

  ‘At first, we thought it was a message from Castro, a show of power. He may have been warning us not to come after him.’

  ‘…and now?’ Karen asked.

  Rafferty paused while he sipped his wine and glanced at his food.

  ‘Perhaps the Cubans wanted an ID, an ID they thought Greene would have.’

  Karen nodded.

  ‘Yeah, or perhaps someone else wanted it?’ she said.

  ‘I think it was the Cubans,’ he said. ‘Who else?’

  Karen could smell the garlic rising from the dressing that glistened on the chicken breast and over the cherry tomatoes.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Who knows?’ she said.

  After their meal, Karen excused herself and went to the restroom. When she was out of sight, Rafferty hurried across and joined McGrath at his table.

  ‘She has unusually sharp blue eyes,’ McGrath said, ‘like the Cote d’Azur viewed from an aeroplane in May.’

  Rafferty could only stay a minute. He perched on the chair and waited for McGrath to say something useful.

  ‘Norwegian women have a youthful elegance; don’t you agree? It’s as if they stop ageing after puberty,’ McGrath said. ‘Did you know they collaborated with the Nazis during the war? Do you remember Quisling?’

  ‘I don’t think it was her, personally,’ Rafferty said. ‘She fled to New York with her parents when she was five.’

  The mention of Norwegian women by McGrath had reminded Rafferty of the Norwegian built patrol boats in Vietnam and Smithy’s report. Captain Chin entered his thoughts, for a moment.

  McGrath’s eyes drifted up to Francesca who had arrived at the table carrying a tray. The coffee was in a white pot with a smaller pot of cream and two cups. She placed the tray on the corner of the table and left without speaking.

  McGrath breathed deeply. Rafferty wondered if he was enjoying her lingering French perfume or dissipating his feelings towards Norwegian women.

  McGrath poured the coffee.

  ‘Will she accept your interpretation of events?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rafferty said. ‘She wondered if it could have been someone else, other than the Cubans, who wanted Greene’s IDs.’

  ‘Did she?’ McGrath said and nodded thoughtfully. He sipped from his coffee cup. ‘You better get back,’ he said.

  ‘She seems determined,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Clever people often are.’

  ‘She wants to uncover the truth; a truth that makes sense to her,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  McGrath paused for a moment.

  ‘The weight of truth can be a heavy burden,’ he said. ‘I wonder if her shoulders are broad enough.’

  53 January 6, 1964, Anna Maria Island, Florida

  The DC-8 landed at Tampa International Airport on a warm and clear Hillsborough County afternoon.

  Outside the aircraft, Karen removed her jacket and pushed on her sunglasses.

  With a porter wheeling the bags, Rafferty organised a Ford rental and Karen leafed through the magazines at the newsstand while she waited.

  Outside, they loaded the Ford and Karen assured him she knew the way.

  Rafferty drove and Karen gave directions.

  She switched on the radio and tuned it to a jazz station.

  ‘You’re sure you know the way?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ she said.

  He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Get onto Interstate two seventy-five heading south towards St. Petersburg,’ she said.

  He watched for the sign.

  ‘There,’ she shouted and pointed at the sign.

  Rafferty followed the direction of her finger.

  ‘There,’ she said and pointed again.

  Rafferty took the exit and they seemed to be on the right road.

  They drove with the Floridian sunshine glinting on the hood and a jazz saxophone easing their way.

  Karen sat quietly and watched the flat grassland and huge live oaks with hanging Spanish moss pass by.

  Rafferty kept to around fifty miles an hour and let the big Ford cruise happily. It felt good to be in Florida. He jokingly named the state the Alligator Everglades.

  Karen didn’t laugh.

  ‘There aren’t any alligators on Anna Maria Island,’ she said.

  Rafferty nodded.

  ‘Just manatees in the sea,’ she said. ‘Do you know what manatees are?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Yeah, they’re funny looking things. Aquatic mammals, I think, with front flippers and flat tails.’ he said. ‘People call them sea cows.’

  Karen returned to the view through the side window and the journey went by slowly.

  ‘Should we stop and buy some food?’ he asked.

  ‘No, mom said she’d leave us something for tonight.’

  ‘Your parents know I’m with you?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  Rafferty drove across the bridge, over Anna Maria Sound and onto the island.

  Karen gave directions.

  ‘This is the Gulf of Mexico,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘The island’s nine miles long and two miles wide,’ she said, ‘and the beaches are sugar white.’

  It felt relaxed and gentle like it was always Sunday afternoon.

  ‘The road goes round
to the left,’ Karen said and pointed.

  Rafferty steered left.

  ‘And now turn right,’ she said.

  They drove to the top of the island on North Shore Drive and arrived at the beach house.

  Rafferty studied it through the Ford’s windshield. It fronted the sleepy road. Behind, was just beach and sea. It had green painted wooden slats and it looked like the model beach house.

  Karen beamed at him with the excitement of arriving.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I want to show you around. Wait until you see the view from the back; you’ll never want to leave.’

  Rafferty feared she might be right.

  Karen was still smiling.

  ‘Come on,’ she said again, already out of the Ford and heading to the front door.

  Rafferty got out and followed.

  The reception area led into to a large sitting room with double glass doors opening onto a veranda. The room had simple decorations with plain, tasteful furniture. Pastel colours and light wood, big lamps and what was probably local art on the walls. In the centre of the room, on a small square antique pine table, was an art deco vase. It was a porcelain rectangle, inlaid with gold, red, black and white and had an outlined lip. Rafferty walked into the room and Karen saw him looking at it.

  ‘My parents love that thing. They say it’s unique. Apparently, it exhibited to rave reviews at some famous modern art expo in Paris in nineteen twenty-five. As you see, it gets centre stage,’ she said.

  Rafferty nodded.

  He knew someone else who would like it.

  ‘Do they love it more than they love you?’

  Karen laughed.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said, ‘but they don’t make me stand on a table in the middle of the room.’

  ‘They should,’ he said. ‘You’re a lot more attractive.’

  The compliment took her by surprise. She didn’t have a reply.

  Rafferty noticed what he thought was a slight blush.

  ‘Make the coffee while I get the bags in from the car,’ he said.

  They drank the coffee on the raised wooden deck at the back. The smells and sounds of the sea blew in on an easterly breeze.

  Rafferty followed her to the edge and they stood by the railings. She had been right; the view across the sand dunes to the flat beach and the blue water beyond was perfect.

  Karen breathed deeply, allowing the soft wind to stroke her face and ruffle her hair. She closed her eyes for a few moments and then opened them again with a smile. She looked at Rafferty for his approval.

  He smiled and nodded.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a fabulous view,’ he said.

  They felt the sun’s warmth on their bare skin and the tiptoe promise of relaxation.

  ‘I never want to leave,’ Rafferty said.

  Karen laughed.

  Later, a red sun fell gently in a pink evening sky.

  Karen wore a Panama hat with her blonde hair falling around her face. She hid her eyes behind big round sunglasses.

  The slip road ran up against the beach and Rafferty parked at the end. A boardwalk led them onto the sugar beach and around to the bar. The cabin style building nestled in the sand, with outside tables fenced by a rope, strung between wooden poles.

  The last of the evening warmth dripped away as the falling red globe melted beyond the horizon.

  The ocean was still and a single gull glided above the water’s edge laughing occasionally as people strolled past.

  Karen pulled off her sunglasses and laid them on the table. She looked at him.

  Rafferty met her eyes. He remembered McGrath’s description: unusually sharp blue eyes like the Cote d’Azur viewed from an aeroplane in May. As always, he was right.

  The waitress brought their drinks.

  Rafferty watched the girl walk away before he spoke.

  ‘So, why am I here?’ he said.

  Karen responded with a smile. It was a bold question. It didn’t surprise her.

  ‘They serve your favourite beer,’ she said.

  He frowned.

  ‘I wanted to show you the view from the deck.’

  Rafferty’s face didn’t brighten.

  Karen tried again.

  ‘I invited you to come with me because I have a problem which I must resolve and this island is the perfect place to do it, and you’re going to help me,’ she said.

  Rafferty was silent.

  He sipped his beer and considered. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to help?’ he asked.

  ‘…because,’ she replied, ‘I think you want to and,’ she paused for just a moment, ‘because, I think you like me.’

  He sipped his beer. His eyes remained fixed on her face. He didn’t speak.

  She waited.

  She spoke first.

  ‘Perhaps, if I start by telling you what I know for sure,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘Shetland Greene was killed during a fight in his Mexico City hotel room with his own knife. Then, someone stole all his possessions including his identification as an agent of the FBI. Oswald told his lawyer that FBI Agent Shetland Greene had recruited him to carry out the shooting. However, we know Greene was already dead, so it couldn’t have been him.’

  Karen paused and sipped her beer. A sudden cool breeze made her lift her knitted jersey to cover her bare shoulders.

  ‘So, who was this unknown man who posed as Greene using his stolen ID; this man who performed the seduction, your word; this man who got Oswald to do the shooting?’

  Rafferty didn’t respond.

  ‘The popular theory is that the Cubans were behind it,’ Karen said. ‘It fits nicely and many believe it. However, I’m not so sure. I don’t think it was the Cubans. I think it’s more complicated than that. To begin with, Oswald said that the FBI agent that he believed to be Shetland Greene was an American and not a Cuban. He gave a description. It’s an interesting description.’

  ‘Do you think everyone makes decisions for selfish reasons?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘What?’

  The question had surprised her. Karen searched his face.

  ‘Just because some actions seem immoral, does that necessarily make them wrong?’ he said.

  Karen’s surprise weakened into interest. She hadn’t expected philosophy.

  ‘Good deeds soothe the consciences that bad deeds create,’ he said.

  The cool breeze made Karen shiver.

  ‘Someone once told me that,’ he said. ‘She’s dead now.’

  ‘Do you believe in right and wrong?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Do you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Right and wrong do not exist.’

  ‘Yesterday, while I was walking with Richard he told me Isabella believed you had had a relationship with a famous movie star,’ Karen said. ‘And not Natalie. Is it true?’

  His eyes turned black and cold.

  She shivered again.

  ‘It’s getting cooler,’ Rafferty said. ‘We should head back.’

  The following morning, they went for a run.

  Rafferty wore baggy cotton shorts that reached to his knees and a dark blue vest. Karen wore a very short skirt and a blue vest. Her tight ponytail bounced as she warmed her leg muscles by pulling her knees to her waist.

  ‘I’ll follow you,’ Rafferty said.

  She nodded and opened the gate at the corner of the deck and led him down the wooden steps and onto the sandy pathway that turned away between untidy clumps of reeds.

  She started slowly, stretching out and loosening her muscles. Rafferty followed close behind. He watched her ponytail as it bobbed up and down.

  They reached the beach where the sand sloped away and then flattened, washed hard by the waves.

  Karen increased the speed and their shoes dug into the wet sand.

  Three Snowy Egrets lifted their heads and watched them approach
. They stepped aside to let them pass. The bird’s distinctive long, black legs and yellow feet moved their white bodies like stilts. They were aloof and clearly unimpressed by haste.

  The shoreline widened and curved away, disappearing beyond the dunes and beach grasses that pushed up from the sand like unkempt whiskers on an old man’s chin.

  The deep marine water sparkled in the morning sunshine and Rafferty gazed out at a cornflower horizon and breathed the clean, warm air.

  A distinct, low-pitched squawk signalled a Great Blue Heron. It glided over the surf, gracefully hanging in the air with an occasional flap of its six foot, black tipped wingspan while it searched for fish.

  Karen pressed on and pulled them out onto the softer, deeper sand. It was tougher going. Rafferty pushed powerfully and came up alongside her. She glanced over at him and smiled.

  ‘Did you see the Blue Heron?’ she asked.

  ‘He was looking for his breakfast,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not a fish,’ she said. ‘Did you see his bill?’

  Rafferty laughed.

  They ran together with the sweat glistening on their skin and soaking their hair.

  The beach straightened and narrowed, and the gentle surf splashed at their feet. Karen jumped onto a low wall that edged the dunes and marked the border of a line of properties. A row of pine trees offered cooler air in the shelter below the wide branches of thick needles. The wall was narrow and Rafferty remained in the sun with his feet in the soft sand. Karen laughed and wanted to run faster but she dared not in case she fell off. Rafferty moved his arm to push her and she squirmed away with a shriek. It was enough to unbalance her and she had to jump back down onto the sand. He laughed at his success.

  ‘You don’t play fair,’ she said.

  ‘Just keeping you honest,’ he said. ‘I’ll race you to the pier.’

  He sped off, grinning over his shoulder.

  The pier was over eighty yards away, cut into the sloping beach with boards that lifted it to the road.

  Karen responded instantly, pushing away hard and digging in. Even so, he had pulled out a five-yard lead. He stole a glance over his shoulder to see where she was. Karen noticed the wicked grin curled on his lips and she pushed harder. The act of turning his head had slowed him a little and she closed the gap. The determination to catch him came with an instant burst of adrenalin that pumped her thighs and made her feet fly. They were twelve yards from the finish line when she came right up behind him but realised she wasn’t going to have enough to pass him. She made an impulsive decision. As his right foot lifted behind him, she raised her own right foot and with balanced timing flicked his heel across. The result was immediate and unstoppable. Rafferty’s right foot tripped against his left, lost his balance and he went down at full speed, tumbling heavily in the sand. Karen raced ahead with her own wicked grin. She reached the slope, ran up onto the road and went out onto the pier. She stopped at the railings and looked down onto the beach. Rafferty was pulling himself up, covered in sand. He brushed it off his face and looked up at her. She was jiggling up and down with her arms raised in a victory dance.