by Mark Arundel
Rafferty realised something—Kasseri had loved her too.
‘I thought you had been responsible for killing her,’ Kasseri explained.
Rafferty remained silent.
‘Did you know I helped kill her father?’ Kasseri asked. He slowly shook his head. ‘He was a kulak and I was a soldier. The Kremlin gave me my orders back then too. They wanted him dead, so I rode two days into the countryside and when I got there, I killed him. She watched it happen. She was only a young child.’
Kasseri paused and indicated her height by holding his hand out above the ground.
‘I don’t think she ever forgot it. Her mother was already dead. They sent her to America. She was a sleeper for thirty years and then came the womaniser and Cuba, and I had to activate her. I never wanted to. She was too beautiful for our cruel world, but Moscow made me. They don’t understand beauty. They only see the world through ugly eyes.’
Kasseri stopped talking and refilled the glasses.
‘An American destroyer is going to be attacked by the North,’ Rafferty said.
Kasseri’s brow lowered and his black eyes sharpened. He moved his head like a fox on hearing an unfamiliar sound.
‘It is a trick,’ Rafferty explained. ‘The patrol boat will really be from the South and acting on my instruction. The destroyer will think it’s been attacked by the North and report it as such.’
Kasseri’s brow lifted.
‘Tell that to Moscow,’ Rafferty said.
‘Why?’ Kasseri asked. ‘Why to attack your own destroyer and pretend it is the North?’
‘Politics,’ Rafferty answered. ‘We have to give the politicians in Washington an excuse to allow American involvement in hostilities.’
‘…a war?’ Kasseri asked.
Rafferty sipped his vodka.
‘Yes, a war,’ he said.
‘I do not think these politicians have fought in a war; not like you and me,’ Kasseri said. ‘If they had, they would not be so quick to make another. American politicians are the lawful fools of the people. It is the same in Russia.’
Kasseri tipped back his head and drank the vodka straight down.
‘These things would better be settled by men like us, sitting, drinking vodka and talking. Wars are for fools,’ Kasseri said. ‘Why are we not the politicians?’
Rafferty smiled at him.
‘Because we can only see beautiful things,’ he said.
Kasseri laughed.
55 January 13, 1964, Manhattan, New York
It was early and the air outside was cold like an ice box.
Rafferty walked alone down Fifth Avenue and crossed at the lights. He left the sidewalk and stepped through the gates into the Park. Two runners split and went around him. The tops of their heads steamed. He heard the wind screech through the icy branches above his head and a distant caw carried from beyond the path ahead.
He walked for a while, deep in thought. At the bench, he stopped and sat. It was cold. First light struggled to make headway against the low, thick cloud. The city glowed above the buildings and the traffic noise hummed from beyond the wall. It sounded more distant than it should. He closed his eyes. It wasn’t yet time for his meeting. Again, he concentrated and thought.
He never moralised over the actions of men. To know why people did the things they did was enough. Were there always answers to the questions? He knew not. The passing of judgment was an impossible task. To Rafferty, truth was all-important—his truth. Others may have their own ideas but Rafferty knew when truth remained hidden danger followed. Every man had to live by the code of his own philosophy; he knew that to be true. Not every man knew even they had a philosophy, but it was there, deep inside them. It was beliefs born from experience and from decisions taken, agonised over, nurtured and honed. Like an imprint on the soul.
Rafferty thought what had happened was an event no more damning than a leaf falling from a tree. Trees had many leaves and each year new ones grew.
By his deeds, shall you know a man? Rafferty considered those words and wondered who had first thought of them.
His mind went to Karen and he wondered about her own personal philosophy. He wondered what she might do if she knew the whole truth. Perhaps McGrath, the man he was going to meet, would have a view on that. He knew McGrath had answers but wondered whether his friend would share them.
It was time to go.
Rafferty stood and continued his walk along the pathway. He doubled back on himself twice just to be sure. He took a cab to the Village. Again he walked, just to be certain. He reached the house on time and continued straight by. At the end of the street, he cut back and went down an alley that linked with the rear of the building. At the back door, he let himself in.
The house was quiet and warm. He went through to the living room. There, sitting in his usual seat, watching the clock on the mantle and waiting was McGrath. He watched Rafferty remove his coat and sit before he spoke.
‘It’s an unusual light this morning, almost mauve as if snow is on the way.’
‘Operation Cherokee is on schedule,’ Rafferty said.
‘Good,’ said McGrath. ‘Were there any problems?’
‘No,’ Rafferty said.
McGrath produced two toffees. He gave one to Rafferty.
‘And the other matter?’ said McGrath.
Rafferty removed the toffee from its wrapper and held it between his fingers.
‘It didn’t turn out as planned,’ he said.
McGrath didn’t seem surprised. He nodded solicitously.
‘I thought that might happen,’ he said. ‘How is our lovely Norwegian?’
‘Clever and brave,’ Rafferty said.
‘I see,’ McGrath said. ‘What did you find to talk about?’
‘Right and wrong,’ said Rafferty.
McGrath’s face remained untroubled. He sucked his toffee.
‘She speculated,’ Rafferty said. ‘It was a conjecture really, about what happened. She made a deduction. It’s a theory. It involves me.’
‘Just you?’ said McGrath.
Rafferty nodded. For a moment, he thought McGrath was going to smile but he didn’t.
‘How so?’ he asked.
‘It all surrounds the use of Greene’s FBI badge in the seduction of Oswald,’ Rafferty said.
‘Ah yes,’ McGrath said.
‘Yes. You see, she doesn’t believe the Cubans killed Greene. She has another idea for Greene’s death and this idea puts the person she thinks killed Greene in the frame for the seduction of Oswald, as they would have had Greene’s FBI badge.’
Rafferty paused and waited for McGrath to speak. He remained silent. He turned from watching Rafferty and looked at the mantle clock. His face gave nothing away, although Rafferty knew from experience he was deep in thought. After several moments, McGrath turned his head back.
‘How can this be a problem for us?’ he asked.
Rafferty paused before he answered as if considering his words, although he already knew what he was going to reply to this question.
‘She knows about the relationship I had with Marilyn,’ he said.
McGrath’s expression remained composed and he nodded. The answer had not surprised him.
‘Yes, I see,’ he said.
He stood and lifted his coat.
‘Unfortunately, I have another pressing engagement this morning. Perhaps we can meet again tomorrow night, back in Washington, eight thirty at Tricolor. I will book a table. We can discuss the situation further then, and decide what to do.’
Rafferty nodded.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
56 January 14, 1964, Washington D.C.
Washington was freezing cold.
Rafferty stepped away from the cab, outside Tricolor and the icy air stole his warm breath. He checked his wristwatch. He was on time.
Inside the restaurant, he searched the tables. He didn’t see anyone he knew. It didn’t look as if McGrath had arrived yet.
The maitre d’ a
pproached and bowed his small head. His slick black hair caught the candlelight.
‘This way, Monsieur,’ he said, and turned away with an air of certainty that Rafferty would follow.
Rafferty did follow.
The man led him away from the busy tables, across to a short hallway that hid a staircase. On the landing above, the maitre d’ opened a wooden door marked Private and showed him through with a theatrical sweep of his arm.
‘This way, monsieur,’ he said, repeating his line from downstairs.
Rafferty walked through into the room and the man left, closing the door. Inside, three frosted wall lamps lighted the room. The chandelier, hanging from a rose in the centre of the ceiling, was not on, but its cut glass caught the light from the plain church candles that burned on the sideboard.
Rafferty had never been in this room before. He didn’t even know it existed. The window held thick curtains, drawn with many folds; they draped from ceiling to floor. Under his feet, the plush carpet gave generously with each step. In the centre of the room, laid for dinner, was a square table. Sitting at it quietly, watching and waiting was McGrath. Rafferty joined him and sat down opposite.
‘I thought we should eat in here,’ McGrath said. ‘It’s more private than downstairs.’
Rafferty nodded and McGrath continued.
‘After our meeting yesterday, I spent some time listening to a senator. It doesn’t matter which one. He told me the administration is determined to press ahead with military action in Vietnam. I know you won’t be happy to hear that.’
McGrath paused.
Rafferty didn’t respond.
‘And yet, you are the man who is helping to make it possible.’
Still, Rafferty remained silent.
‘Why do we do things, even though we know they are wrong?’ McGrath asked.
Rafferty didn’t believe in right and wrong. He never answered moral questions. He had already made his decision.
‘I’m not going to kill her,’ he said.
McGrath’s face didn’t alter. It was as if he hadn’t heard.
‘Do you know what makes you the best at what you do?’ he asked.
Rafferty didn’t answer.
‘You never say something that shouldn’t be said. It’s a rare talent.’
McGrath sighed and rubbed the stumps of his missing two fingers.
Rafferty watched him do it.
McGrath looked up and the two men shared an unspoken truth.
‘Secrets,’ McGrath said. ‘Secrets are important. They are the invisible truth. You protect that invisible truth even when it does not benefit you. That’s how good you are.’
Secrets are important, Rafferty thought, but so too is the truth. Regrettably, McGrath was right. Secrets held the world together just as hidden rivet screws hold a mirror to the wall. Everyone enjoys the mirror. Few worry about the rivet screws.
McGrath leant forward and lifted a bottle of red wine from the table. A waiter had removed the cork some hours before. McGrath half filled their glasses.
‘Chateau Margaux,’ he said, and sipped slowly. ‘It’s a beautiful wine, from the Bordeaux region.’
Rafferty lifted his glass and drank. It was at first soft and then urgent like the taste of a lover’s kiss after an absence that had been too long.
‘We should return to France,’ McGrath said, ‘together; for a visit. It’s such a beautiful country.’
Just then, before Rafferty could respond, there was a knock at the door and a male waiter entered carrying a large silver tray. He lifted the dishes and placed them on the table.
During the meal, they spoke very little. Rafferty mentioned Karen Brekke but McGrath shook it away with a friendly hand gesture.
‘After the meal,’ he said. ‘Let us eat first, and enjoy this excellent dinner.’
After that, they were silent.
McGrath placed his fork beside the knife on the empty plate and looked at Rafferty who had been waiting patiently.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know you won’t kill her.’
He was confirming what Rafferty had said. He nodded acknowledgement of the admitted agreement.
McGrath understood.
He knew that Rafferty believed he had McGrath’s loyalty; Rafferty would not have waited until he had finished his dinner otherwise. It was a simple test and both men knew it.
Rafferty too understood.
McGrath was never going to make it into a problem for him.
‘I always knew about your enduring relationship with Marilyn,’ McGrath said, ‘but I never knew she was a Russian of course, not until Greene brought me the film of Leonid telling his secret. You knew, though. You had known for a long time. I suspect from one of the Russian doubles you ran in the fifties. I won’t ask. Had Greene not killed her, I wonder what might have happened. I would have still permitted your relationship to continue. You never tell secrets.’
Rafferty watched McGrath closely while he listened.
McGrath stood up and went to the sideboard. He returned with a round bottle and two balloon glasses. Tipping the bottle, he covered the bottom of the two glasses.
‘Armagnac,’ he said, ‘the oldest and finest of all French brandies.’
They both sipped.
‘There is one thing I must be certain you believe,’ McGrath said. ‘I did not sanction the killing of Marilyn. Greene acted entirely on his own and without authorization of any kind.’
Rafferty sipped again at his Armagnac.
‘I do believe it,’ he said.
A grandfather clock standing against the far wall chimed the hour and Rafferty waited until it had finished.
‘You must have made your decision very soon after finding out about Marilyn,’ Rafferty said. ‘I cannot be sure whether you decided to blame it on the Cubans before the death of Greene or after.’
McGrath sipped his Armagnac.
‘If it was before, then you must have gambled that when Greene told me about Marilyn I would kill him; or perhaps you would have simply used my badge instead of Greene’s if he had killed me.’
Then something very rare happened. Rafferty had only seen it once before that he could remember. McGrath smiled. His eyes softened and his lips opened and spread across his face. It only lasted for a brief moment and then it was gone. Rafferty doubted he had actually seen it.
‘I’ve witnessed you in action as a combat soldier,’ said McGrath.
This was the only answer Rafferty was going to get. He accepted it with a sip of his brandy.
‘Do you remember the story you once told me from the war? You were in France working with the résistance and a senior man had unwittingly given away vital intelligence to the Germans through his indiscretions with a lover.’
McGrath nodded.
‘I remember,’ he said.
‘A short while later the man turned up dead. Some unknown person had shot him through the head,’ Rafferty said. ‘You arranged that just as you arranged this.’
‘We were in a war,’ McGrath said. ‘You don’t win a war by telling the enemy your secrets. We both know that. In wartime, mistakes must be punished so that the war can be won.’
‘…and now?’ Rafferty asked.
‘We’re in a war now,’ McGrath said simply, ‘just like we were then.’
The two men were silent. They sipped their Armagnac and considered the words spoken between them. The swinging pendulum of the grandfather clock was the only sound in the room.
Rafferty broke the silence.
‘What shall we do with Karen Brekke?’ he said.
‘Is she as clever and as brave as you say?’ McGrath asked.
‘Yes, it would appear she is,’ Rafferty said.
‘Then she’s wasted working for the White House,’ McGrath said.
He took a sip from his glass.
‘She will have to come and work with us,’ he said. ‘You must persuade her. That may be difficult. We shall have to think hard.’
‘I think I
may know a way,’ Rafferty said.
‘Oh yes,’ McGrath said, ‘how?’
‘I’ll tell her the truth,’ Rafferty said.
‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,’ McGrath said.
‘I don’t think we need to go that far.’
A knock on the door stopped the conversation. The door opened and Francesca entered. She was undertaking her ritual of bringing McGrath his coffee. She approached the table without speaking and placed the tray down beside him.
Rafferty smelt the sweet scent left in the air by her movement. He admired her elegant figure and the poise with which she held her head. She turned to leave and McGrath did something Rafferty had never seen him do before. He touched her. His hand grasped her wrist and stopped her from leaving.
‘Please, sit with us for a while,’ he said. ‘Share the coffee and the Armagnac.’
Francesca looked at him closely, trying to understand his reason as if she might find it hidden in his eyes. Rafferty didn’t think she would find anything there. She tried to move away but McGrath held her, insistently. She relented, and turned towards the sideboard. McGrath released her wrist. She returned with a coffee cup for herself and sat between the two men. McGrath poured the coffee into the three cups and gave one to Francesca and then one to Rafferty.
McGrath stood and went to the sideboard. He returned with a balloon glass for Francesca. He took his seat again, poured Armagnac into her glass and then did the same with Rafferty’s and his own. Rafferty watched him and noticed the missing two fingers from his hand.
Francesca and Rafferty waited for McGrath to speak. He had something to say. They both felt it. He gazed at Francesca and then turned to Rafferty.
‘You must know who Francesca is,’ he said, ‘and yet you have never said a word; not to me or to her. I sensed you recognised her soon after you first met her, here in Washington, and yet you remained silent. This is why you are the best.’
Rafferty remained silent.
Francesca was watching McGrath and listening intently.
‘Francesca has never recognised you,’ McGrath said. ‘Your face, of course, was painted black and her English was not good enough then for her to pick up and remember your voice.’