The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  Francesca’s eyes did not leave McGrath’s face. He turned to her and held her gaze.

  ‘Rafferty is the soldier from that night in France. The one you met in the graveyard, the one who saved me.’

  Francesca’s eyes left McGrath’s face and her head turned rapidly to look at Rafferty. She stared at him for many moments. Then she went to him and placed her hands on his chest. With her eyelashes wet, she kissed him hard on one cheek and then tenderly on the other.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Then she glared back at McGrath with Gallic anger in her wet, shining eyes and on her lips.

  ‘Why did you never tell me?’ she said.

  ‘It was not for me to say,’ McGrath said. ‘It was Rafferty’s secret. It was only his to tell.’

  ‘But you tell me now?’

  ‘I have my reasons,’ he said.

  Rafferty looked at McGrath but he didn’t speak.

  McGrath raised his glass of Armagnac.

  ‘To Shaun Fitzgerald,’ he said.

  Rafferty raised his glass.

  ‘Shaun Fitzgerald,’ he said.

  The two men both drank. There was silence.

  ‘Was Shaun Fitzgerald the other soldier that night, the one who was killed?’ Francesca asked.

  Rafferty nodded.

  ‘Yes, the soldier who was killed,’ he said.

  57 January 15, 1964, Manhattan, New York

  When Rafferty got home it was mid-afternoon.

  He made coffee and drank it standing by the tall window. The Park was bare and windswept. Raindrops began to hit the glass and obscure the view.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ he answered.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Karen asked. ‘I’ve been calling you.’

  ‘I had to go to Washington,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t like the way it ended,’ she said. ‘You left so suddenly. There was more to talk about.’

  ‘What more was there to say?’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t give me an answer.’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘Do you want to meet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Can you come to my apartment in the Village?’

  ‘…when?’

  ‘…now,’ she said.

  Karen made a pot of English tea. She wanted their meeting to be civilised. Rafferty tasted the tea and added more sugar.

  He was relaxed and friendly as if what she had said to him the last time they were together, at her parents’ home in Florida, she had never said.

  ‘Is the tea okay?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  She remembered her words and her accusations.

  Rafferty placed his cup in the saucer. His eyes went to her face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t the Cubans,’ he said.

  Karen’s eyes searched his. She put her tea down and sat up.

  ‘I know that,’ she said.

  Rafferty gazed at her. He had made his decision but still it was hard.

  ‘There’s something you don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘What don’t I know?’

  ‘It’s about Marilyn.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me the truth?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘The reason… the explanation…’

  Rafferty broke off. He was struggling to find the words.

  ‘Is it the reason why Greene killed her?’ Karen said.

  Rafferty nodded again. Now, he had found the words.

  ‘Marilyn was born in Russia,’ he said. ‘She came to America as a very young child.’

  He paused.

  Karen didn’t speak. She was staring at him. He could see she was thinking.

  ‘When the Russian’s put the missiles into Cuba, leading to a forced standoff, Russian Intelligence needed to know what was happening in the White House.’

  ‘She was spying for Russian Intelligence,’ Karen said. Her eyes were big at the thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They activated her. The President’s sexual indiscretions turned easily into secrets and handed straight to the Kremlin.’

  Karen was silent. She sipped her tea and stared at him.

  ‘It was the only thing I was missing,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have the link between the relationship and the reason for her killing. As I said in Florida, I knew the reason had to be national security but I didn’t know what.’

  ‘Now you do,’ he said, ‘and only two other Americans alive know it too.’

  ‘You and…’ she said.

  ‘A man,’ Rafferty said. ‘You’re going to meet him soon.’

  There was silence while they looked at each other. Karen could sense something important was going to happen.

  ‘Have you told anyone else about your theory?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, nobody,’ she said. ‘I was waiting to talk to you again before I made up my mind about what to do.’

  Rafferty nodded and drank some tea.

  ‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can see what it is.’

  Karen could. Secrets got people killed. She wasn’t naive. She understood exactly what the problem was.

  ‘Have you made up your mind about what you’re going to tell the White House?’ he asked.

  This was the question. Could Rafferty rely on her silence? Karen stared at him. That feeling returned. It was the one from when they were together at Players on New Year’s Day. It was the subconscious sexual excitement caused by his ruthless nature. She tried to keep the sudden exhilaration her body felt from her face. Inwardly, she shivered.

  ‘How do we know we can trust each other?’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.

  ‘I’ve already demonstrated my trust by telling you about Marilyn,’ he said.

  Karen’s eyes held him as though she was searching far beyond his words. She wanted to look at his soul but she couldn’t quite see it. There was a flicker from her eyelids and her lips parted.

  ‘I’ll tell the White House, I believe the Cubans were responsible,’ she said.

  Rafferty nodded.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said.

  Her sexual excitement jumped.

  Karen stood and moved to him. She picked up his hand and pulled.

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve shown you my bedroom,’ she said.

  58 January 16, 1964, Washington D.C.

  The following day Edward Rafferty and Karen Brekke flew to Washington D.C.

  The room was warm and quiet. Padded backed chairs and a low round table kept company beside a small fire.

  They sat opposite one another and Karen’s eyes remained neutral.

  It was late afternoon, and a single floor lamp sent yellow light across the ceiling.

  Rafferty poured from the coffeepot and Karen lifted the cup and saucer and balanced them on her bare knee.

  ‘It’s a nice room,’ she said and turned her head to look. ‘Who uses it?’

  ‘A man named William McGrath,’ Rafferty said. ‘He’ll join us soon.’

  ‘It’s an unusual place to work,’ Karen said, ‘almost as though it were hidden away. Like a secret place.’

  ‘Yeah, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘William McGrath is an unusual man.’

  Karen nodded as if she didn’t need to ask anymore. She sipped her coffee and smiled.

  ‘Lovely furniture,’ she said.

  Rafferty lifted his cup and drank.

  ‘It’s European,’ he said.

  ‘Must have been expensive,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ he said.

  Rafferty sat up and poured a second cup of coffee.

  Karen sat up as well and placed her cup and saucer on the low table.

  ‘I feel a little scared,’ she said, ‘as if I was waiting to see my school Principle in his office.’

  Rafferty didn’t respond.

  Karen was silent and Rafferty wondered if she was remembering her sch
ool Principle.

  The silence was broken, a few moments later, when the door opened and McGrath entered alone.

  ‘Ah good, you’re here,’ he said. ‘May I join you?’

  Karen glanced at Rafferty.

  ‘We’ve saved you a chair,’ Rafferty said.

  McGrath went to the chair and sat down. It was beside Karen. She watched him.

  ‘This is Karen Brekke,’ Rafferty said.

  McGrath nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  ‘My name is William McGrath,’ he said. ‘Rafferty and I work together. He’s explained everything to me and I fully agree with his conclusions. We want you to come and work with us.’

  For a moment, Karen was surprised, but she quickly composed herself. McGrath waited while his words settled gently in the room like dropped crumbs on a polished table.

  Karen waited for him to continue.

  ‘I hope you’ll say yes,’ he said. ‘The arrangements can be easily made. We’d want you to begin with us immediately.’

  ‘What’s the job?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not easy to describe,’ he said.

  ‘How would you describe it?’ he asked, turning to Rafferty.

  ‘We work tirelessly, selflessly and without compromise for the safety and prosperity of the American people,’ Rafferty said.

  McGrath stared at him with a quizzical expression.

  ‘I heard a senator say that on television the other day,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Ah,’ McGrath said, in understanding. ‘If you don’t already know, Karen, Rafferty doesn’t like politicians.’

  ‘I know,’ Karen said.

  McGrath nodded.

  ‘The work would mostly involve your analytical intelligence. I understand you are both clever and brave. I think you would be an invaluable asset,’ he said.

  Karen had been watching McGrath closely. She had listened to his words carefully. The prospect of his offer made her tingle. She was still excited from starting her new relationship with Rafferty. Now, they were offering her a job in the intelligence service or whichever branch of it Rafferty and McGrath were involved in. She understood that McGrath knew everything. She didn’t want to appear frightened or childish.

  ‘How did you lose your two fingers?’ she asked.

  McGrath didn’t look at his hand or move it from his lap.

  ‘They were removed with a bolt cutter by a Nazi SS officer in France in nineteen forty-four,’ he said. ‘I was a spy, working with the French résistance and I was arrested by the Gestapo. They interrogated me. Fortunately, I was rescued before I told them any of my secrets, but not before the SS officer had removed two of my fingers.’

  Karen was silent.

  Both McGrath and Rafferty watched her closely. They both suspected she was imagining how it might feel to be in that situation.

  Her eyelashes widened and her lips parted.

  ‘I accept your offer of employment,’ she said.

  59 May 6, 1964, The French Riviera

  The French Mediterranean coastline shimmered with beauty and elegance. It had an exuberant energy for life and love.

  The two couples behaved like all wealthy American visitors to the intoxicating Cote d’Azur; they wore bright clothes, drank colourful cocktails and tipped generously.

  Francesca did what all wealthy Frenchwomen do when they visit from abroad; she complained about the service, spoke only French, despite her excellent English and wore dark sunglasses, even indoors.

  Karen applied sunscreen to her face, constantly, and immediately picked up the French language.

  McGrath wore a straw hat and a colourful shirt, and he insisted on speaking to the wine waiter at every opportunity.

  Rafferty swam in the hotel pool. Some of the women looked at his body; all of them stared at his scars.

  They left the hotel together.

  The view across the Mediterranean was long; it felt like seeing to the edge of the world. An empty, endless sky helped the sun’s May warmth buoy the air. Only the occasional flutter of sea breeze broke the spell.

  The hotel front desk had arranged the big Citroen sedan and polite driver.

  The Frenchman had a map and instructions of where to take them.

  Francesca spoke to him in rapid French and explained the best route. The man acceded to her insistence and plotted his route with well-mannered nods from his brown head.

  He drove off and after the first turning put the map away.

  The drive was pleasant and gentle.

  They travelled inland, through the attractive countryside that was decorated with May blossom.

  On the outskirts of the town, Francesca gave directions to the driver and together they soon found the right way.

  Rafferty didn’t recognise the town. Even the church spire seemed different. He tried to imagine it at night but in his memory, it was taller than it really was.

  They walked through the street and into the square. Rafferty stood and stared at the town hall. A French flag hung from a pole on the roof. Francesca looked up at it proudly. Rafferty and McGrath walked around, behind the building and looked up at the wall with the hand and toe holds between the blocks. Neither of them spoke.

  Back in the square, Rafferty walked to the spot on the cobbles where his friend had fallen. Karen came up beside him and sensing the significance, put her arm inside his and pressed her body against him in silent understanding.

  Rafferty looked up and saw McGrath and Francesca embracing one another. They both felt it strongly too.

  The café was open, and they sat at a table outside and sipped coffee.

  Sitting on benches, against the town hall were a group of old men. McGrath studied their faces but he didn’t recognise any of them. He could smell the strong smoke from their Gauloise cigarettes and hear their heavy accented voices as they chatted together casually.

  While the four of them drank their coffee, Francesca told them some things about the town’s history and about its importance for the résistance. During the war, the town had had a vital safe house, used for hiding weapons and people from the Nazis.

  Back in the Citroen, Francesca made the driver take the route through the fields across the grass tracks. The man drove slowly and the Citroen didn’t bounce as much as Rafferty remembered.

  Outside, looking at the farmhouse, Rafferty tried again to remember but he couldn’t. Inside, though, in the kitchen his memory was clear. He pictured the old couple and the man who had driven the car, and he saw his dead friend lying on the floor.

  ‘The old couple,’ said McGrath, ‘they’re both dead now. The farm is owned by their son, Henri.’

  Rafferty shook the burly Frenchman’s hand and thanked him for allowing them to visit. He also thanked Henri’s pretty wife and he smiled at their three young children, who watched him shyly from behind their parents.

  They went outside, through the kitchen door, beyond the vegetable plot and through a large orchard. Next to the orchard was a gravestone. Someone had recently cut the grass and on the grave laid two folded flags. One was American and the other was French.

  Rafferty stood beside McGrath with Francesca and Karen on either side. Henri and his wife and their children watched from the orchard.

  Rafferty read the inscription on the gravestone:

  Shaun Fitzgerald

  1922—1944

  A brave American soldier

  France will never forget

  The gravestone was weathered and had obviously been in place for many years. Rafferty looked up at McGrath.

  ‘Did you arrange this?’ he asked.

  McGrath nodded.

  ‘It was one of the first things I did when I got back to the States,’ he said.

  In that moment, Rafferty understood something of great importance but he didn’t say what it was. Instead, he looked again at the gravestone and then up at the surrounding countryside.

  He smiled.

  Karen saw him.

  ‘Why are you smilin
g?’ she asked.

  Rafferty didn’t answer.

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