***
Now Gertz was in another high-rise apartment, staring through his Steiner binoculars and making his final survey of the target. The sun was fully up. The sky clear. The wind negligible. It was a beautiful day. A good day for shooting. Gertz stood and walked back into the apartment.
Chapter 44
"Now that he had me convinced that a rogue element within the CIA was planning to assassinate the president in Dallas, we couldn't seem to get there. In some ways I think that decrepit motorhome had more sense than we did. It just did not want to go to Dallas."
***
The eighteen-wheeler was stopped on the shoulder of US Highway 271, fifty yards in front of Gordon McCay's stranded motorhome. The truck driver was standing on the Winnebago's front bumper, bent over and half-buried under the hood. His grease-stained bag of tools lay open on the ground. Jake, Stacy, Gordon, and Favreau stood around the front of the motorhome, watching the trucker and occasionally handing him tools as he called for them.
The sun had just come up over the horizon.
"Think I got her," the trucker said from beneath the hood. Then he straightened up and climbed down off the bumper. Gordon handed him a dirty rag. The trucker wiped his hands, doing more to smear the black grease around on them than to remove it. "That lower hose was a real bitch." He glanced at Stacy. "Pardon my French, ma'am."
She smiled and nodded at the truck driver, then gave Favreau a surreptitious wink.
"I'm sorry it took so long," the trucker explained, "but I had a devil of a time getting these here mitts," he held up his big, hairy, dirty hands, "into those tight spaces, but I finally got the new hose on and got 'er done."
"Thank you," Stacy said. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate you helping us."
He waved off her thanks and said, "I'm just glad I could help. I can't tell you how many times I've been stuck on the side of the road and had somebody stop and lend me a hand." Then he turned to Gordon. "But listen here, you're riding on bald tires and you got a ton of maintenance needs on this here vehicle. Ain't no telling how far down the road you're going to get 'fore something else breaks loose or busts or goes flat on you."
"You think we can make it to Dallas?" Gordon asked.
The trucker screwed his face up into a look of considerable skepticism. "It's possible, but I wouldn't put a lot of money on it." He patted the motorhome. "What this gal needs is some serious TLC. You mark my words. You want these rigs to take care of you, you got to take care of them."
Jake checked his watch, 6:15. They needed to move. "Gordon, why don't you start it and we'll see if those patches hold."
"All right," Gordon said. "Here goes nothing." Then he climbed into the cab and settled behind the steering wheel. He eyed the trucker through the windshield and arched his eyebrows, as if to say, Ready?
The truck driver cautioned the others, "I'd back up a bit, just in case." So everyone, including the trucker, took a big step backward. Then the truck driver gave Gordon a thumbs-up and shouted, "Let her rip."
A low ticking came from the engine. Nothing else.
"Hold on," the driver said. "I forgot something." He grabbed a wrench and scrambled onto the bumper, then half-climbed down into the engine well. "Had to unhook the starter so I could reach that lower hose."
After a few seconds of banging, he popped back out and gave Gordon another thumbs-up. Gordon cranked the key. The motor screeched like a couple of caterwauling alley cats, then fired up. The truck driver gave Gordon two thumbs-up and belted out a kind of warbled Yee-haw. Gordon left the engine running and climbed down from the cab. Everybody shook hands. Jake's hand came away smeared with dirt and grease.
"I wouldn't go no further than Dallas," the trucker warned Gordon. "And even then, you're gonna need the good Lord's help."
Everybody promised to get the motorhome to a mechanic as soon as possible.
Now, Jake thought, if we can just get to Dallas.
***
Max Garcia stepped out the hotel's front door at 6:30 a.m. carrying a Styrofoam cup of free coffee from the lobby in one hand and his Samsonite briefcase in the other. Waiting for him under the portico were a pair of identical Chevrolet Tahoes. The temperature had dropped overnight, and the vehicles' tailpipes belched steam. When the cold hit Garcia, it made him wish he'd brought a heavier jacket up from Miami. It also made him wish he had not listened to his wife and not stopped smoking.
Blackstone sat behind the wheel of the lead Tahoe. He was alone.
In the second Tahoe, jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, were four beefed-up young studs sporting buzz cuts and looking uncomfortable in their dark suits.
Garcia strolled to the first Tahoe and slid into the passenger seat. He set his briefcase on the floorboard and pulled the door closed.
"You get enough beauty rest?" Blackstone said.
Like most people, Garcia didn't like to be mocked, and he particularly didn't like to be mocked this early in the morning. "I never worked a desk or had a staff job," he said, "and unlike you military types, I didn't spend ninety-five percent of my career training to do the other five percent."
"Take it easy," Blackstone said. "I was just making conversation. But maybe if you'd spent some time in uniform, you wouldn't be so goddamned sensitive."
"Speaking of uniforms," Garcia jerked a thumb at the SUV behind them, "I'm glad you got your frat boys out of theirs."
"I don't know exactly what we're doing, but I figured they would blend in better if they weren't in full tac gear."
"Do they have ID in case they're stopped?"
Blackstone nodded. "Today they're special agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"Good choice," Garcia said. "No one really knows what ATF does anyway."
Blackstone grabbed the steering wheel with one hand and laid his other hand on the gearshift. "So where are we going?"
"Downtown."
"It's going to be packed," Blackstone said. "The president's in town."
"I know."
Blackstone stared at him. "I need to know what's going on so I can brief my men."
"Drive," Garcia said. "I'll tell you on the way."
Blackstone let go of the wheel and the gearshift. "I need to know now."
"We're hunting four fugitives."
"Four people out of a million in downtown Dallas?"
"We'll find them."
"How?"
Garcia took a sip of his coffee. It was good, but he wished he'd put a little more cream in it. "I spent most of 1967 in the jungle in Bolivia hunting Che Guevera. I found him."
Blackstone's eyebrows arched in surprise. "That was you?"
"Yeah, that was me."
Blackstone pulled the gearshift into drive and drove away from the hotel. The second Tahoe followed. "What was he like?"
"Che?"
"Yeah."
"He told us everything he knew," Garcia said. "Then he begged for his life."
"Figures," Blackstone said, shaking his head. "Those radical types always talk a big game, but when you catch them and put the squeeze on them, they all cry for their mommas."
"You think begging for your life means you're weak?"
"Rangers don't beg," Blackstone said.
"Have you ever been tortured?"
"I was never careless enough to get captured."
"I have."
"Captured or tortured?" Blackstone asked.
"Both."
"Where?"
"Cuba," Garcia said. "In one of Fidel's prisons."
"What happened?"
"I told them what I knew." Garcia took another sip of coffee. "And then I begged for my life."
"And they let you go?"
"The guards were cruel men, but they were poorly trained and had no discipline. I killed one of them and escaped."
Blackstone didn't say anything. He just drove through the thickening early morning traffic toward downtown. Garcia could see the high-rises reaching up toward the clouds. After a few minutes
Blackstone asked, "What did you do with Che?"
"I shot him."
Chapter 45
They were headed south on US Highway 75 through the northern Dallas suburb of Richardson when the motorhome blew a gasket. The engine started choking and the inside of the old Winnebago filled up with exhaust fumes. Jake, who had taken over driving from Gordon, bailed off the highway at Arapaho Road and limped into the parking lot of a convenience store just before the engine conked out completely. Everyone piled out of the motorhome coughing.
Ten minutes later, Jake, Stacy, and Gordon stood on the side of the convenience store watching smoke seep out from under the motorhome's hood. "Even if we got it started again," Jake said, "we couldn't get near Dealey Plaza in that thing. It looks like a rolling time bomb."
Gordon snapped his fingers. "What if we called in a bomb threat? Wouldn't they have to cancel the president's speech?"
"Presidential events always get bomb threats," Jake said. "There's a protocol for it. They won't cancel the speech."
"They would still have to conduct a search, though, right?" Gordon said. "That would take time. At least we could postpone the speech."
Jake shook his head. "By the time the president gets to any public event, the venue has been locked down for hours and swept by search teams and bomb dogs."
"We could take a bus downtown," Stacy said.
"Or a cab," Gordon suggested.
"A bus is too public," Jake said. "Someone might have seen us on TV. And as for a taxi, I don't think we have enough money between all four of us for the fare."
"So what do we do?" Stacy asked.
Before Jake could admit that he really was completely out of ideas, he saw Favreau step around the corner of the store carrying four cups of coffee and a copy of the Dallas Morning News. As Favreau handed out the coffees, Jake glanced at the front page headline:
PRESIDENT TO COMMEMORATE 50TH ANNIVERSARY
OF JFK ASSASSINATION IN DEALEY PLAZA
Jake let Favreau keep the coffee. He took the newspaper instead. Beneath the headline was a graphic of Dealey Plaza. Jake read the top two paragraphs of the story:
President Omar is scheduled to speak at noon today from the steps of the Dallas County Administration Building in Dealey Plaza to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.
The Administration Building, located on the north side of Dealey Plaza at the intersection of Elm and North Houston streets, was at the time of the assassination known as the Texas School Book Depository, and it was from there-from a window on the sixth floor-that assassin Lee Harvey Oswald fired the shots on November 22, 1963 that severely wounded Texas Governor John Connally and killed President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th president of the United States....
Jake studied the map. Then he said, "I have an idea."
***
Blackstone slammed on the Tahoe's brakes in the middle of the street. The traffic on West Commerce Street approaching the Trinity River and headed downtown was barely moving. The follow-up Tahoe with the four fake ATF agents skidded and almost plowed into them. Farther behind them, horns blared. Blackstone's hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles showed white. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Garcia had just told him the full story, most of it anyway. Blackstone wasn't taking it very well. Garcia stared at him. "What did you think I meant when I said regime change?"
More horns joined the chorus.
"I don't know," Blackstone said. "But not that. You're talking about the president of the United-fucking-States."
"I'm not asking for your input. I'm telling you what's going to happen today."
"No," Blackstone said. "No fucking way. I don't want any part of this."
Garcia pointed straight ahead. "Drive."
The vehicles stuck behind them were trying to squeeze past in the next lane and on the shoulder, the drivers shouting and flipping them off. Blackstone ignored them and stared at Garcia. "Fuck you. I'm not doing it."
"You think I want to be here?" Garcia said, his voice rising to a near shout. "You think I want to be part of this? I do what I'm told, just like you."
"Not this," Blackstone said, his hands still strangling the steering wheel. "I'm not doing it."
Garcia nodded and in a much calmer voice said, "All right. If that's your choice, I understand. Drop me downtown and I'll take it from there."
"What about me?"
"I'm sorry," Garcia said. "But there's nothing I can do for you."
"No, no, no." Blackstone shook his head. "I don't know anything about what's going to happen. You didn't tell me anything. I won't know about it until I see it on the news tonight."
"It doesn't work that way."
Blackstone's hand disappeared under his jacket. When it reappeared a second later there was a Beretta 9mm pistol in it. "You reach for that little popgun in your briefcase I'll splatter your brains on that glass behind you."
"It won't be me who comes after you."
"I don't give a shit who it is. I can take care of myself."
Garcia nodded. "I know you can."
They stared at each other for a what seemed to Garcia like a long time. All around them horns were blowing.
"What's to stop me from calling...somebody?" Blackstone said.
"Making a deal, you mean?" Garcia asked. "Agreeing to cooperate?"
"Something like that."
"You'd have to admit you helped cover-up the murder of an FBI agent. Even if they took the death penalty off the table in exchange for your testimony, you'd be looking at a life sentence. But we both know you wouldn't live long enough to testify."
"Or what?" Blackstone said. His face was sweating. "What's my option?"
The angry horns kept blowing. Garcia glanced in the sideview mirror and saw a police cruiser about ten cars back. "Your option is to help me finish this."
Blackstone took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. He nodded at the SUV behind them with his four operators in it. "What about them?"
"As far as they'll ever know we were here on a covert assignment to help protect the president," Garcia said. "Unfortunately, we failed."
After another deep breath, Blackstone holstered his pistol. "Okay."
The policeman in the cruiser behind them flipped on his overhead lights and started inching around the backed-up cars.
Garcia pointed straight ahead. "Drive."
Blackstone drove.
***
A lime green Cadillac Fleetwood pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store at 8:00 a.m. and glided to a stop next to the beached motorhome. The Caddy was circa 1980, with chrome rims, curb feelers, even a color-coordinated boomerang TV antenna on the trunk. All four windows were down and The Commodores' Brick House was playing so loud the car vibrated with the bass notes.
Jake ducked to look through the passenger window and saw Favreau behind the wheel, smiling. "Whose car is this?" Jake shouted. But Favreau either couldn't hear him over the music or chose to ignore him because he didn't answer. He just kept smiling and tapping the steering wheel to the beat. The Caddy's stereo was equipped with a cassette tape deck, something that had faded into music history around the time Jake was born. He almost hated to do it-the song was a really cool one-but he reached through the window and switched off the stereo.
Stacy gave a long, appreciative whistle. "Wow!" she said. "Where did you get this beauty?"
"I borrowed it," Favreau said.
"Let me guess," Jake said. "From another one of your friends."
The Frenchman laid a hand over his heart and smiled. "I am indeed fortunate to have so many generous friends."
Jake nodded. "I bet."
"Well?" Stacy said.
Jake turned to face Stacy and Gordon. Both were staring at him, clearly expecting some kind of direction from him. He threw up his hands. "Get in," he said. "And let's go downtown."
Stacy and Gordon climbed into the back seat, leaving the front seat open for
Jake. He slid in and pulled the door shut.
The car was immaculate, complete with white leather upholstery and a fake leopard skin steering wheel cover.
"There's even a TV back here," Stacy said.
Favreau rested his fingers on the stereo's power button. "Music, anyone?" He was smiling again.
Jake glanced over his shoulder. Stacy and Gordon were smiling. Then it got to him too, and he felt a smile crease his own face. He couldn't help it. Maybe that's exactly what they needed, something, anything really, to smile about. He looked at Favreau and nodded. "Play that song again, the one that was playing when you drove up."
"Brick House," Stacy said. "It's my favorite song to dance to." She caught Jake's eye in the sideview mirror. "You like to dance?" she asked.
"I wish," he said. "But I've got two left feet."
"Nothing will teach you rhythm better than seventies funk."
"Maybe you can show me," he said, but at the same instant Favreau switched on the stereo and Brick House drowned out his words. In the mirror Stacy was still smiling. And so was Jake.
A few minutes later they were barreling south on US Highway 75 toward downtown Dallas, listening to The Commodores.
Chapter 46
After nearly an hour on the cramped bus, Ray Fluker got off two stops early. He just couldn't take sitting in the narrow seat any longer as the bus rocked back and forth, crawling forward, then lurching to a stop in the endless downtown traffic. He was feeling claustrophobic and sweating despite the autumn chill. The dark-skinned man seated next to him had made him nervous, mumbling to himself in some incomprehensible foreign gibberish and scribbling notes on the back of a crumpled receipt. Maybe the guy had been praying to Allah. Maybe he had been writing a song. Fluker didn't care. He just wanted off that damned bus.
The Second Shooter Page 19