The Remembering tm-3

by Steve Cash

  Long after everyone had either left or gone to bed, Jack, Ray, and I were still awake, sitting in the kitchen, talking and drinking the last of the coffee. Jack said he would take care of all the legal work concerning Mitch, Mercy, and their property. Ray pointed over to two brass urns sitting on a table near the door. They contained the ashes of Mitch and Mercy. “What are you gonna do with them?” he asked. Jack paused and the three of us stared at the urns.

  Before Jack could answer, I said, “Paris.”

  Ray looked at me. “What do you mean, ‘Paris’?”

  “We’re going to take their ashes to Paris and get on a boat and let them go, into the wind and over the water of the Seine, the heart of Paris. There’s only one place where their ashes should be — the place where they fell in love.”

  Jack and Ray nodded in silent approval. We kept staring at the urns for another ten minutes, then turned out the lights and went to bed.

  Instead of insisting that I stay, this time Carolina was urging me to leave. Once she heard my idea, she applauded it and suggested it should be carried out sooner rather than later. Jack made all the necessary arrangements and within two days, Jack, Ray, Nova, and I said our farewells, flew to New York, changed planes, and flew nonstop to Paris. On the flight over, I thought about the future. I didn’t know when I’d return to St. Louis. The sphere had to be found and it had to be read.

  In Paris, Jack leased an available peniche, or barge turned houseboat, for ten days. It was located on the Canal St. Martin and suited our purposes perfectly. Shortly after sunrise on the second day, with Jack as pilot, we made our way slowly out of the canal and scattered the ashes of Mitch and Mercy into the dark waters of the Seine. It was a quiet and solemn act and Jack ended it with a quiet sentence and prayer. He said simply, “God bless both of you, forever.”

  That afternoon I telephoned Opari in Montreux and told her where we were and why. The following day Opari, Sheela, and Sailor boarded a train and joined us in Paris. Just seeing Opari again lifted my spirits immediately. Sailor knew that Mitch and I had been close, and he gave me his condolences and sympathy, something rare for Sailor.

  The peniche Jack had leased could accommodate up to a dozen people, so there was plenty of room, and living on the river and canals of a large and vibrant city like Paris suited all of us. At the end of the ten-day lease, Jack decided the barge would make an excellent base of operations and we agreed. He made a generous offer to buy it, which was accepted, and we became the new “river rats” of Paris. The name of our barge was the Giselle and in no time Opari, Nova, and Sheela had transformed her tiny galley into a floating gourmet’s kitchen.

  Jack’s cover for remaining in Paris for an extended length of time was a series of articles published in the American magazine Sports Illustrated. Each article was written about different events in the upcoming 1960 Olympics in Rome. However, his real work was helping us search for any trace of Valery and the Beekeeper. For this, he used Cardinal’s European network of agents and contacts. On several occasions during the summer and fall we thought we had a lead, but none of them ever became anything we could use.

  Time passed. Sailor and I kept in touch with Mowsel and the others in San Sebastian, but mainly we stayed in Paris. We settled into a life living on the river. Every season was intensified and stood alone, and yet every season followed one into the other in a graceful, seamless parade. There is, without a doubt, something timeless about living on the river.

  Finally, in the spring of 1963, an odd set of circumstances combined to create a breakthrough, although we didn’t know it at the time. It came not from Cardinal’s network, but from Ray and Opari and a conversation they observed quite by accident. Three years earlier Ray had discovered a new passion, photography, when he accompanied Jack to the 1960 Olympics and returned with stunning pictures he had taken of the sprinter Wilma Rudolph and Cassius Clay, winner of the light-heavyweight gold medal. He gradually acquired more and more cameras and lenses and began taking photographs all over Paris, often using Opari or Nova as models.

  On May 15 Cardinal, who was now seventy-seven years old, came to Paris for a visit and to announce his retirement. That same morning Ray and Opari had gone to the Eiffel Tower to take pictures. Ray was experimenting with telephoto lenses and panoramic vistas. They had climbed to the upper observation deck with a full view of Paris spread out before them. At one point, while Ray searched through his equipment for more film, he handed his camera to Opari. To pass the time, she put the camera to her eye and scanned the crowd far below. To her shock and amazement, she recognized a man walking by, a man she could never forget. It was Blaine Harrington, the same man who had used and abused Zuriaa. He was walking with another man whom she had never seen before. Instinctively, she handed Ray the camera and told him to take a photograph of the two men. He quickly reloaded and focused, shooting a dozen snapshots of the two men before they disappeared in the distance.

  Ray went directly from the Eiffel Tower to have the film developed and Opari returned to the Giselle, telling us of the encounter. While we waited for Ray, we speculated on what Blaine Harrington might be doing in Paris. Jack said the last rumor he’d heard of “Colonel” Harrington was that, through a third party, he’d purchased a vast and remote property in Mexico or possibly Texas. Cardinal added, “But no one I know in Washington knows for certain what he’s up to.”

  Ray came back three hours later with a folder of eight-by-ten photographs. He laid them out across the kitchen counter and the table next to it. Every picture was clear with good resolution and detail. I studied the face of Blaine Harrington. He was older, of course, but underneath the creases and lines was the same hard and humorless expression. He still wore wire-rimmed glasses and his graying hair was short and cut exactly as it had been at the end of World War II.

  “One thing is clear,” Sailor said, staring back and forth at both men in the photos. “This is not a social conversation. These men are conducting business.”

  Cardinal put on his glasses and scanned the pictures, mumbling, “Well, well, well.” When he was finished, he looked up and said, “I know the other man.”

  “Who is he?” Opari asked.

  “His name is Sesine, but he is known by other names—‘the Algerian’ and ‘the Broker’ being among them. He is rich, he is ruthless, and Interpol would love to have these pictures, Ray. This man is a ghost. Whatever Blaine Harrington is buying, selling, or planning with Sesine, it will be exotic, illegal, dangerous, and expensive. Sesine has brokered everything from unattainable antiquities to international assassinations. He is also said to have been one of the few people who have successfully arranged an assassination by the Beekeeper and not been eliminated afterward.” Cardinal paused and removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Well, I guess my retirement is postponed for a while. I’ll get these pictures to all my contacts as soon as possible. Perhaps Sesine will surface again soon, and if he does, we will be watching.”

  We did not have to wait long. On June 26 Sesine was spotted in West Berlin, and once again it was quite by accident. One of Cardinal’s agents, a Canadian woman working in Berlin for NATO, attended the speech given by President John F. Kennedy in Rudolph Wilde Platz near the Berlin Wall. She had brought her 8mm camera in order to record the event because she planned on sending the film back to her friends and family in Halifax. After the famous speech, as she was leaving, she happened to catch sight of Sesine and two others standing and talking at the edge of the thinning crowd. Without hesitating and without being seen, she moved in closer and began filming their conversation. She was only able to capture about thirty seconds before the three parted and walked away.

  Two days later, the film was in Paris, where we watched it with shock and surprise. In the clip, Sesine is in conversation with a tall man wearing expensive tailored clothes and another man at least a foot and a half shorter. The tall man’s face is visible and I recognized him immediately — Valery. The shorter man is turned slightly
away from the camera, and he is carrying what looks to be a cane. He also wears dark glasses and a fishing cap with an elongated bill, which keeps his face in shade for the entire thirty seconds.

  We watched the film over and over. Sailor could tell the men were speaking French, and after six or seven more screenings, he was able to read their lips. However, it was a broken conversation because people kept walking past and temporarily obscuring the faces of Sesine and Valery. As Sailor translated, this was the conversation:

  VALERY: You have seen it?

  SESINE: Yes.

  VALERY: Is it what we seek?

  SESINE: Yes, but Cowboy wants to play at home (INTERRUPTION) the pawn is in place.

  VALERY: Then comes the prize?

  SESINE: Only (INTERRUPTION) order (INTERRUPTION) is arranged.

  VALERY: When?

  SESINE: In five (INTERRUPTION) on (INTERRUPTION) two.

  Both Sesine and Valery then turn to the short man. He says something and they nod, then all three leave in three separate directions. End of clip.

  The transcript of the conversation was studied by all of us. It was simultaneously enlightening and baffling, and our questions were endless. Why had they chosen that certain time and place for their meeting? What was Valery seeking? What was the “prize”? Who or what was the “pawn”? Who was “Cowboy”? Were they discussing a transaction, an assassination, or both? And most important, what was the exact date that Sesine mentioned at the end?

  Ray filled in the blanks and concluded that Sesine had said, “In five weeks on August 2.” It made sense, and Cardinal and Jack did the research to find out if the date held any significant conferences, speeches, or other events. There were many, too many to narrow it down to one person or one place. But August 2 came and went and there were no reports of anything out of the ordinary. I continued to study the film clip and transcript while we waited and watched. September passed without a clue, as did October. Then, on November 19, a break came from one of Cardinal’s sources inside the NSA, or National Security Agency. They had picked up a message sent from Dallas, Texas, to East Berlin. In the message, the caller identified himself as “Cowboy” and referred to something called “Operation Checkmate,” confirming to the other party that it was a “go.” Because of the reference to chess, we assumed the caller had to be our “Cowboy.” I thought back to Sesine’s last remark in the clip, and finally it came to me. It was so simple. It was five months, not weeks, and the date was twenty-two, not two. He had said, “In five months on November twenty-two.” That was now only three days away. I looked at the transcript again. Sesine had also said “Cowboy” wanted to play at home. Could home be Dallas, Texas?

  I glanced at Cardinal and Jack. “Is anything happening in Dallas on the twenty-second?”

  Cardinal thought for a moment. “I believe the President is in Texas this week. He could be in Dallas on the twenty-second.”

  “I think we better get on a plane tonight.”

  “Where we goin’?” Ray asked.

  “Dallas, Texas.”

  We weren’t able to book a flight until early the next morning, and not wanting to draw any extra attention to ourselves, only Sailor and I flew out of Paris with Cardinal and Jack. Ray was disappointed, but he understood. Also, Sailor and I carried the Stones, which Ray did not, and if a difficult situation arose, they might be needed. Even before landing, we learned that President Kennedy was, in fact, due in Dallas on the twenty-second. He and his wife were to arrive at Love Field, then ride along with the governor of Texas and his wife in an open motorcade right through the city. Jack said, “If it’s going to happen, that’s where it will happen — somewhere along that route.”

  Cardinal checked us into the Adolphus Hotel, an elegant old hotel he said he had first visited forty years earlier. We ordered a late dinner from room service and discussed our options. Cardinal made the critical decision to not pass our information on to the Secret Service. He knew they would doubt its veracity and he feared they might want to know more about where he obtained the information than its content. And they would definitely want to know more about Sailor and me, which we could not allow.

  Early on Thursday, November 21, Jack rented a car and we spent the day driving back and forth along the route the motorcade would be taking. We were looking for vulnerable locations that a sniper might find attractive. There were too many to count, but one stood out above the others. It was the area around Dealey Plaza, where the motorcade would have to slow down considerably in order to make a series of turns before exiting onto Elm Street. We decided that was the area where we would patrol and keep vigil the next day. Sailor said he felt somewhat like the Basque shepherd, alone in a vast wilderness, watching for wolves.

  That night I had several strange, convoluted dreams, each of which woke me with a start and a gasp. In the morning I remembered none of them, but I felt exhausted, as if I’d been running or swimming all night long.

  Around ten o’clock we separated and took our positions of observation. Sailor wandered among the gathering crowd at the entrance to Dealey Plaza. Cardinal stood near the steps of the Texas School Book Depository, where the route turned onto Elm Street. Jack was across the street next to the John Neely Bryan concrete pergola. I was a few hundred feet to the south on the triple underpass, a railroad bridge that crossed over Elm Street. It was a clear day with very little wind, and the sun was already high in the sky. We watched and we waited.

  By noon the crowd had doubled. Many people carried cameras, but the majority simply lined the road hoping for a glimpse of the President and the First Lady. I didn’t see anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The minutes ticked by. At 12:30 a man standing near me turned and asked if I had “cut school” to come and see Kennedy. Before I could answer I felt a sudden chill and prickly sensation on the skin of my arms and neck. Then the man said, “Here they come.” I looked north on Elm Street and the motorcade was entering Dealey Plaza. The crowd shouted and waved as the President’s limousine turned onto Elm and passed the Book Depository. Then a gunshot rang out, and then another. The President grabbed his throat. Then came the third and fatal shot, but there was something extremely unusual about it that only I could hear. Because of my “ability,” I was able to pinpoint the source of the gunshots immediately — a window on the sixth floor of the Book Depository. However, the third shot had actually been two shots at once, fired simultaneously so that they sounded like one shot. The other gun was fired from somewhere in the shade on a grassy knoll to my left. In an instant I looked that way to see a man leap behind a fence and vanish in a split second. His movements were as quick and graceful as Geaxi, and I was probably the only one who saw him. I had seen him before in a film clip. He was short. He wore a fishing cap with an elongated bill and he was carrying what looked to be a cane, only now I knew the cane was actually a unique and deadly sniper rifle. He was the Beekeeper, and he had just assassinated the President of the United States.

  There is no way to adequately describe the shock, madness, and sadness that followed in the next few days. It is well known and documented that the events changed something in America and Americans forever. Perhaps it was the hard truth and unwanted knowledge that all dreams are assailable and anyone can be murdered.

  As for us, Sailor and I made a brief visit to St. Louis with Jack. Then the three of us flew back to Paris via New York. Cardinal was devastated and horrified by what happened in Dallas. For days he kept repeating, “Why? Why?” None of us had the answer or any other concerning “Cowboy,” the Beekeeper, and Valery. We came upon them too late and with too little. Now nothing could change it, and they had disappeared once again. Cardinal flew from Dallas to Washington, D.C., where he said he was going to stay. “I am too old for this,” he said. “I’ll send you anything that comes my way, but I’ll be staying home.” We understood and wished him well.

  On the long flight to Paris, neither Sailor nor I could sleep, so we talked at length about all things Meq, including the G
ogorati, the Remembering. What was it? Would it be a beginning, an end, or some kind of transition? Would we find out why we are the way we are? Would we learn the truth? I asked Sailor what he expected to happen. He laughed and said, “The unexpected.”

  “But what if we can’t find the sphere?”

  “Be patient, Zianno. It may take years, but we shall find this sphere and you shall read it.”

  “That is what Opari told me.”

  “She is correct, and she is your Ameq, Zianno. Believe her for your own sake.”

  Sailor was right, of course. Once we landed and made our way across the city to the Canal St. Martin and the Giselle, and I looked into Opari’s eyes, those black and beautiful eyes, I didn’t care how long it took to find the sphere. I, she, we … would wait.

  But it is odd how things sometimes play out and turn around. Just under five months later, on April 16, Cardinal sent us a message. A sport-fishing yacht, a sixty-four-foot Bertram, was found drifting in the Gulf of Mexico, four miles off the coast of Matagorda Island in South Texas. On board, the Coast Guard discovered the bodies of two men who had been dead for several days. They had each been shot once in the back of the head, execution style, and their throats had been slashed ear to ear. No money, jewelry, or valuables of any kind were missing. The name of the yacht itself was Cowboy’s Dream, and the name of one of the men, the owner of the yacht, was Blaine Harrington, Captain U.S. Army, retired.