by Steve Berry
“Lieutenant Malone,” Foster said. “I’ll say it again. You must see why I can’t allow Coleen to learn any of this.”
Part of me was disgusted even talking to this man. He was a willing party in a conspiracy to commit murder. Add to that the victim had been a leader, a hero, an icon. Even worse, he seemed to only care what Coleen would think. Which was not in doubt. But I needed this man to keep talking. So I played along.
“I get it, loud and clear. But, Reverend, this toothpaste is out of the tube. It’s going to be hard to keep this a secret anymore.”
He shook his head. “Coleen doesn’t know any of this. Just you, me, Lael, Oliver, and Jansen. Valdez suspects, considering I had the coin, but he doesn’t know for sure. We can keep this secret. Just give them the files.”
Most of the dots had connected.
One remained.
“On the recording you asked for a million dollars. Yet they gave you a 1933 Double Eagle. How did that happen?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We sat in the truck, with the windows down, beneath the shade of a stately oak. The June day was warm with little breeze. The bustling metropolis that was Micanopy, population 450 according to the welcome sign out on the highway, churned along at a quiet pace.
I watched as Foster struggled with his thoughts.
“You have to understand,” he said. “I was only twenty-three. Barely out of divinity school. Martin recruited me before I was ever assigned a church. I was young, brash, and, in some ways, terribly arrogant. We all were some combination of that back then. It seemed necessary in order to endure what we had to endure. Four years I traveled across the country with him. So many protests. So many marches. Poverty was everywhere. It seemed the Negro’s fate to always be poor. Most had little to no chance of doing anything meaningful with their lives. A few managed success, but the vast majority were beat down and held in their place by a system that refused to yield. I wasn’t one of those who thought we should burn the country down in a violent revolution to change things.”
“You just wanted to be rich.” I mocked him with words from the tape.
He nodded. “I was foolish with money. I loved to bet on horses, dogs, sports, you name it. And I wasn’t good at it. But it was an outlet. I liked nice clothes, fancy cars, good beer. In short, I liked to spend money. But what twentysomething-year-old doesn’t?”
“What did you think would happen once King was dead?”
“I didn’t care. None of that mattered to me. I only wanted my million dollars.”
“But you got a coin.”
He nodded. “A final insult from the white establishment.”
“What is this?” Foster said, examining the gold coin Jansen had laid on the table.
“A 1933 Double Eagle. It’s worth millions of dollars.”
“How many millions?”
“Four or five at least. It’s actually the last one known to exist.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
Jansen shrugged. “Sell it. Some buyer somewhere will pay you for it. Just be careful and don’t get caught. It’s actually illegal to own that coin.”
“I don’t want it. We agreed on a million dollars. Cash.”
“And I just paid you more with the coin.”
“That was not our deal.”
“Look, Foster. There’s no way we can give you a million dollars in cash. The moment you go to put that in a bank, red flags would rise everywhere.”
“I have no intention of putting that money in a bank.”
Jansen waved off the observation. “We can’t risk anything being traced back to us. This has to be a clean break. You did your part. We did ours. We had this coin, which no one knows about. There’s no trail back to us, besides your word. But you would have to implicate yourself in a conspiracy to commit murder in order to involve us. Besides, no one would believe you anyway. Trust me, preacher, we have erased all connections to you. There’s not a piece of paper that even hints you ever existed. It’s all gone. So take the damn coin. Sell it. And be grateful.”
“You’re a lying bastard.”
“And you’re the guy who sold out Martin Luther King Jr. for money. Which one of us is worse? You’re lucky we even gave you the coin.”
Foster picked up the gold piece. “Millions, you say?”
“Yep. I’m told it’s the most valuable coin in the world.”
“After he gave me the coin,” Foster said, “I never saw or spoke to Jansen again, until yesterday.”
“If not for Valdez and his pictures from Jansen’s file, it would be all gone. Too bad for them it’s not.”
And I brought out the two thick manila envelopes again.
“They want those and the coin,” Foster said, “in return for Coleen and Nate. They told me that if we can’t make a trade, Nate and Coleen will go back to Cuba with Valdez and I’ll never see either of them again. Do you still have the coin?”
I patted my jean pocket. “Safe and sound.”
And I also still had Cie’s rifle, whatever good that would do me.
“We have to give them what they want,” Foster said. “Oliver said he’d give me the original of the recording you have here.”
“Is that why you sold me out in Port Mayaca?”
“We were brought to Oliver’s house for appearances. Once you and he talked and everything was secure, we would have all been released and I would have the original recording. Everything over. It seemed like a smart move.”
“Except that Valdez had other ideas.”
“That caught Jansen and Oliver off guard. So they’ve sent me to try one more time. They want this to go away as much as I do.”
But I didn’t.
I was now privy to a conspiracy that would shock the world.
“J. Edgar Hoover sanctioned the death of Martin Luther King Jr. Surely you can see that I can’t let that go.”
“What good comes from exposing it now?”
“Jansen and Oliver will go to prison.”
“As will I, and I’ll lose a daughter in the process.”
“That inevitability was set in motion a long time ago, when you made the deal with them.”
“I never sold the coin.”
“Why not?”
“Never could find a buyer.”
I smiled. “I thought you were broke. In debt. I thought you wanted to be rich. Tell me the truth. Why didn’t you sell it?”
“The last year of Martin’s life was truly difficult for him. He lost the president’s ear when he came out against the war. He’d already lost the ear of many young blacks, who no longer believed nonviolence was the way for change. His marriage was in trouble. The SCLC swirled in civil war. He stayed depressed, tired, and despondent. Even his health was failing. He was overweight, smoked terribly, and drank too much. Doctors had told him he had the beginnings of serious heart disease.
“Black people were tired of being beat up by racists and thrown in jail, offering no resistance. They’d had enough of symbols. Even worse, many whites soured on Martin because of his shift on the Vietnam War. They accepted him as a spokesperson for civil rights, but not as an antiwar advocate. By April 1968 Martin was not the same man who’d stood at the Lincoln Memorial five years earlier and proclaimed I have a dream.”
I could hear the torment and regret in his voice.
“After his death, though, everything changed. It was amazing. The world began to listen again. It was as if he were still alive, at the height of his influence, his message loud and clear. He became relevant again. Hoover never discredited him. How could he? The man had been shot down in his prime. His image remained inviolate. He became a martyr. Only years later, when historians started culling through declassified FBI records, were Martin’s personal weaknesses finally exposed. But by then none of it mattered. He wasn’t a martyr anymore. He’d become a saint. A savior. How could I cash in on that?”
Maybe because you helped kill him? But I kept my thoughts to myself. Foster
was right about one thing, though. Coleen and Nate were the priority.
“Where did you drive to Gainesville from?” I asked.
“A commercial building outside of St. Augustine, near an outlet mall. Valdez told me they would be leaving there just after I drove away. I have no idea where they are now. He gave me a telephone number to call, after I spoke with you, to arrange the trade.”
“I still don’t get why he let you leave.”
“He wanted me to broker a deal, but I refused to do that anywhere near Coleen or Nate. This had to be face-to-face, just like when Jansen recruited me. Valdez knows that destroying those files and that recording is more important to me than anything. All he wants is the coin. Jansen and Oliver are a different matter. But strangely, we all have a similar goal.”
“They followed you to Gainesville.”
“I assumed that would be the case. What you had me do in the bus depot was to throw them off?”
I nodded. “And it worked.”
No one had followed us.
My mind was racing.
I was assessing all of my options, which weren’t many. One thing I knew. I couldn’t tell Foster that there was no way I was relinquishing the files. The coin? Who cared? But the files and the cassette? Those were going to Stephanie Nelle. Yet to get Foster’s cooperation, I would have to lie.
This guy shouldn’t mind that, though.
He seems to have forged an entire life based on a lie.
“I have an idea,” I said. “How we can help Coleen and Nate and solve your problem, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dan Veddern had the right idea when he met with Coleen and me in St. Augustine’s main plaza. Lots of people. Activity. Plenty of distractions. I decided that though it had been the right idea, there wasn’t enough of all three for what I had in mind. So I opted for Disney World. If I was going to confront Jansen, Oliver, and Valdez, the place to do it was where there were thousands of people, a security presence, and too many witnesses for any of them to try anything foolish.
Foster and I drove from Micanopy south to Orlando. The trip took about ninety minutes. Just before reaching the entrance to Disney World, I stopped and called Valdez, at the number he’d provided Foster, using Nate’s cell phone, its battery about on its last leg. Thankfully, the call went through and the meeting was arranged. I’d waited as long as possible before making contact so that this time I could control the high ground.
Foster and I parked the truck in a massive asphalt lot and took a replica steamboat across the lake to a dock outside the Magic Kingdom. There were three ways to get to the park: the boat, a monorail, and a bus. I opted for the boat so I could see in all directions. Twilight had arrived and darkness was coming. The time was approaching 8:00 P.M.
And it was raining.
Not hard. A steady mist that actually felt good mixed with the summer heat.
I paid for two admissions at the ticket gate using Stephanie’s credit card. It didn’t really matter whether she found me now or not.
This was about to be over.
One way or another.
I carried the two manila envelopes, sealed tight with tape. To protect them I bummed a plastic Mickey Mouse shopping bag from one of the vendors and handed the protected bundle over to Foster. I could see he felt better just holding those envelopes.
I was a little disappointed that there were no security checks to get inside the park. I’d been hoping for more. But people just walked right in through the turnstiles. That meant Oliver and company would most likely come armed. I was working at a disadvantage without a weapon. Cie’s rifle would do me no good here. But sometimes you just had to play your cards as dealt. I was hoping this would go smoothly. I didn’t want to place anyone here in jeopardy. But I kept telling myself that Oliver wanted the files, Valdez the coin, and Foster the recording and his daughter and son-in-law.
Nobody wanted a spectacle.
I had no idea where Valdez was located when I called, but I was sure we were way ahead of him. He’d told me on the phone that he would be there by 9:00 P.M. The park was on summer hours, open until midnight.
We headed into the Magic Kingdom.
Brightly lit topiary shrubs arranged as Mickey Mouse greeted us at the entrance. Through a covered breezeway we came up to ground level inside a town square adorned with manicured grass and pruned trees. Overhead the whistle of a train could be heard as it entered the station we’d just passed beneath. An array of pastel-colored, Victorian-style buildings surrounded us, creating the vision of a midwestern American town, circa 1900. The lilting strains of Disney tunes filled the damp air. Everything looked like a movie set, the perfect image of a perfect town. I decided higher was better, so we climbed some stairs to the train station depot and stood under an elevated porch that overlooked the square below. The rain continued to fall in a light drizzle, but the crowds didn’t seem to mind. I assumed little to nothing ever stopped the fun here. Both breezeways into the park from the main gates were visible, one left, the other right. Foster and I stood at the railing.
“The incredible thing,” Foster muttered, “was that it all happened over nonsense.”
He’d offered little to nothing on the trip south, so I waited for him to explain.
“In ’62 Martin told the press that the FBI was biased toward southern police. He said the FBI was a white organization that catered to white police. Blacks stood no chance with them. He also wondered why there were no black FBI agents. Hoover took great exception to all that. He never allowed anyone to criticize his FBI. Right after Martin made those statements, Hoover tried to set up a meeting to clear the air. This was the first encounter between Martin and Hoover. Hoover had subordinates call the SCLC office to make an appointment for them to meet. The people there took the messages and passed them on, but Martin never called back. Hoover took that to mean he was being shunned. Put off. Ignored. But that was not the case.”
Foster shook his head.
“Martin was just bad about returning calls. He never did. Not to anyone. We all had to stay on him to make sure he called folks back. It was just his way. We now know that Hoover took that omission as a personal insult. Everything between them started after that.”
“Why do you call him Martin?”
He stared back at me.
“You always refer to him as Martin. Not King. Or Bishop. Or anything, other than his name. Except on the tape with Jansen. There you called him King.”
That was the lawyer in me. Listening to a witness. Noticing details. Especially inconsistencies.
“I did a terrible thing,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I was so self-centered. So selfish. Martin saw that weakness in me early on.”
“The money problem?”
He nodded. “That and my ego. I think the only reason the bookies didn’t break my legs was because I was close to Martin. He and I talked about that a few times. He was such a forgiving man. Not a bone of hate in his body. I always though it ironic how we both had weaknesses, only different.”
“If you didn’t care about the movement, why did you join?”
“It seemed like something exciting. An opportunity to be more than what life seemed to be offering me. I went to divinity school because that’s what my mother wanted me to do. I joined the movement as a way to avoid a life as a preacher. I was hoping things would change. That there would be more opportunities. And there were. I became an informant for the FBI. I told myself that I didn’t care about the world. About people. About anything, other than myself. Andy Young wanted me gone. Abernathy didn’t like me, either. But Martin was in charge, so I was allowed to stay.”
“You haven’t answered the question, and you just called him Martin twice more.”
“It’s my way of humanizing him. Making him still real to me. An illusion that somehow we have remained friends.” His sad eyes were near tearing. “But he’s dead and I’m not.”
“Nor are you rich.”
He shook his
head. “That’s true. I never sold the coin because I was frightened. Finding the right buyer might have exposed me. Might have exposed the FBI. Those were dangerous men, who were not beyond killing people. I decided to stay in the shadows. To let it go. So I tossed that coin into a box, where it stayed until Coleen found it.”
“What about all those debts?”
“I paid them off with the money Jansen gave me.”
“Your wife never knew any of this?”
“Nothing. We married the year after Martin died. Coleen came along the year after that. My wife knew little of what I did before I met her.”
“Coleen thought she might have known.”
He shook his head. “I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, and I intended on taking it to my grave. All of this happening now is like a nightmare. Please tell me that you can keep this contained.”
I had to maintain the lie.
“That’s the plan.”
We kept watch below, me to the left, Foster to the right. The two breezeways that led up from the turnstiles on the other side of the train station were the only paths into the Magic Kingdom. Our spot offered the perfect vantage point to see both, without being seen from below. Disney’s famed Main Street stretched out before us, lit to the gloomy evening, Cinderella Castle in the distance, maybe a quarter mile away. A flood of people came and went in the light rain, most sheathed in plastic ponchos, their faces filled with excitement. I was hoping the weather might work to our advantage.
Below, to my left, I saw Oliver and Jansen enter the grounds. A quick turn of my head to the right and there were Valdez and Nate.
But no Coleen.
“Where is she?” Foster asked.
I gently pushed him back from the railing, so we’d be out of sight from below. We were not alone on the covered porch, as others had fled here to avoid the rain. We took refuge behind one of the wooden columns that supported the ornate roof.
Oliver and Jansen rounded the town square, staying on the left side of Main Street. Valdez and Nate followed on the right. Shops lined both sides all the way to Cinderella Castle. I’d told Valdez to meet me at the statue that stood at the far end of the street. I knew about it from visiting here once a long time ago as a kid. My one and only venture to the land of Disney.