“OK, I’m listening. What is it?”
“I just found an eight millimeter camera my father placed in a box years ago and it’s got footage of JFK’s assassination.”
“I believe they confiscated all the cameras that were rolling in the area immediately after President Kennedy was shot.”
“Well, they didn’t get this one. And I think you’ll be amazed at what’s on it.”
Flynn continued his conversation in a hushed voice. He grabbed a pen from his coat pocket and began scratching down contact information on his drink napkin before hanging up.
“So, what was that all about?” Natalie asked, apparently ready to order.
“I’ve got to go to Dallas tomorrow,” he said. “A man just found footage of the JFK assassination that the FBI never confiscated. Apparently, it’s big.”
CHAPTER 8
EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING in New York City, Ivan pressed the last wrinkle out of his white dress shirt and slipped on his coat. Security was ridiculously tight around the U.N. building every day. It became almost impenetrable when the President was scheduled to address the general assembly. Ivan looked smugly at himself in the mirror. That’s why real anarchists plot their revenge over years. You’re never gonna see me coming. He tucked his shirt in and glanced at himself once more before heading out the door.
His phone rang.
“How’s our little operation coming along?” asked the voice on the other end once Ivan answered.
“Like clockwork.”
“What about Flynn? Is he preoccupied?”
“Yes. His bug went dead yesterday afternoon, but I listened to everything he said. All indications were that he was moving on to other things. He especially liked the lead that we gave him with the Bay of Pigs.”
“Good. We don’t need him poking around any more. At least, not until we’re done executing this plan on Friday.”
“I understand.”
Ivan hung up and reveled in his skills. Some people might label him a terrorist. It was a label Ivan found belittling. To him, the term “terrorists” represented radical ideologues. They had no purpose but to kill and destroy, all done in the name of vengeance—or, in some twisted way, God. It didn’t even matter which god. Everybody seemed to follow a god that encouraged people to murder and plunder in his name. No matter the religion, some variation of God’s name was invoked as a basis for an attack on other innocent people. It was disgusting really. Vengeance always proved to be such a vain pursuit. That’s why Ivan loathed hearing media reports about attacks he led termed as “terrorist attacks.” He wasn’t exacting revenge; he had purpose to his actions. Ivan saw meaning in what he did, attempting to create a better society for everyone. So maybe there was a little collateral damage. And maybe even innocent civilians got hurt or died. What he did was for the benefit of all people—they just didn’t know it yet. One day, perhaps. But certainly not now.
Twenty minutes later, Ivan arrived at Elite Catering, set to accompany his cousin, Andrei. His name meant “warrior”—and he was. Prior to moving to the United States, Andrei served in the Russian Federation army as a major. He loved his country more than anything, which is why Ivan admired him so much for leaving the motherland behind to work a thankless job in a country he loathed. Ivan realized it’s what a true warrior would do.
Andrei and his deadbeat co-worker, Nelson, were scheduled to make a delivery to the U.N. A luncheon about the efforts of drought on the world’s food supply necessitated Elite Catering’s services. Ivan gawked at the invoice sitting next to some of the trays of food in the delivery truck before crawling beneath one of the wheeled carts. He clearly wondered how these pompous diplomats couldn’t realize the irony in what they were doing. The bill was so high that it could have fed an entire village for a month. Another reason we do what we do.
The plan was simple: drop off the food and get Ivan in the building. Ivan handled every detail with precision. A week ago, Andrei worked with Ivan to develop a replica of the U.N.’s security clearance card as well as an ID badge for Elite Catering. The gun Ivan would be using was secured beneath the bottom of one of the carts. Since the carts always set off the metal detectors, no guard would perform a thorough search. Once inside the elevator, Andrei would allow Nelson to exit with his cart first while Andrei lingered just long enough to allow Ivan to crawl out and conceal his disassembled rifle. Ivan would continue up several floors to gain access to the balcony overlooking the general assembly and wait there until Friday.
It was a long time to wait, but it would be worth it. Nothing to do but hide and wait. Anarchy would come soon enough—and then his organization would take control.
CHAPTER 9
FLYNN GAZED OUT THE WINDOW of the DC-9 jet descending toward the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport runway. He struggled to settle his thoughts as he had so many interesting things to think about. His burgeoning romance with Natalie. The newly discovered polygraph cover-up. And now, possible never-before-seen footage of JFK’s assassination? If the latter was true, his mind might spin endlessly for days on end. It was enough to excite him about the possibility that he might be the one to discover the truth behind JFK’s death. Fifty years had passed since Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot America’s most popular President and the public was no closer to knowing the truth about what really happened. Or were they?
After Flynn secured his rental car, he headed for the address that Sam Golden gave him over the phone. He didn’t make a practice of meeting people at their home, especially with all the kooks out there today. But Mr. Golden seemed harmless enough—and due to the nature of his evidence, it wasn’t exactly something they could discuss and view in a public coffee shop.
While Golden claimed to live in Dallas, it was a lie. When it came to metro areas, Flynn learned most people felt such fibs were acceptable. In Georgia, nobody wants to be from Doraville. They are from Atlanta. In California, who wants to be from Culver City? Those people live in Los Angeles, no matter what the U.S. Postal Service says. And while Mr. Golden may have told Flynn that he lived in Dallas, what he really meant was Crandall.
Flynn wondered if he was in another country when he passed the city limits sign for the rural town about forty-five minutes southeast of Dallas. He noted corn stalks sticking up in people’s backyards. The bedroom community seemed to struggle with what kind of place it wanted to be—an extension of Dallas or a farming town. Only a few major restaurant chains had wormed their way into Crandall, which seemed to prefer the past over the present. White picket fences and wrap-around porches highlighted almost each house along the tree-lined streets. It’s not quite Mayberry, but it’s sure trying to be.
Sam Golden rocked in a chair on the front porch as Flynn pulled into the driveway. Apparently Sam’s job could wait, whatever it was. Welcoming a big city slicker into Crandall meant no work for him.
“Are you Mr. Golden?” Flynn asked as he got out of his car.
“It’s Sam. Please call me Sam,” he said, lumbering down the porch steps and toward Flynn with his hand outstretched as a welcoming gesture.
They shook hands as Flynn looked around.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Flynn said, trying his best to be polite.
The truth was Flynn would never live in a place as run down as this. Weeds overtook the yards. More weeds spurted out of the driveway cracks. The picket fence may have been white at one time, but anybody’s guess when that last was would be a legitimate one. The paint chipped off years ago, exposing the wood to the harsh Texas elements. Now, the fence simply rotted. Flynn also feared the front porch might collapse if he stepped on it at the same time as Mr. Golden. He walked behind his host, stepping lightly and hoping for the best.
Inside, the decor of the house revolved around one thing: Texas Longhorn football. Panoramic shots of the Texas stadium. Longhorns hanging high over the room with the burnt orange logo seared into the skulls of what likely were real Longhorns at one point. A large framed portrait of Texas c
oach Mack Brown hoisting the national title trophy up with quarterback Vince Young. Flynn didn’t even need to ask Mr. Golden how he spent his Saturdays in the fall.
Once Flynn stopped gawking, he decided to get down to business.
“So, Sam, tell me how you came across this footage of your father’s?”
“Funny story, really,” Mr. Golden began. “My grandson was playin’ ball with one of his buddies in my backyard when they hit a baseball through the attic window. So, I went up there to fetch it for them. At first I couldn’t find the ball, until I saw a box that was partially open. I opened it up to see if the ball had landed in the box—and it had. But then I saw this home movie camera I remember my dad using when we were all little. I just couldn’t remember him using it anymore at some point. I had no idea what caused my father to stop filming us, but he did.
“Anyway, I set up the projector I found in this box and put the reel on. And that’s when I found the footage that I’m about to show you. You better be sitting down when I show it.”
Flynn could tell this wasn’t dramatic hyperbole from his guest.
Mr. Golden darkened the room and fired up the projector. It whirred and wheezed until it gathered speed and began to show the images more clearly.
The brisk November morning started with Mr. Golden and his brothers loading into the family station wagon. The camera captured a few shots of the brothers goofing off in the car before the scene shifted suddenly to Elm Street in downtown Dallas, where thousands of adoring citizens waved and cheered for the President. Then the shots rang out.
Mr. Golden’s father dove to the ground, yelling at his boys and his wife to do the same. While the camera was still running, the lens fell aiming toward a culvert about ten feet away. Though it was difficult to make out at first, the camera focused on a dark-skinned man clutching a gun in the culvert. He suddenly disappeared from view moments before the camera was hastily whisked away and turned off.
Flynn knew the area well, including the exact location of that culvert. Several conspiracy theories floated around about a second gunman on the grass knoll. But the hard core conspiracy theorists knew of a much more plausible place for the gunman to be: hiding in the culvert at street level.
However, Flynn gasped when the evidence revealed something far more sinister and unbelievable than he could ever imagine.
“Is everything OK, Mr. Flynn?” Mr. Golden asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s impossible—but I think I know the man who shot JFK.”
CHAPTER 10
GERALD SANDFORD COULD HARDLY pay attention to his wife’s ramblings about the latest Capitol Hill gossip. Not that he didn’t like to hear the latest scoop over which politician was the latest to be outed by the Fly on the Wall blog. Any rumor spread in Washington about a political figure was sure to be detailed by the blog’s anonymous writer. Most politicians suspected that one person couldn’t be so well connected to hear all these rumors and that it must be a team of writers. Several congressmen suspected their staffers participated in either writing or passing along the often damning information. What appeared on front pages of newspapers across the nation likely appeared on the Fly on the Wall blog first. Most evenings, Sandford would be riveted as he listened to his wife, Sarah, recount what she read, particularly when it happened to one of his political foes. But not tonight.
As Sarah babbled on about who got caught with their pants down, Sandford gazed across the room at nothing in particular. The contentious cabinet meeting the day before still bothered him. He wished for a simpler time, perhaps a time when leading a nation wasn’t so complicated. Now opinions flowed freely from every hack with Internet access, making it more difficult to control delicate situations. The World Wide Web set back government propaganda five hundred years. Instead of controlling the press, the press controlled the government. All they had to do was write or broadcast any idea they ginned up and proffer it as “what most Americans believe” or “what most Americans want.” If only most Americans knew what really went on. Not many have the stomach to do what it takes to lead.
Sandford watched with dismay as his longtime friend, President Briggs, fell victim to this new game of the tail wagging the dog. All his decisions appeared to be based on the latest poll results. Not that he needed to worry about them since he was already into his second term. But Briggs appeared more concerned about his public image than doing the right thing. Sandford had been at this long enough to know the public doesn’t always know what’s best. They only know what the media tells them, which is an entity with its own agenda. At least weak-stomached presidents in the past were led around by deep-pocketed donors instead of the media—and public polls.
The more Sandford thought about it, the angrier he got. How could he let this happen to the country he loved so much? If he were president, then he’d be doing his job, protecting the American people and upholding the Constitution. He wouldn’t be caught dead even looking at polling numbers. As he mulled what to do to get President Briggs to reconsider, the thoughts that went through his mind embarrassed him. Some of them were criminal, like blackmail. He had more than enough dirt on President Briggs to sink him in one fell swoop. But that was his nuclear option. Good statesmanship required a different type of persuasion, one that appealed to the best nature in someone. Sandford just didn’t know if that nature even still dwelled in the President’s mind. He determined to think of something. And if he didn’t, he would hope that cryptic message he received would ring true any day now.
Sandford didn’t hear his wife until she realized he wasn’t engaged in her story about the congressman from North Dakota who got a D.U.I. and was also charged with possession of moonshine.
“Gerald? Gerald?” Sarah asked. “Are you listening to me?”
He snapped out of his stupor.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, honey. I’ve got a lot on my mind these days. What were you saying?”
“Never mind. Just finish up so I can get us dessert.”
Sandford stared at his plate. He’d hardly eaten a bite of his wife’s baked chicken, one of his favorites.
Then his phone rang, prompting him to get up from the table to take the call. The number was blocked. He went into his office and shut the door.
“This is Sandford.”
“Is this Vice President Gerald Sandford?”
Sandford struggled to place the accent. It sounded Eastern European, but he couldn’t be certain.
“Yes, it is. With whom am I speaking?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is that I tell you something about your daughter. I know who took her—and so does the Russian government.”
“What do you mean ‘took her’? She was killed sixteen years ago.”
“Is that what they told you? Well, don’t believe everything you hear from the Russian government. They take their time and strike when you least expect it.”
“Who is this?” Sandford demanded, his voice rising.
“Just remember what I told you: When you become President...”
“Hey. Who are you —-”
The caller hung up, leaving Sandford alone to decipher what it all meant. If anything, it picked at an old wound, the wound that became the driving force for Sandford’s political ambition. He wanted justice for his daughter’s death. But if the caller was to be believed, Sydney wasn’t dead after all. All his buttons were being pushed and he couldn’t handle it.
Sarah knocked on the door and poked her head in.
“Is everything OK, Gerald? Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Somebody’s messing with me. It’s nothing.” Sandford slumped into the chair behind his desk.
“OK, I’m about to bring out dessert.”
“Honey, I’ve got to be honest—I’m not really hungry right now. Can you save me some for later?”
“Sure thing,” she said as she closed the door behind him, leaving him alone in the office.<
br />
Sandford buried his head in his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t know what to believe. He especially didn’t like being toyed with. But getting worked up was no way to govern. You rule with your head, not your heart , Sandford’s father told him when he first got elected to represent his home state of Tennessee as a representative. At the moment neither seemed sufficient.
He placed a call to his office and asked a staffer to get the NSA to track the most recent call placed to his cell phone. He waited in silence before a quick response came back: they couldn’t trace it—neither the phone’s owner nor the location.
Sandford decided he needed a drink, a strong drink. Vodka would suffice. At least there’s one thing good to come out of that godforsaken country. Sandford slammed the drink down and poured himself another. He needed to think about what his first move would be as President.
CHAPTER 11
FLYNN STILL FELT LIKE he was groping in the dark, trying desperately to make sense of the shards of evidence he had collected. It was one thing to identify the shooter—the real shooter in the JFK assassination plot. It was another to figure out who he was working for. By his estimation, Flynn solved the easy part. The question everybody wanted answered still clung to his back like a 400-pound gorilla.
Navigating afternoon traffic in Dallas was not one of the more glamorous parts of the job. After visiting Sam Golden in Crandall, Flynn returned to Dallas proper for another meeting he’d delayed for several weeks. He received a call from a man named Stephen Moore who had some documents he wanted to give to Flynn—but it had to be in person. He asked Mr. Moore to wait patiently until he could get there. Fortunately, the invitation to see Sam Golden’s video gave Flynn the opportunity to make it a two-for-one trip, something that would make those finance people at The National happy.
Flynn also wanted to make Theresa happy, which is why he recorded a playback of Sam Golden’s footage of the shooter hidden in the culvert. It took all of three minutes, after he emailed the footage to his editor, for her to call him back.
The Warren Omissions Page 5