The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  “Howard.”

  “What?”

  “You ever kill anybody?”

  Bristling, Hunt replied, “That’s classified. Why do you ask?”

  “Because killers, in my limited experience, don’t speak lightly of their ‘specialty,’ whether it’s their work or somebody else’s. When you say it, you could just as easily be saying ‘pimp,’ or ‘faro dealer.’”

  Glancing quickly at his passenger, Hunt’s reply momentarily pitched up an octave, then dropped back down. “As you say, your experience is limited. If you’re planning on a career in the Company, I suggest that you keep speculation of that sort to yourself. Later, say after you’ve had a tour as a Station Chief, we might compare our contributions to the cause of freedom. That said, I had no intention of offending you. Fair enough?”

  “OK,” Rick said with a tight smile, their eyes meeting for a moment before Hunt’s swung back to the street. “It’s just that if I have to order a killing, I’ll know firsthand what’s involved. Might make it easier to do, but then again if the person giving the order just has an abstract notion of what seeing the life go out of another person’s like, maybe that’s easier.”

  Hunt stopped the car around the corner from the hotel’s main entrance. “One of the primary things you’ll learn in officer training is that ‘terminating with extreme prejudice’ is an absolute last resort to resolve any situation. The decision to undertake the exercise is arrived at through a detailed, multilayered process. The individual conveying the order to the operator is not, repeat NOT, responsible for making the decision. He or she may contribute to the process, but the responsibility rests with the State.”

  “So, taking Harry Truman at his word, if the buck stops at the Oval Office, I terminated Underhill on the say-so of President Johnson.”

  “If that’s the theory that’ll let you sleep tonight. I wouldn’t suggest sharing it with anyone.” Hunt punctuated the end of the conversation by pulling the Fairlane’s transmission lever down into DRIVE. “I’ll be in touch.” Pausing only to release a sulfurous fart, Rick got out of the car with no further comment, closing the door swiftly behind him. Hunt appeared to be shouting in his direction as he walked through the hotel’s side door.

  “Hello.”

  “Captain Terrell?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Harriet Wilson; I’m Mr. Helms’ assistant.”

  “Oh, yes. How are you?”

  “Just fine, thanks. Are your new quarters satisfactory?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I’m glad; Tabb’s a nice little town, isn’t it? Wish I lived that close to work. I’m calling about your appointment with Mr. Helms this coming Thursday.”

  “Right. I’ll be there at noon.”

  “We’d like to change that time to 3:00, if you can make it. Mr. McCone’s out of town this week, and he’s asked Mr. Helms to stand in for him in the event that the Civil Rights Bill passes the House and goes to the President for his signature. The information that we have is that it’s likely to reach his desk on Thursday afternoon. If that’s accurate, and we believe it is, Mr. Helms thought that you’d like to go with him to the White House to see, in his words, ‘a significant piece of history being made.’”

  “Damn! Oh, excuse me; ah, yes, of course. I’ll be there at 3:00. Please thank Mr. Helms for me. And thank you very much, Mrs. Wilson.”

  Washington’s rush hour was already well underway at 3:00, so Rick and the CIA’s Deputy Director, Plans had ample time to get to know each other during their two-plus hour crawl to the White House. Helms, at the wheel of the off-white ’60 Olds 98 that Rick judged to be his own car, was all business. He confirmed Rick’s assumption that not every brand-new CIA officer candidate received a personal audience with the DDP. He’d wanted to meet Rick personally at the outset of his training, he said, just in case he was eliminated at some point in the process.

  His use of the circumstances of his recruitment as a contract operator to enter officer training had gone against the grain, and the decision to accept him hadn’t been unanimous. As a matter of fact, it was made over the strenuous objections of some dedicated people who didn’t share Helms’s, or his boss’s, point of view. In the dispassionate tone that Rick would come to recognize as a Helms trademark, the DDP noted that the opposition of one or more of these veterans could well bite him on the ass at some point in his career.

  That said, Helms congratulated him on the professional execution of his assignment. It hadn’t been his lot, in either the wartime OSS or in its eventual successor, CIA, to receive an assignment of that nature, but if it had been he’d like to think that his actions would have mirrored Rick’s. Given his performance, and his tenacity in pursuit of joining CIA’s officer ranks, Helms thought that he deserved an introduction to the President. Allen Dulles, Mr. McCone’s immediate predecessor as Director, Central Intelligence, had telephoned Mr. Watson, the President’s Appointments Secretary, this afternoon to request the highest possible priority for it.

  They reached the White House’s East Room a few minutes after six. As they approached the checkpoint, the Secret Service agent on duty greeted Helms cordially, saying “I’ll advise Mr. Watson that you and your guest are here.” As they surveyed the wall-to-wall throng of invitees, a solid, dark-haired man of a little above medium height approached, smiling confidently at Helms. “Hi, Dick,” he said as he switched his gaze to Rick. “Welcome, Captain Terrell. Would you gentlemen mind following me? The President’s in the Oval Office.”

  Lyndon Baines Johnson sat at his desk, seemingly engrossed in the document that he held on both sides, almost as if he expected it to leap from his grasp. He was, however, acutely aware of the fact that he was being approached. “Mr. President,” said Watson, “you remember my mentioning Mr. Dulles calling today. About Dick Helms and his guest, Captain Richard Terrell.”

  The great head swiveled upward to focus light brown eyes on the new entrants. For a long moment there was silence, during which the mutual process of taking of measures was completed. He spoke first to the Appointments Secretary. “Thank you, Marvin; I’ll need a moment of privacy with our friends here. Make sure we’re not disturbed.” He then spoke to Helms. “Good to see you, Dick, and thanks for bringing this extraordinary young man by to see me. I’ll call you CUTLASS just once, in recognition of the fact that we’re all on the same page here. You’re an extraordinary young man, and I’ll follow your fortunes with much interest.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Rick responded. “Please allow me to wish you well in all that you’ve set out to do.”

  The President stood, followed quickly by his visitors. He walked them to the door through which they’d come, a heavy right arm draped over Rick’s shoulders. “I should be the one to thank you, son, and I do. You gentlemen must excuse me now.”

  The President and his staff entered the East room at 6:45. Helms’s position in the Federal pecking order being a bit lower than that of any of the swarm of elected officials and Cabinet members present left them near the back of the room, able to get only an occasional glimpse of the President’s back as he spoke, Martin Luther King, Jr. standing to his immediate left.

  “My fellow Americans: I am about to sign into law the Civil Rights Act of 1964. I want to take this occasion to talk to you about what that law means to every American...” The audience’s heads were comparatively still as the speech began, but as it progressed, some fidgeting became unavoidable.

  “Yet those who founded our country knew that freedom would be secure...” As audience members shifted from one foot to another and covertly looked around, Rick saw the back of a second black head near Reverend King that he was shocked to think he recognized. “... I urge every American to join in this effort to bring justice and hope to all our people and to bring peace to our land.”

  Rick continued to watch until the man showed a profile, or part of one. Could it be? Is that Ziggy in the East Room? A turn of the head in question confirm
ed his hunch. By God, he thought, it is.

  “Let us hasten that day when our unmeasured strength and our unbounded spirit will be free to do the great works ordained for this Nation by the just and wise God who is the Father of us all. Thank you and good night.”

  “Mr. Helms.”

  “Hm?”

  The crowd hadn’t moved, the front rank waiting patiently for one of a large stand of pens Johnson used to sign the law to be given each member. Inclining his head toward the front of the room, Rick said, “I just recognized someone from my hometown up near the President’s desk, a former Marine whom I haven’t seen for quite a while. Would you mind if I worked my way around the back of the room to get his attention? I can find my own way home if you’re ready to leave.”

  Helms’s interest was immediately piqued. “Up there in front, is he? What’s he doing there?”

  “I think he’s on Dr. King’s staff. The tall black man standing near him. Would you like to meet him?”

  Helms’s jaw twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, Terrell, but this shindig has run late, and Mrs. Helms and I have dinner plans. I’d best move along. Trust you enjoyed this; I’ll tell the Secret Service detail you’ll be checking out separately.”

  “I did, sir, very much. Thanks for making it possible.” With the briefest of nods, Helms about-faced and began making his way through the crowd.

  The majority of the East room audience, harboring no expectation of a memorial pen, coalesced into a handful of subgroups. Rick was able to make his way to Ziggy’s locale quicker than he’d imagined, so much so that he hadn’t had time to think much about what he would say to him. Ol’ Zig sure hasn’t changed much, he thought, just thinner, a little more Lincolnesque, right down to the giant ears. Wonder if he still keeps his bankroll in his shoe? What the hell, at least I have the advantage of knowing that he’s here. Maneuvering to face his quarry, he awaited his turn among a throng of well-wishers. It occurred to Rick that his uniform might tend to render him transparent to Ziggy in his current state of preoccupation. He nearly gave in to a sudden urge to turn away when a firm grip on his left forearm by a broadly-smiling Ziggy stopped him.

  “Howdy, Captain.”

  “Hey, Zig. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I’m acceptin’ for th’ boss, of course, but thanks anyway. What brings you here today?”

  “Pure chance, unlike you. Lucky happenstance, as it turns out. How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good. Pretty busy, too. Gotta close this out soon, but I’d really like to visit with you; take advantage of this ‘lucky happenstance,’ now that we’ve got the chance. Could we meet a little later?”

  “You bet. Where?”

  “The post-signing party’s at a restaurant called Harvey’s; Connecticut Avenue, next to the Mayflower Hotel, at 8:00. It’ll be upstairs. I could meet you in the main bar downstairs at 9:30. That OK with you?”

  “You bet. See you then.”

  Harvey’s, a longtime Washington landmark, was dealing with its latest role as host to civil rights advocates with practiced aplomb. The town would normally be clearing out in anticipation of the Fourth of July weekend, but celebrants were two and three deep at the bar’s U-shaped marble top when Rick arrived, having cabbed to and from Fort McNair, where he’d reserved a room at the BOQ, to change out of his uniform. Finding a spot near the door, he ordered a Bacardi on the rocks. It was half gone when Ziggy walked in, overshooting Rick’s position.

  “Ziggy!”

  “Ricky,” he said, his ready smile broadening. “Good thing you hollered; I was looking for a dashin’ Special Forces officer. Wish I’d had time to change.” Taking Rick by the arm, he said, “Hey, I got us a table over here. They’ll send your check over. It’s on me tonight.” As soon as they sat, a waiter appeared and took their order. Ziggy said, “I never got the chance to apologize to you in person for springing Trisha on you that night at La Carrousel. I should’ve thought twice, even though she assured me that you’d think it was a nice surprise. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “Hey- forget it, Zig. It took something like that to make me realize that I had to turn loose of a situation that was still alive in just one place- inside my head. Much water over the dam, buddy. How’s she doing, anyway?”

  “She’s fine, as far as I know. One of the things I wanted to tell you was that we stopped seeing each other back in the Spring.”

  Rick made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah; you hear about people splitting up during wartime a lot, people being separated on short notice, lots of stress. We’ve definitely been fighting a war, and I think it just wore her out as time went on. And of course, neither of our families thought much of us being together. Trisha did a lot to help me with what I was doing, but because she was white, she ended up taking a lotta flak from other people in the movement.

  “She started writing letters to newspaper editors and broadcast people, and following up with them on the phone. She ended up with a Rolodex full of contacts, and several of them complimented her on her writing style. One day, one of them called- I think it was the Newsweek guy in Atlanta- and asked her to write a sidebar on Dr. King’s time with Gandhi for their issue that covered what happened in Birmingham last year. It ran over her byline, and after that one thing just lead to another; she sort of became the interface between white journalists and the movement.

  “Birmingham and the March on Washington took a lot out of everybody, but she seemed to take it harder than anyone else. She felt as though she was both distrusted and taken advantage of, and she had good cause to think so. Some of our people were convinced that she’d entered the movement simply because she and I were involved romantically, and were quick to tell her that to her face. I was able to shield her from some of it, even saw to it that a couple of the worst offenders were shown the door. But the atmosphere was, you might say, poisoned where she was concerned. I guess she thought that I should’ve done more to make people treat her better, but there were limits to what I could do and keep us moving forward.

  “Anyway, the situation down in Florida- St. Augustine- started heating up- it’s not settled to this day, but I was down there quite a bit. It was so rough that I couldn’t have her down there with a clear conscience, and she had several more opportunities to publish things in support of the cause. Bottom line, I guess you could say we just drifted apart, and neither one of us knew how to keep it from happening.”

  “Hell, Zig, that’s a damn shame. Neither of you guys has had an easy time of it. I’m a long way from knowing the whole story, but from what Jack told me, it seemed like you guys had a shot at a good life together. Any idea what’s become of her?”

  “Well, I don’t think that she’s gone back to Clark; she took a year’s leave to join the movement full time, and that ended last month. I think I would’ve heard something about it from people who are still in school there. There at the end, she talked about changing careers and writing for a living. Matter of fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she took Jack O’Dell up on his offer to join the Freedomways staff in New York.”

  “Freedomways? What’s that, a paper?”

  “Magazine. A quarterly, dedicated to the cause. Jack went up there last year, after the Kennedys and Hoover forced Dr. King to fire him at SCLC because of his onetime membership in the Communist party.”

  “Hm. A pretty good reason, seems to me.”

  “If you knew more of his story, you might not be so sure. I’ll tell you this, though; it wouldn’t bother Trisha at all. She’s as firmly committed to the cause as any black person I know, and as you well know, buddy, she’s a strong-willed lady. If she’s decided to do that, I wouldn’t want to be the one standing in the way,” Ziggy said with a wry smile and a quick eye-roll to the sky.

  “Nor I,” Rick said, returning the smile, and, he hoped, the wryness.

  “You stationed here now?”

  “No, just up from Bragg for a conference. CIA’s sending som
e of their rookies down for a little dose of simulated combat before they go out to save the world. My team’s providing the cadre. Where do you go from here?”

  “As things stand right now, back to Atlanta while the dust settles from this excursion. Until we’ve got things settled in St. Augustine, I can’t rule out being there on any particular day. Hey,” Ziggy took Rick’s elbow, drawing him closer. “You never heard this, but Dr. King’ll probably get this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. If that happens, guess I’ll be shopping for some longjohns.”

  Rick’s eyes widened as he digested this news. “Damn! Wouldn’t that be something. That, on top of getting this law passed today. Maybe you guys’ lives’ll be a little easier before long.”

  Ziggy’s face darkened. “I’m not countin’ on it, Rick. Too many minds have still got to be changed.”

  The waiter, unbidden, brought fresh drinks. Rick raised his glass. “Then let’s drink to it.”

  “And to us,” said Ziggy, his face reflecting thoughts about what remained to be done. Brightening after inhaling most of his Old-Fashioned, he asked, “How’s that rascal Jackie? You seen him lately?”

  “Yeah; I went down and spent a week with him in Puerto Rico. He’s gettin’ out of the Navy this Fall, so I thought I’d better get down there and inspire him to stay out of trouble for the balance of his tour.”

  Ziggy almost choked on the second half of his drink, laughing at the vision Rick conjured up. “Yeah, boy, you be jus’ the man for that job. Wonder you both didn’t land in the brig.”

  Rick grinned. “I won’t say that we didn’t have a couple of near-misses, but ol’ Jack’s not quite the wild-ass he used to be. Flying into those damn hurricanes is a pretty sobering experience, I reckon. Can’t be much different from getting shot at.” Draining his glass to keep pace with Ziggy, he said, “I know he’d have sent you his best if he’d had the slightest idea I’d be running into you.”