The Bishop's Pawn_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  We sat.

  And read.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  July 16, 1967

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  For CIP Supervisor Only

  Contact has been established in Montreal with an individual who shows promise. He identified himself to our point of contact operative as ERIC S. GALT. Fingerprints revealed that name to be an alias for an individual who was in the eighth year of a 20-year sentence at Missouri State Penitentiary for armed robbery when he escaped on April 23, 1967. Currently GALT is an active fugitive in Montreal seeking a passport and passage to South Africa or South America. He spends a large amount of time at the local docks trying to secure work on an international freighter. GALT may have possibly robbed a local brothel a few days ago. We would like to proceed with further vetting. Depending on your decision relative to that request, we can alert the local authorities of his presence for capture.

  July 19, 1967

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  For CIP Supervisor Only

  In reply to your specific inquiries, GALT is forty-one years old, slender, fair-skinned, clean-shaven, with black hair flecked with gray at the sideburns, worn oiled and straight back. Psychiatric records have been obtained from the Missouri prison system. They note he is not mentally ill, but is a “complicated individual.” He possesses a sociopathic personality and is severely neurotic. Perhaps even a pathological liar. IQ noted at 106. He suffers from undue anxiety and has clear obsessive-compulsive concerns about his personal health, bordering on a hypochondriac. He’s noted as introverted, distracted, and rarely returns a gaze. He’s a career criminal with multiple convictions of burglary and armed robbery, having served 13 years in four different prisons. Our point of contact operative notes he rarely tips servers, never laughs, and is overly paranoid about police (understandable, given he is a fugitive). Records indicate he was born in Alton, Illinois, raised Catholic, growing up in Ewing, Missouri, during the Depression. His current main motivations are money. He is not a member of any radical group, but admires the Nazis and would prefer an America free of Negroes and Jews. His personal motto is “never let the left hand know what the right is doing.”

  I glanced up from reading.

  Both reports were signed by James Jansen, SAIC.

  Special agent in charge.

  All of the documents inside the three file folders within the waterproof case were photographs. Not photocopies. Actual pictures of documents.

  Which made sense.

  In the late 1960s copiers existed, but they were rare. Duplicates then were more commonly produced by using carbon paper.

  “Valdez seems to have taken pictures of Jansen’s file,” I said to Coleen.

  The pages seemed in chronological order. Field reports to people higher up the FBI ladder. I knew that the bureau was legendary for its records thoroughness, particularly at that time in its existence, with Hoover still in charge. Everything then had been meticulously written down. Of course, that was pre-Watergate, pre–Church Committee, when no one in the FBI ever thought those documents would become public record.

  We lifted out another page.

  October 25, 1967

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  For CIP Supervisor Only

  After six weeks my assessment is that GALT ranks higher than the other three candidates currently being vetted. He fits nearly perfectly the psychological profile we are seeking. In his discussions with our point of contact operative, he’s revealed a burning desire to better himself, to be somebody. As with the other three candidates, a simulated field test was approved. Our point of contact operative promised money and travel papers if GALT would smuggle two packages across the Canadian border into Detroit. We considered this a low-risk operation. If he failed he would be caught, discovered a fugitive, and returned to prison. Nothing could be traced back to us, as he knows little to nothing about the point of contact operative. The actual package smuggled contained illegal pharmaceuticals. GALT successfully accomplished both smuggling tasks, though, showing a remarkable tenacity under pressure.

  Based on those successes, GALT was asked if he wanted to perform additional smuggling trips from Mexico back into the United States. He agreed, provided he was paid a sufficient amount of money. A $5,000 figure was agreed upon and GALT left Montreal, traveling to Alabama where he was given additional money to purchase a two-door, hard-top white Mustang with Alabama license plates. Funds were also paid to him for living expenses. He requested, and was provided, a revolver but was told to keep it in the Mustang.

  On October 19, GALT drove to Mexico, ending up in Puerto Vallarta. He has occupied his time there with various activities. He bought a camera and began photographing a local prostitute named MANUELA MEDRANO with an eye to perhaps creating and selling pornographic pictures. We’ve allowed this diversion to continue as it keeps him occupied. He has now developed a fondness for MANUELA, who is being paid by our point of contact operative to be with GALT. From her, we learned that his sexual relationships with women are shallow and fleeting. He also likes to read spy novels, especially Ian Fleming. He fancies himself a “man of action.”

  October 27, 1967

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  For CIP Supervisor Only

  An incident occurred last night at a local Puerto Vallarta cantina known as Casa Susana. GALT and MANUELA MEDRANO were present drinking and listening to music. A few tables over six Americans became rowdy. Two were white, four Negro. They’d apparently just come into town on one of the yachts in the harbor. One of the Negroes, under the influence of alcohol, stumbled into GALT as he walked past and grabbed MANUELA’S arm to break his fall. GALT took noticeable offense and shouted obscenities, including the repeated use of the word “nigger.” GALT then approached the table with the remaining Americans and shouted more obscenities, most directed at the Negroes. None of the remaining five seemed to want to challenge him, so he sat back down with MANUELA.

  Twenty minutes later one of the Negroes approached and tried to apologize. GALT exclaimed new insults, including further use of the word “nigger.” Then GALT left the cantina, returning a few minutes later with the revolver from his Mustang, concealed inside his pant pocket. Shortly thereafter, the six Americans left the cantina. GALT started in pursuit, telling MANUELA that he intended to kill them. She managed to talk him out of doing that, telling him that the police would be making their rounds soon. His extreme paranoia about the police has not waned, so he backed down. All of this was reported by MANUELA. She also stated that GALT has proposed marriage to her several times, but she has rebuked those attempts. Two days ago he became so agitated with her refusals that he threatened to kill her. She ended her relationship with him and quit our employ. We recommend bringing GALT back to the United States, to a more controlled environment.

  I was amazed at what I was reading.

  If this was a forgery, it was damn convincing.

  All had remained quiet a mile or so to the south of us. No sirens. No police. Nothing. The day was fading rapidly into an ever-dwindling twilight, the sun gone on the western horizon, making it increasingly difficult to read.

  A car approached and I came alert.

  But it was only a small pickup towing a boat, which the driver backed down the concrete ramp into the water.

  Somebody was going night fishing.

  Coleen reached for another page.

  And we kept reading.

  October 28, 1967

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  I concur with your recommendation. Bring GALT back to the United States. I suggest Los Angeles for a temporary location. Keep his confidence and dependency high. You are authorized to expend whatever funds necessary to maintain his availability. Future course is still uncertain, but could arise w
ith little to no advance warning. I recommend that you continue to explore and encourage the asset’s natural biases and prejudices. It is vital that all contact remain only through the point of contact operative. Nothing should link back to you in anyway. If anonymity is broken, both GALT and the point of contact operative are to be immediately terminated.

  This one bore no signature.

  It came from higher up down to Jansen below.

  The newly honed investigatory part of my brain said this was all a scam, played out by Juan Lopez Valdez to get his hands on a coin worth millions of dollars. What had Reverend Foster said to the guy in the cemetery? Valdez is apparently in financial trouble. That’s why he wanted to deal for the coin with his files. But the lawyer part of my brain was not convinced. And I could see that Coleen shared my doubts.

  “These memos are for CIP eyes only,” I said. “That has to mean Counter Intelligence Program. COINTELPRO.”

  I wondered if the CIP supervisor referred to in the memo headings was Oliver himself. The man had admitted he was in command back then.

  We thumbed through more of the images, killing a little more time until darkness fully enveloped us. Then we’d find a way off this island.

  One page caught our interest.

  Longer than the others.

  More detailed.

  From Jansen.

  March 16, 1968

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Internal Security-C

  For CIP Supervisor Only

  GALT has been present in Los Angeles since November 19, 1967. He was told to stay in the city until needed for further smuggling activities into Mexico. Funds have been continuously provided, allowing him to pursue more activities. During the past four months he has attended bartending school, explored again the possibility of working in the pornography business, taken dance lessons, and enrolled in a correspondence locksmithing course. Without our knowledge he began seeing a local clinical psychologist, DR. MARK O. FREEMAN. We covertly obtained the doctor’s file, which contained little to nothing in the way of new information, then we maneuvered GALT into ending that relationship, playing off his fears and paranoia of the police.

  GALT has also been active in the GEORGE WALLACE presidential campaign, becoming a member of the American Independent Party. He has been working the streets, going door-to-door for the Wallace-for-president effort. Over the past few weeks he has identified himself more and more with Wallace’s racist ideals and has clearly revealed himself as an ardent segregationist. White rule and apartheid appeal to him. He has repeatedly talked of wanting to emigrate to Rhodesia and help fight for the white-rule cause. He is impressed and influenced by J. B. STONER and the National States’ Rights Party. He now subscribes to the Thunderbolt, the party’s newsletter, which openly calls for violence against minorities and the expulsion of all Negroes from the United States. He refers to MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. as Martin Luther Coon, mimicking the label STONER utilizes. His comments of late reflect a deep-set resentment at the attention many Negro leaders receive in the media.

  One further note. GALT underwent plastic surgery to alter his nose, offering little explanation as to why. Disturbingly, he was dissatisfied with the initial results, so he removed the bandages and remodeled the nose himself before the cartilage set. He’s also frequented a hypnotist, but nothing substantial occurred from that association.

  “You do understand who they’re talking about,” Coleen said.

  I got it. “James Earl Ray.”

  “He went by the name Eric S. Galt in Canada, Mexico, and back in the United States. What Ray said at his trial makes sense now.”

  I waited for her to explain.

  “Thirty-six hours before his trial began, Ray pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced to ninety-nine years in prison. Toward the end of the sentencing proceedings, he interrupted the judge and objected on the record. He said he freely pleaded guilty to murder, but did not agree with comments made by Attorney General Ramsey Clark and J. Edgar Hoover. His words at the time were odd. He said, I don’t want to add something on that I haven’t agreed to in the past.”

  I was confused, since the statement made little sense.

  “After killing King,” she said, “Ray went on the run from April 4 to June 8, 1968, prompting the largest manhunt in history. Yet he made it to Canada, to England, to Portugal, then back to England where he was finally caught. Clark and Hoover both proclaimed to the world that Ray acted alone. No conspiracy. Case closed. The prosecution relied heavily on those statements during Ray’s sentencing hearing. But Ray said he did not agree with them. The judge pressed him on what he meant and he said, I mean on the conspiracy thing. Now I see why. There actually was a conspiracy.” She paused. “A big one.”

  I watched the guy with the boat work a wench and drop the keel into the water. It was about a fifteen-footer. V-hulled. Open deck. High-sided. Good for the ocean. He tended to it with affection, tying the bow rope to a piling and easing his truck and trailer out of the way.

  A lot was happening. Much more than I’d been told about yesterday by either Stephanie or Jansen. The idea had been to retreat here until dark, then make our way off the island.

  Now I knew how.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I rose from the picnic table and walked over to the guy with the boat, who was locking up his truck.

  “Headed out for some fishing?” I asked.

  “Looks like a good night for it.”

  The saltwater inlet between here and the next patch of land over, Palm Beach Shores, was about a hundred yards across, the water calm and still. A damp breeze was working in from the east that felt good, but had so far done little to tussle the surface. Out over the water two squawking seabirds fought in midair for a fish.

  “I was wondering,” I said. “How about I contribute twenty dollars to your gas and you give us a lift across to the other side?”

  He gave me a cautionary look.

  “It’s not a problem,” I said, adding a chuckle. “We’re not on the run or anything. We just need a lift.”

  “That your girlfriend?” he asked.

  Explaining would be far too complicated, so I lied. “She’s mine, though sometimes she doesn’t see it that way.”

  He grinned. “I’ve got one of those, too.”

  I fished out a still-damp twenty from my wallet and handed it over. Then I returned to Coleen and told her we had a ride. We gathered up the files and quickly stuffed them back into the waterproof case.

  We climbed aboard the boat with the case and our driver revved the outboard, backing away from the ramp. Behind, in the park, headlights cut a swath through the growing darkness. I glanced back and saw a car come to a stop near the concrete ramp. But it wasn’t towing any boat. The door opened and Jansen emerged.

  “Malone,” Coleen said.

  I turned and followed her pointing finger toward the far shore, where another car had arrived.

  Two men stood waiting.

  Seems like I would have learned what being bait felt like, but once again we’d stepped right into their trap.

  Then the driver leaped from the boat.

  “Get down,” I yelled to her, realizing what was coming.

  The men on both sides of the channel drew their weapons and fired our way. We dove to the deck. Bullets ricocheted and tumbled past, leaving a whirring sound in their wake. I belly-crawled forward and seized the helm, whipping the wheel hard right, increasing the throttle, and heading toward open ocean that lay about five hundred yards to the east.

  More shots came our way.

  But none of the rounds found us.

  The outboard was now fully revved, the bow planing as we skipped across the narrow inlet. We were far enough away now that the shooters were not a threat. A sloping jumble of boulders to our right extended a hundred-plus yards from the beach out into open ocean, the jetty blocking the currents into the inlet and providing a relatively safe harbor west of the park. A few fishermen were stan
ding atop it. We motored past the jetty’s end into open ocean.

  “That was way too easy,” she said.

  And I agreed.

  “They knew we were there,” she said. “Why not just take us?”

  The answer to that question appeared off our starboard bow. The boat from earlier, the one the two guys in the inflatable had returned to, had shifted position and was now much closer to the jetty. In the scant few rays of light left I saw the inflatable tied at its side and men climbing down into it.

  “They made a deal,” I said.

  The idea had been to get us out here, with the coin and the files, leaving us to Valdez’s men. Tom Oliver had apparently determined that was the quickest and easiest way to solve his problem. How the deal had been made so fast after Valdez’s attack on Oliver’s house was hard to say. But it clearly had. And we’d been maneuvered into stealing a boat and coming right to them.

  The inflatable swung away from the larger vessel and headed our way.

  “We need to get out of here,” Coleen said.

  I swung the wheel left and vectored north, paralleling the coast of Palm Beach Shores. High-rise apartments and condominiums lined the way, lights dotting the buildings up many stories. Beaching the boat and making a run for it seemed the smart play, but we’d never make it to shore before the inflatable overtook us.