The Berlin Conspiracy Part 23

"You're gonna have to play it by ear," he said, heading for the door. "Your specialty."

"Do me a favor if it doesn't work out, Sam."

"Just name it," he said.

"Die a slow and painful death."

He chuckled and left without saying good luck. We both knew if I had to count on luck, I'd be out of it.

I lay in the dark, hoping for sleep, exhausted but wide awake, experiencing a strange sense of stillness and serenity. It wasn't that I was filled with confidence about what was to come. Far from it. I think I felt at peace because I'd finally put the pieces of my life together and they seemed to make some kind of twisted sense.

I didn't need Horst to sell me on America. I was sold when I first stepped onto the crowded streets of Manhattan's Lower East Side and was met with a surge of humanity hustling to get their piece of the dream. The America I found wasn't pure or pristine, not by any stretch of the imagination, and the good guys didn't always win. The streets weren't paved with gold and chocolates didn't fall out of the sky, either, but the air was filled with optimism. It was alive with possibilities, with the belief that good people who worked hard would be rewarded with a good life, free from the tyranny and constraints they'd left behind.

I saw America at its best and I saw the worst of it, but I always believed in it and I would always be there when it needed to be defended. And I don't mean the buildings or the roads or the bridges, or even the people. I mean the idea of it. The simple idea that individual freedom is something people are born with-the state can't give it to you, it can only take it away. That's it. Easy to put into words but, judging by the world's history, tough as h.e.l.l to put into practice.

I'm not talking about the Fourth of July, flag-waving, love-it-or-leave-it kind of freedom. That's something else. I mean the whoever-you-are, whatever-you-do, no-matter-how-you-look or what-you-think, welcome-to-the-party, be-an-American kind of freedom.

And don't let anyone tell you that the Soviet Union didn't pose a threat to that kind of freedom, either, because it did. It was a brutal tyranny that stripped its people of their rights and took away their humanity, and we needed to defend against it. But what I didn't see when I was in the front line of our secret war was the disadvantage we labored under, and the effect it was having on us. It would have been suicide to meet the enemy on the battlefield, so we were forced underground, and in that dark world we had to play the game by their rules.

Subterfuge, deceit, treachery, subversion, betrayal-they were the tried and tested tools of tyranny, not of a free society. The United States didn't even have a peacetime foreign intelligence service until 1947. None. So we were the new kids on the block, and the longer we played their game, the more we became like them. Not the American people, of course. They were blissfully unaware of the creeping tyranny that was growing like a cancer inside their government. It had spread, unseen, until it would strike at the heart of its host, killing the essence of what it was supposed to be defending.

The coup was an inevitable consequence of giving men like Henry Fisher and Harvey King the responsibility for our freedom. They had planned to attack our own troops at Guantanamo. I guess that said it all. We had become our own enemy.

I had turned a blind eye and gone fis.h.i.+ng, mistaking disengagement for freedom. Like a lot of people, I saw our dirty war as a necessary evil, something we needed in order to defend against the enemy at the gate. Now I realized that the enemy amongst us was the more dangerous one-and they were already inside the wall.

So I lay in the dark, feeling calm because I was ready, at last, to rejoin the battle.

TWENTY-ONE.

I gave up on sleep around five o'clock, went to the window, and watched a soft, gray light slowly displace the predawn darkness. I wondered if June 26, 1963, would be just another day, or if it would go down in history as one of those bloodstained dates that become etched in our minds forever. Either way, I was glad it had arrived. around five o'clock, went to the window, and watched a soft, gray light slowly displace the predawn darkness. I wondered if June 26, 1963, would be just another day, or if it would go down in history as one of those bloodstained dates that become etched in our minds forever. Either way, I was glad it had arrived.

The door swung open and Chase sauntered in, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a black attache case. He stopped in the middle of the room when I turned to face him. "What's the matter, Jack? Trouble sleeping?" He chuckled to himself.

"You know, Roy, before today's over, one of us is gonna be dead, that's for sure, but if I was you I wouldn't get too c.o.c.ky about which one it's gonna be." He smirked, pulled his jacket back to show me his brand-new Anaconda, then walked over to a dresser, opened a drawer, and removed a folded white s.h.i.+rt, still in its packaging. He threw it to me.

"Put this on," he said, then tossed a set of handcuffs onto the bed. "And these."

I unpinned the s.h.i.+rt, slipped it on. I noticed that the dummy pack of Luckys was still on the bedside table, reached over to pick it up, and thought Chase looked at me funny. I was probably being paranoid, but if he checked, that'd be it, lights out.

"Smoke?" I offered him the pack, feeling for the trigger in case he said yes. But he waved it off, so I slipped the Luckys into my s.h.i.+rt pocket, then snapped the manacles onto my wrists.

He ushered me through a series of empty rooms, down a narrow staircase, and through a large bas.e.m.e.nt kitchen, where we exited from a back door onto an expansive lawn that sloped down toward a wide, slow-moving river. A fresh morning breeze and the scent of dew on the gra.s.s made me realize how stale the air had been inside the estate. The building was a heavy-handed version of an Italian Renaissance villa, with twin towers connected by a two-story gallery, ceramic tiles on the roof, arched windows, and a terrace with curved steps leading down to a fountain. I wondered about the owner, but it didn't matter, so I let it go.

We followed a gravel path down to a pier where the Interceptor was tied up. Chase freed one of my wrists and cuffed me to a chrome rail in the back while he prepped the boat, leaving the briefcase by the pilot's seat on the upper deck. If I sat down, my arm would've been above my head, so I stood, leaning against the rail.

"What's your angle in all this?" I called to Chase as he turned the engine over. He looked at me warily, like it was some kind of trick question.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean how do you feel about killing Kennedy?"

"I don't feel anything about it," he shrugged, crawling out onto the bow to cast off the line. "He's just another guy."

"He's president of the United States."

He considered that, then said, "They say he'd do all sorts of s.h.i.+t if he got reelected, but what the f.u.c.k do I know? ... I know it'd be a d.a.m.n shame if they pull us out of Vietnam...."

"You like it there."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I like it. It's a good setup."

"What do you do?"

"Hunt down gooks and grease 'em," he answered coolly, then adding with a perverse grin, "I'd hate to see my license to kill get revoked." He revved the engine, put the boat in gear, and slipped away from the mooring. I decided I would have no qualms about killing him.

He took it easy on the throttle and the boat cut smoothly through the calm waters, just the gentle hum of the engine intruding on the peaceful setting of thick woodland and pink sky on the eastern horizon. We were heading south, so I guessed we were pa.s.sing through the Berliner Forest in the northwestern corner of the city.

I stared into our wake and tried to recall the itinerary I'd seen in the paper the previous day. Air Force One was scheduled to land at nine thirty-about four hours away-and if I was right about our location, we were heading straight for Tegel. But that didn't make much sense. Sam had said that at least one of the shooters would be in an elevated position and the only elevated position at the airport was the control tower, which was ridiculous. Anyway, security would be too tight there. They needed crowds, where a team could penetrate, do the deed, then disappear in the confusion. There'd be no shortage of crowds once Kennedy hit the streets-upward of a million people had lined the route from Bonn to Cologne, and Berlin would be no different.

After landing, the party was scheduled to travel by motorcade to Brandenburg Gate, where the president would get his first look at the wall. His limousine-it had been open in Cologne-would have to pa.s.s through downtown Berlin, where the streets would be filled with well-wishers hoping to catch a glimpse, maybe even shake Kennedy's hand. And there would be plenty of high-rise buildings along the way-private offices and hotels where a gunman could easily set up without being noticed or interfered with. Not a bad scenario, except that hitting a target in a moving car with a long-range rifle is a low-percentage shot, no matter how good the sniper. So unless the president's driver, a Secret Service agent, was part of the team and was going to slow down or stop the car at the critical moment, hitting the motorcade seemed too risky an option.

At the wall, Kennedy would stand on a platform and peer over the concrete barrier into enemy territory. He would be exposed and vulnerable, but with armed East German guards watching over the proceedings, he'd be well protected and crowds would be kept at a distance. It wasn't ideal, but it couldn't be ruled out, either. The theatrics might be tempting, even raising the specter that the president had been fired on from across the border.

There were a couple of off-the-record events scheduled after that. Lunch with West Berlin's popular mayor, w.i.l.l.y Brandt, and a private meeting with some relatives of men and women who'd been killed while trying to escape to the West. Even the press was banned from that one. Late in the day the president was to accept an honorary degree from Berlin's Free University, but I thought the moment of greatest danger would come before that, at about 1 P.M. P.M.

That was when the main event of the day, a speech from the steps of West Berlin's city hall, was to take place. It would be the climax of Kennedy's German tour and probably the highlight of his European trip. He'd be on the Cold War's front line, speaking to the world, and Berliners would be there in the hundreds of thousands. I'd walked through the plaza he'd be facing. It was surrounded by buildings and there was ground cover in patches of trees and shrubs that were thick enough to conceal a sniper. Three gunmen-two firing from above, one on the ground-set up for triangulated fire. A large crowd, a stationary target, a symbolic setting. If I was in Harvey King's shoes, that would be my moment.

I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up. What I saw a few feet in front of me made the bottom of my stomach fall out....

The cabin door was halfway open and Horst's foolish face was hanging out of it, right arm waving back and forth, trying to get my attention. I flashed a "What the f.u.c.k are you doing?!" "What the f.u.c.k are you doing?!" look at him, then cast a quick glance up at Chase, who was on the upper deck, sitting behind the wheel with his back to me. The pilot's seat was set forward just enough so that he and Horst couldn't see each other. look at him, then cast a quick glance up at Chase, who was on the upper deck, sitting behind the wheel with his back to me. The pilot's seat was set forward just enough so that he and Horst couldn't see each other.

When I looked back Horst was proudly displaying the hardware he was going to use to save the day. G.o.dd.a.m.n Hollywood, I thought! And G.o.dd.a.m.n double 0 f.u.c.king 7, because in Horst's Dream Factory-riddled mind he thought he could go up against a heavily armed professional killer with a speargun. ... A G.o.dd.a.m.n underwater speargun! G.o.dd.a.m.n underwater speargun!

There could be little doubt about the outcome if I didn't do something. I tried to wave Horst back, but he ignored me and stepped out onto the deck, bent at the waist, spear-gun gripped tightly across his chest, like some kind of big-game hunter stalking his prey. I felt like I was in one of those terrible dreams where you're helpless, absolutely f.u.c.king powerless to do anything-you can't move and you can't even call out a warning, all you can do is watch in horror as the disaster plays itself out to its inevitable conclusion.

I grabbed the Luckys out of my pocket, but Chase was a good twenty-five feet away-five feet over the pellet's maximum range, and the forward motion of the boat was working against me. It was pointless to try. I yanked my cuffed wrist away from the railing a couple of times, trying in vain to get free. No chance.

Horst took another step into the open and spotted Chase. My heart stopped beating when I saw him raise the spear and take aim. Jesus Christ, I thought, he's not gonna take a shot from there! Standing upright, wobbling back and forth with the movement of the boat, and out in the open with no cover! I saw his finger squeeze the trigger and I knew it would be over in seconds. ...

I did the only thing I could think of doing.

"Chase!" I called out. "HEY, CHASE!"

Horst whipped his head around and looked at me like I was nuts, but I got the result I wanted-he leapt back into the doorway, out of sight as Chase swiveled around in his seat.

"What?"

"Got a light?" I said, displaying the pack of Luckys. His crack response was to take out his own pack of Marlboros, light one up, and say "f.u.c.k you" with a smile.

"For Christ's sake," I pleaded. "You want me to beg?" He was amused, but after a moment of gloating he took the hook-at least partially.

"Catch," he said, and tossed me the Zippo. But I didn't need his lighter, I needed him standing in front of me! I made a feeble attempt at catching it, let it fall to the deck, then looked up at him with my most pathetic look.

"Come down and give me a light, will you? What the h.e.l.l do you think I'm gonna do?"

He hesitated, but rose to the challenge, pulling back on the throttle and letting the boat drift while he climbed down onto the lower deck. I stole a peek at Horst, saw that he'd slipped back inside the cabin, and I started to feel like there was a chance of salvaging the situation. I'd have to kill Chase earlier than I'd wanted to, and that would leave me hanging as far as Kennedy was concerned, but I'd worry about that afterward. There was no alternative at this point.

Chase bent over, picked up the lighter, and stood there for a moment, looking at me like he was trying to figure out what I was up to.

"Catch it this time," he said. He was standing twelve feet away from me now. I could've taken the shot, probably hit him, but Sam had said it would take up to twenty seconds if you didn't get an artery and you can do a lot of damage with a .44 Magnum in twenty seconds.

"For Christ's sake, Roy," I said. "I'm one-handed here. Can you please light a f.u.c.king cigarette for me?"

He nervously flicked the Zippo open and shut a couple of times-some instinct seemed to be telling him that something was up, but he couldn't figure what. Finally he smiled and took a step toward me....

I heard the thwack thwack of metal exploding through flesh before I saw anything. Chase just stopped walking and calmly looked down at his chest, where the spear had impaled him, the b.l.o.o.d.y tip protruding about four inches out of his left breast. He reached over to touch the arrow, let out a low, rumbling moan, then looked up at me. It was shock on his face at first, then confusion took over, like he was trying to figure out how I'd done it to him. Finally-and this all took about two seconds-a trickle of blood ran out of his nose and he went ape s.h.i.+t, reaching for the Anaconda and swinging around, the spear through his torso no more than a minor annoyance. He was ready to obliterate whatever he found behind him. of metal exploding through flesh before I saw anything. Chase just stopped walking and calmly looked down at his chest, where the spear had impaled him, the b.l.o.o.d.y tip protruding about four inches out of his left breast. He reached over to touch the arrow, let out a low, rumbling moan, then looked up at me. It was shock on his face at first, then confusion took over, like he was trying to figure out how I'd done it to him. Finally-and this all took about two seconds-a trickle of blood ran out of his nose and he went ape s.h.i.+t, reaching for the Anaconda and swinging around, the spear through his torso no more than a minor annoyance. He was ready to obliterate whatever he found behind him.

Horst was paralyzed. He couldn't believe what he'd done and wasn't reacting to the fact that he was about to be blown away. I yanked my manacled right arm hard, pulling away from the rail with such force that I thought I'd dislocated my elbow....

The pain hit Chase now, but he managed to raise his gun and point it at the center of Horst's forehead. I extended myself as far as I could. There was about six or seven feet of air between me and the back of Chase's head. The pellet exploded out of my hand with a pfffttt! pfffttt! and struck him in the neck, about three inches below the ear. The poison hit his system immediately. I don't think he even knew he'd been hit. and struck him in the neck, about three inches below the ear. The poison hit his system immediately. I don't think he even knew he'd been hit.

Every muscle in his body seized up, including his trigger finger. The handgun exploded into the air, missing Horst's head by a few inches. The kick threw Chase back against the portside railing. His eyes had already glazed over and I was sure that he was dead on his feet, but he just stood there for a five count before falling back, head over heels into the water.

Horst dropped the speargun and it flew across the deck, dragged by the steel cable that was fixed to the harpoon. The gun's shaft lodged against the rail, holding Chase's skewered body on the surface, floating faceup, a few feet away from the boat.

"Pick it up!" I yelled to Horst, who still hadn't moved. I had to repeat it a couple more times before he reacted, but he finally got hold of it. He looked down at Chase, bobbing in the river, an expanding pool of blood darkening the waters around him.

"I can't believe ..." He trailed off, shook his head at the sight.

"Pull him back into the boat," I said.

Horst gave me a look. "You want me to pull him up?"

"He's got the key to these in his pocket," I said, displaying my cuffs. "So either he comes up or you go in."

He nodded and got hold of the cable, gave it his best shot, but it was a big fish he had on the other end. The body bounced up against the hull and I watched with disappointment as Chase's pistol worked its way out of his lifeless fingers. My heart sank when it did the same.

"Looks like you're going for a swim," I said to Horst.

He looked down at the dead man. "Yes, okay," he said apprehensively. "In which pocket is the key?"

"Check them all and get whatever he has. And see if he's got another gun stashed somewhere, maybe on his ankle."

"Yes, all right, I will," he replied as he removed his shoes and socks. "I can't believe ..." He was still shaking his head as he started down the ladder. "It's quite cold," he complained, sticking a toe in.

"Then jump," I said, not feeling particularly sympathetic. He actually held his nose before stepping off the ladder, then paddled over to the body. He hesitated as he came face-to-face with Chase's fixed stare.

"Shall I close the eyes?" he called up to me.

"If it makes you feel better," I replied.

"I think it does," he said, pus.h.i.+ng the lids shut.

"Check his jacket first," I said. "Try the inside pocket...." I couldn't see what was happening under the surface, but Horst seemed to be taking a very long time.

"Any luck?"

"No key," he said. "But here is an envelope...."

"Toss it up," I called out.

"Yes, okay," he answered, and a moment later a thick, soggy envelope dropped onto the deck.

"What about the key?" I had a quick look around, concerned that we were pressing our luck. It was just a matter of time before someone came along.

"I haven't found one. ..."

"Try his pants. ..."

"If I must," he said.

"You must." Horst ducked underwater. He seemed to stay there far too long, but finally surfaced with a gasp.

"Here is a wallet," he said, holding it aloft. I told him to throw it up, too, and it came over the side.

"Ah ... I have found a key!" he called out happily. "It was in the s.h.i.+rt pocket."

"Don't drop it!" I said.

"I'll come up."

"Did you check for a gun?"

"Wait a moment," he said, going under again, resurfacing more quickly this time. "No ... no gun."

"Okay," I said. "Come on out."

He climbed out of the water looking like a drowned rat, handed me the key, then plopped onto a bench. He sat there in shock while I released myself, then unlocked the other half of the cuffs and dropped them into my jacket pocket. You never know what'll come in handy.

"Go up to the bow and detach the anchor," I said. "Bring it back here."

"Why?"