"Just do it, Horst!" I snapped, then added more coolly: "We can't just leave him floating like that. We'll have to sink the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Yes, of course," he said, then scrambled up the ladder to the upper deck. I secured the speargun to the rail, then picked up Chase's wallet and the envelope. There was a stack of hundred-dollar bills in the envelope that I didn't bother to count. I stuffed them into my breast pocket and turned to the wallet. It contained eighty-five marks and change and a Polaroid of an Oriental girl in what you might call a compromising position. You might also call it physically impossible, which I suppose is why he carried the photo. I didn't know much about Chase, but I knew enough not to be surprised. The wallet had been stripped of everything else-no ID, receipts, nothing.

Horst returned with the anchor and I went to work attaching it to the cable as close to the body as possible without sending Horst back into the water. I wanted to get moving.

"I can't believe I have killed somebody," Horst said as I removed the cable from the speargun and threaded it through the anchor's eye.

"What you did was almost get yourself killed...." I said, knotting the cable back onto itself. "And me along with you."

"You must admit, though, that it was quite resourceful."

"It was quite dumb, that's what it was." I picked the anchor up and tossed it overboard. "I needed him alive, for the moment anyway."

"Oh," he said, deflated. "Have I made a bad error?"

I didn't see any point in rubbing salt in his wound. "Forget it," I said. "Maybe it'll work out."

We stood at the rail and watched Chase disappear below the surface on his way to the bottom of the river. He'd pop up in a day or two, but that didn't matter.

"Amazing," Horst said philosophically. "To be alive one minute, and the next ..."

"Don't feel too bad," I said. "He wasn't a real human."

TWENTY-TWO.

I eased up on the throttle after putting some quick distance between us and Chase's watery grave. The wooded sh.o.r.eline had given way to a belt of leafy suburban homes, then cl.u.s.ters of concrete apartment blocks, finally succ.u.mbing to the industrial zone surrounding Tegel Airport. I had guessed right about our location. after putting some quick distance between us and Chase's watery grave. The wooded sh.o.r.eline had given way to a belt of leafy suburban homes, then cl.u.s.ters of concrete apartment blocks, finally succ.u.mbing to the industrial zone surrounding Tegel Airport. I had guessed right about our location.

"Take over," I said to Horst, who was sitting on a bench behind me wrapped in a blanket.

"In which direction?" he asked, slipping into the pilot's seat.

"No direction," I said grumpily. "Just stay afloat and don't hit anything." I grabbed the black briefcase that Chase had stowed under the control panel and climbed down to the lower deck, where I could investigate its contents without Horst looking over my shoulder.

I located a screwdriver and a large wrench in the cabin and knocked the locks off the case. Inside I found a walkie-talkie and a stopwatch along with a Canadian pa.s.sport, driver's license, and $250 in traveler's checks in the name of Ian Howe. My own pa.s.sport, which I hadn't seen since Johnson relieved me of it three days earlier, was also there, but two entry visas to the Soviet Union had been added. The only other item was a small medical kit that contained a loaded hypodermic needle, presumably another Cosmic c.o.c.ktail meant for yours truly. It was a return trip I'd happily miss out on.

With a little luck-and I thought I must be due some-the walkie-talkie meant that Chase would've been operating independently, in contact with the rest of the team solely by radio. Keeping me isolated made sense, of course. The last thing they needed was for the accused a.s.sa.s.sin to be connected to the actual a.s.sa.s.sins. Chase, the only direct link to me, would've been on his way back to Saigon within minutes of the action, and anybody who went looking for Mr. Ian Howe of Toronto would find themselves chasing thin air.

Good news/bad news. n.o.body would be expecting to see Chase; that was good news. The flip side was that it was a two-way radio, so they were expecting him to check in. I could probably get by on the voice, but he would have a pa.s.sword, and if he'd committed it to memory, well, it was as gone as he was.

One method black ops uses to secure communications is to designate a control operator, who receives signals from any number of individual satellite operators. He is the conduit for all communications, receiving information and relaying it to the intended recipient. Control can broadcast to any combination of satellites, each one of which has its own prelocked secure frequency. If one is compromised, as Chase's would be when he didn't check in, the control operator would simply remove that frequency from the relay. Literally cut him out of the loop. Whoever was running the op-presumably Harvey King-would then have to choose between aborting the mission or proceeding with a possible security breach. I couldn't be sure which way he'd go, but based on what I'd witnessed the night before, I'd put my money on a green light. If that was the case, I wouldn't be able to do a d.a.m.n thing to stop it. Without the pa.s.sword, I might as well go home and watch it on TV. My best, and maybe my only, shot was if the code word was stashed somewhere in the briefcase.

I looked through the papers again. It could be anything, of course. It might be "Tulip," the street that the nonexistent Ian Howe called home, or his birthplace of "Hamilton," or even his mother's maiden name, "Davis."

I noticed a piece of paper, folded over twice and taped to the inside back cover of my pa.s.sport. When I opened it I found three typewritten lines in the center of the sheet: VICTORIA H HOTEL, S SCHoNEBERG.

11 am check-in

confirm EZECH13V10 It wasn't the pa.s.sword, but it was a location and a timetable, which gave me some breathing room. I shut the case and climbed back up the ladder.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly six," Horst said. I wondered what Chase was supposed to do with the five hours before he checked into the hotel. It was unlikely that there would be any contact planned, so it wasn't too important, but it was strange. Why not go directly there?

"Do you know the Victoria Hotel in Schoneberg?"

"Yes, I've been for a drink," Horst answered. "It's quite nice."

"How close is it to city hall?"

"Directly in front. You can see it-" He stopped short. "Kennedy speaks there today...."

"That's right."

"It's where they will attempt to shoot him?"

"Looks that way," I said.

I had to admit, it had a certain flair. The leader of the free world, murdered in front of hundreds of thousands of witnesses-millions if you count the television cameras that would beam the moment around the globe. It was a h.e.l.l of a thought. An event that could very well take the world over the brink, unleashing the nuclear nightmare we'd been flirting with for fifteen years. The whole world would see it, but no one would ever have a clue about who did it or why.

A guy named Adolf once said: "The great ma.s.ses of people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than to a small one." Well, this was one G.o.dd.a.m.n major-league monster of a lie.

"What shall we do?" Horst asked, his teeth chattering from the cold, and maybe a little excitement, too.

"You're not gonna do anything except drop me off and go home," I said firmly. "You've done more than enough already."

He thought for a moment, then said, "You have not much choice but to have me with you." I was about to set him straight, but he said it with such conviction that I decided to listen.

"You'll go to the Victoria Hotel?" he said.

I nodded.

"And this is where they expect you to be, correct?"

"Get to the point, Horst," I said.

"If you walk in alone, they must know that something goes wrong. ..."

"And if I walk in with you, they won't?"

"Are you sure they'll know it's me? I'm more or less the size of this dead man and we have something of the same color of hair...." He smiled. "And as the fat lady has said to the man at closing time, it's better to have me than to have no one."

I gave him an unhappy look. It was unhappy because he was right. There would be spotters placed throughout the plaza reporting the action to Control, and there would certainly be a couple stationed outside the hotel or in the lobby. In order to maximize security, they'd be men or women that neither Chase nor I knew, spotting us based on photos. But they'd be concentrating on me, not Chase. If I went in alone, alarm bells would go off, but there was a decent chance that they wouldn't have a good look at the guy I came in with. I took a deep breath.

"Do you own a blue suit?"

He grinned like a kid who'd been told he could go to the circus. "Of course I do."

I didn't expect to see Hanna at the apartment, Horst having told me that she'd be on her way to work by seven o'clock, so I was taken by surprise when we found her sitting at the table with a plate of toast and a cup of tea. She looked pleased to see me at first, but something changed her demeanor right away. Her female radar sensed trouble.

Horst asked what she was doing there and she explained that the factory had been closed for the day so the employees could attend Kennedy's speech.

"Will you go?" he asked anxiously.

"I haven't decided," she said, and he suggested that she'd see more on television, reminding her that she hated crowds anyway.

"Yes, I expect I'll watch from here," she said, satisfying Horst, who went off to find his suit. I took a seat across from Hanna. She offered me coffee and started to get up, but I told her I was fine. She nodded and sipped her tea, avoiding my look.

"I'm sorry that I didn't phone you," I said.

She shook her head and looked up at me. "I told you I didn't expect anything."

"I meant to, but ..." I trailed off as she got up and carried her plate of unfinished toast to the kitchen. I followed her in, found her wiping down a perfectly clean counter.

"Is something wrong?" I asked innocently.

"What could be wrong?"

I was amazed that we'd managed to get to those two sentences in two short days. On the surface, I was mystified as to why she was acting this way, although I think deep down I must've known. I went with the surface.

"I would've called, but-"

She gave me a look and cut me down to size. "Do you really think I'm upset because I haven't heard from you in twenty-four hours? Are you that egotistical?"

"I have no idea what I've done to make you angry," I said flatly. "I'd appreciate it if you filled me in."

She drew a breath and slowly exhaled it. "I don't know what you do, Jack, and I don't think I want to know. But I do know that you won't be here for long, one way or another. I knew it from the moment I saw you and I accepted it." She paused and I waited. "You're dangerous," she said. "That's who you are, it's what you do. But my brother, he's not the same as you, although he thinks he is. Don't take him with you."

I don't know how she knew, but she did. Not what we were facing, not exactly, but she sensed that something was up, something that might end badly. I could've walked out the door right then, of course, leaving Horst safely out of it. But things don't work that way, do they?

"I won't let anything happen to him," I said.

"Is that a promise?" she mocked. I didn't get a chance to answer because Horst strode into the room at that moment.

"How do I look?" he said, doing a turn in his dark blue conservative best.

I could read Hanna's dark thoughts as he waited for an answer, but she forced a smile and said, "Like a respectable businessman."

"Jack and I have an important meeting," he said, kissing her cheek. "I must look my best."

"Jack always seems to have an important meeting," she said. "He must be a very important man."

"We are both," he said with a wink. "Someday you'll know it."

The look she gave me as we went out the door was one I'll never forget. It was one of hope and fear, supplication and scorn, all at the same time.

TWENTY-THREE.

The clock on the bombed-out Kaiser-Wilhelm Church hadn't struck eight yet, but the street below it was in full swing. Like some great migration of humanity, the citizens of Berlin were converging on Stra.s.se des 17 Juni, the broad avenue running through the Tiergarten that would carry President Kennedy to his first stop. They wanted to see him in the flesh, maybe shake his hand, but even more than that, I think they wanted on the bombed-out Kaiser-Wilhelm Church hadn't struck eight yet, but the street below it was in full swing. Like some great migration of humanity, the citizens of Berlin were converging on Stra.s.se des 17 Juni, the broad avenue running through the Tiergarten that would carry President Kennedy to his first stop. They wanted to see him in the flesh, maybe shake his hand, but even more than that, I think they wanted him him to see to see them, them, to reach out and touch to reach out and touch them. them. Spirits were soaring, the atmosphere charged with high expectations. Spirits were soaring, the atmosphere charged with high expectations.

Horst convinced me to abandon breakfast and join the crowd advancing up Kurfurstendamm. Armed with American flags and homemade signs, they spilled out onto the street-young ones held above the fray by shoulders that would give them a clear view of history, construction workers in hard hats who'd spontaneously downed tools to join the parade, schoolchildren shepherded by anxious teachers, bearded professors expounding on the day's significance to wide-eyed students, housewives with freshly teased hair, old men in old hats, and young boys in crisp blue jeans. ... The whole d.a.m.n city had declared a holiday and was on its way to greet the American president.

"It's nuts," I said to Horst as we were swept up by the sea of euphoric faces. "He's the president of the United States, not the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Second Coming."

"I don't think Berliners would be so interested in the Second Coming," he grinned. Horst was proud of the welcome his city was about to bestow on Kennedy. "Understand," he continued, suddenly looking very serious, "we in Berlin have feared more than anything being forgotten by the world. And now comes Kennedy, and the people know that he doesn't come to tell us that we are on our own. He comes to say that America won't forget us, even if sometimes our own leaders might like to."

I nodded and we continued on in silence, letting the surge of happy people carry us forward.

The atmosphere was infectious, but in the back of my mind I was trying to get inside Harvey King's head. I'd been on the money about city hall-maybe Harvey and I were on the same wavelength. The key to figuring out the operation lay in the fact that the whole world would witness the event and they'd all have to come away believing that one man had pulled the trigger.

It would go something like this: Kennedy is at the platform, speaking to a rapt audience, when shots ring out-two quick blasts echoing through the plaza. Each volley has been counted down by Radio Control so that the two bursts of three simultaneous shots sound like the report of one rifle reverberating off the buildings that surround the square. Some witnesses say the shots came from the Victoria Hotel, while others claim they emanated from elsewhere by Radio Control so that the two bursts of three simultaneous shots sound like the report of one rifle reverberating off the buildings that surround the square. Some witnesses say the shots came from the Victoria Hotel, while others claim they emanated from elsewhere-another building or from behind a group of trees. But that would be later, when it didn't matter anymore. The lone-gunman story would've taken hold by then. Now, in the seconds following the shots, a wave of horror and disbelief fans out across the plaza. Some in the back don't realize what's happened, while those closest to the stage can't believe their eyes. Except for one-an individual who is positioned at the front of the crowd or even on the platform itself. He calmly speaks into a hidden radio, sending a damage report back to Control in the form of one prearranged word. If Kennedy has taken a lethal hit, the "all clear" word goes out. If the president has escaped injury or is judged to be capable of surviving his wounds, the "hit him again" word is sent and Control calls for another volley. But with up to nine shots fired by expert marksmen in triangulated, coordinated fire, chances are that the job is done. Kennedy is dead.All h.e.l.l breaks loose. Confusion followed by panic on the platform, n.o.body sure what to do. Secret Service radios are buzzing with "shots fired, the president is down," but they're acting like chickens with their heads cut off because the Secret Service has only one mission in life-to protect the president-and they've just f.u.c.ked up beyond their worst nightmare. Local police go into overdrive. Uniformed and undercover German cops rush to secure buildings in the vicinity and to lock off the plaza, but it can't be done in less than five minutes, probably more like fifteen-long after three una.s.suming men have melted away from the scene, never to be heard from again. men have melted away from the scene, never to be heard from again.Back in the Victoria Hotel, Roy Chase shoves poor old drugged-out Jack Teller into the hallway, where a Secret Service agent puts two bullets in his chest. A pistol is fired into the wall-or better yet, into the agent's leg-and then placed in Jack's lifeless fingers so self-defense can be claimed. Who's going to question this hero's story when the recently fired Tokarev with my fingerprints on it is sitting in a room registered to me? Then, within hours, the photographs of Josef and me, the Soviet visa in my pa.s.sport, and who knows what else is made public. Whatever happens after that, as far as the JFK a.s.sa.s.sination is concerned, it's case closed. ...

We had almost an hour before we had to check in to the hotel and I needed some thinking time, so I was happy to hang back while Horst wormed his way to the front of the crowd, determined to get a close-up look at the Kennedy magic. Once the motorcade pa.s.sed, I'd bring him down off his cloud, prep him as best I could for the various sticky situations we might find ourselves in.

If we beat the odds by making it past the lobby and into the room, we'd still be up s.h.i.t's creek unless we found Chase's pa.s.sword. I'd convinced myself that it would be waiting for us at the hotel. It would be a needless security risk-one that Harvey was too smart to take-to hand out codes until the last possible moment. If I was right, it was just a question of finding the pa.s.sword once we got there. It might even find us: a message at reception or a note on a complimentary basket of fruit; or it might be harder to find; written on the back of a bar of soap or inside the wrapping of a chocolate bar. It could be in a h.e.l.l of a lot of places and we wouldn't have much time.

Then a thought occurred to me: We might not need the pa.s.sword at all. What if we slipped through the lobby, headed upstairs, and opened the door to find the shooter waiting for us in the room? I liked that scenario because it meant I could walk in, kill him, and inform Control what I'd done as we made a fast exit. It seemed like a long shot, too easy, but there was some logic to it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

I knew that one of the three shooters would be positioned somewhere in the hotel. Looking at it with my Harvey King hat on, it seemed to me that you ran the risk of casting serious doubt on your cover story if you didn't put your shooter in the room with me. After all, it was a virtual certainty that in a crowd of half a million or more, a fair number of people were going to witness the shots being fired. If they all agreed that the gunman's window didn't match up with the room that was registered to me, you've got a problem. On the other hand, if it was the same window, those witnesses would be a plus, confirming your story for you. In fact, you could create a series of photos-not obviously directed at the window, but shot from behind the president, so the hotel window would be visible in the background. When blown up and enhanced, the pictures would tell your story: In the first shot, Jack Teller stands at the window as Kennedy takes the podium. He's gone in the second photo, but moments later the photographer catches the barrel of a rifle protruding from the window-you can't see the gunman's face, but you can see the same white shirt that Teller had been wearing. In the last image, the president is down. The series of photographs would make the front page of every newspaper across the planet with a caption that read "The a.s.sa.s.sin sizes up his target, takes aim, and a president is dead."

I didn't see how Harvey could pa.s.s it up.

[image]

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd and the ground started to vibrate with the drone of police motorcycles-a distant rumble at first, like rolling thunder, then closer and stronger until you could feel the vibrations under your feet and in the pit of your stomach. Then, drifting in from the west, the m.u.f.fled chorus of ten thousand voices chanting "KEN-NE-DY ... KEN-NE-DY!" building in intensity and growing louder as a wave of unbridled fervor worked its way up the avenue ahead of the motorcade.

I couldn't see a d.a.m.n thing, and before I knew it I was hanging off a traffic light, craning my neck for a view of the approaching cortege. In the crisp, clear June air, the scene played out in full Technicolor glory, as if Berlin had been transported from its dull, black-and-white existence to the gates of the Emerald City. The lead car-Stars and Stripes flying on the right fender, the red, black, and gold of the German standard on the left-was a half mile away, close enough that you could see the pandemonium it was carrying with it. People were running along the sidewalk as the open limousine pa.s.sed, trying to get ahead of the procession and join the crowd again, swelling the number of spectators to the bursting point.

I could see Kennedy now-standing in the back of his car, a wide grin on his tanned face, hair blowing in a gentle wind as he waved to the countless faces calling out, even screaming, his name. As glamorous and charismatic as he was, I don't think the people lining that avenue were cheering the man. They didn't know the man. What they knew was his youth, his energy, and his inspiring, sometimes electrifying words. They were cheering the promise that he offered for the future.

You only had to look at Adenauer, standing on the other side of the car, to see what it was all about. The German leader looked stunned, as if he'd been ambushed by his own people. He stood there, stiff and grim-faced, offering a halfhearted salute while he wondered, in G.o.d's name, when he would be able to sit down. He had served his country as head of state for fourteen years and now he was old and tired. He was the past and his people desperately wanted to look forward. Maybe that's what w.i.l.l.y Brandt was thinking as he stood between the president and the chancellor. Roughly Kennedy's age, the mayor seemed satisfied, and a bit bemused, by his city's unrestrained welcome.

Twenty white-jacketed motorcycle cops escorted the president, ten on each side of the sleek Lincoln Continental. Eight gray-suited Secret Service men jogged alongside, two stood on the rear b.u.mper, and a whole carload followed, along with a couple of buses for aides and the press. The convoy was proceeding so slowly and Kennedy was so completely exposed that the thought crossed my mind that it actually wouldn't be a bad kill zone. I took a quick look around and saw that the only perch a sniper could use on this route would be a tree, and being up a tree with a rifle wouldn't give you a high degree of confidence in your shot, and even less in your escape route. But on a different road, one surrounded by buildings ...