The Third Bullet - Страница 17

Nick said, “I can’t authorize this.”

“I’m your undercover. You get all the credit.”

“I’m hanging up. I cannot authorize this.”

“But you will not pick me up, right?”

“Agh,” said Nick in frustration. He hung up.

Swagger went to the closet and removed his small overnight bag from behind the spare blanket, feeling the heaviness inside. He opened it, picking up the stainless-steel Kimber.38 Super, taking reassurance from the familiar lines of the 1911 platform as designed by John M. Browning over a century ago, with its twenty-three-degree grip angle, its flatness, its ergonomic genius of safety and slide-release placement created in a world where the word “ergonomics” hadn’t been invented. It was already cocked and locked, for what was the point of having a pistol if you couldn’t shoot it fast? He knew that nine hardball +P Winchester 130-grainers were in the mag and a tenth in the chamber, bullets that had their own velocity attributes, moving out at 1300 with enough juice to puncture glass or metal and keep on the straightaway for a killing shot. The gun had a familiarity; its ancient frame was of the perfect width and boasted the perfect relation of grip to bore so that when it came to hand, it went on point naturally. Bob slipped a speed scabbard, a minimalist concealment holster that yielded pistol to draw in a flash, on his belt, along with a mag pouch that already concealed two mags. He cinched his belt, then slid the pistol into the holster so that it rested three inches behind the point of his hip but flat against his body.

He put on his khaki coat to conceal it. Then he put his lucky dollar in his pocket. His lucky dollar was four quarters Scotch-taped together. In the pocket, the four coins supplied steadying weight, but if he had to draw, he’d give it a swat, and the heaviness of the coins would pull the coat back and clear and straight, presenting the pistol to the same hand that came back to snatch and deploy it.

Then he called Richard and told him he had to see him tonight at eleven, at the bench outside the Book Depository.

CHAPTER 7

The Russian saw them. Two men sitting on the bench by the reflecting pool. The Book Depository was well lit at night from the front, so the two were bold and clear in the refracted glow. On top of that, the Russian’s eyesight was absurdly superior, so the details leaped at him. No problem telling target from bait. Target was tall, angular. He looked like he’d been around some, been hammered here and there, even if his posture was relaxed. The Russian suspected he’d do better than the last one, that dish of pudding in the alley.

The Russian was parked out of the lights on Houston, across from the Book Depository near the tracks on Pacific. He had a good angle, and he was invisible to them. He hunted for signs of wariness but picked up nothing. The older man never looked around, his body language was not tense, he never swallowed or licked his lips, all tells of high anxiety. He wore a khaki coat, a red baseball hat, jeans, and a pair of boots. He was talking earnestly and listening earnestly.

Soon the chat would be over. Target would get up, and in whatever direction he went, the Russian would follow at a decent interval. The trick of the hit was the timing. No traffic downtown this late, and the police scanning radio indicated no presence of official vehicles in the vicinity. The plan was: wait for him to cross a street and head down a block. Then circle that block at speed with good angle control at the corners to beat him to the next intersection, get there before him, park with lights out. When he approached the intersection, he’d look both ways, probably wait until he had the green even though it was an empty weeknight, then start across the street. Find the angle of interception, accelerate through him (the Dodge did zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds) and smash him hard. Speed should be up to sixty-five by then. At the last second, as he turned to the noise, hit him with the lights, which would visually disorient him and freeze him in place. The kill was certain. There would be no time to react.

He waited, he waited, he waited. Occasionally, a cab pulled by, headed to the passenger-rich zone of the West End, not far away. Music and light issued from that neighborhood, but it meant nothing to the Russian. He sat in the dark corridor on the dark pavement in the dark car. On either side of him, two square brick buildings, dark as well, loomed. He had no idea what they were.

“Donahue seems to come the closest,” Richard said. They sat as if stage-lit on the bench, near the reflecting pool filled with Scope, under the shagginess of the overhanging oaks. A cool breeze stirred the leaves above to low whispers in the night, perfect for talking conspiracy.

“He goes nutty at the end,” Richard continued, “but it’s a logical nuttiness. He’s tried to answer your question: why did the third bullet explode? His answer is that a Secret Service man in the follow car with something called an AR-15, brand-new in ’63, I don’t know what it is, rose and accidentally fired after the second shot. That was the bullet that hit Kennedy.”

“And being a thin-jacketed, high-velocity 5.56-millimeter round impacting at close range, it behaved differently than the much heavier Carcano 6.5 from six times farther out, and that it was indeed engineered to explode? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Swagger grunted.

“You don’t like?”

“It’s hard to believe that A) the agent could fire a bullet from an unusual-looking space-age rifle in front of, what, two thousand people, and that nobody would see it or hear it. Or B) on top of that, by the randomness of the universe, his muzzle would line up pointed directly at Kennedy’s head.”

“It’s a theory with many difficulties, yes. As I say, discredited.”

“You’re telling me. I guess the point is, he has good analysis of the Carcano, and he was stuck as to a way to explain the behavior of the third bullet. That AR-15, what would later be called an M-16, seemed to answer all the questions, and it sure as hell was there, but he didn’t realize it raised more than it answered.”

“There is testimony that some people smelled burnt powder in Dealey. And it would explain the government ‘cover-up’ and why they would never admit that friendly fire killed JFK.”

“I can’t buy it. I acknowledge that gun accidents frequently turn on great anomalies, like a.45 that’s never before doubled suddenly doubling, or a ricochet pattern that you couldn’t duplicate in a million years. That does happen. But here you’ve got two, one at either end of the shot, appearing in front of two thousand witnesses, and no one saw it?”

“As I say, many problems. Still, you should read the book and see what you make of the first hundred pages. I think it accords with your idea, to the degree that I understand it and am capable of making such a judgment.”

“Great, Richard. Richard comes through again.”

“You wanted to see me. What was it? You didn’t just want my report. I had the idea it was an emergency.”

“I get these ideas and get excited. Here’s my new one. It has to do with the angles.”

“What about the angles?”

“It’s very odd. Everybody who knows nothing thinks it’s all about distance. Close shot easy, far shot hard. Well, that ain’t true, and it especially ain’t true when you’re shooting on the deflection.”

“Deflection? No comprendo.”

“Deflection. Shooting at a moving target. You’ve got to solve the angle, that is, find a way to produce not a hit but an interception. You have to put the bullet where the thing is going to be. It’s like nobody who wrote about the Kennedy assassination ever shot a duck on the wing. So it’s all made up, assumptions, guesses, hunches.”

“Hmmm,” said Richard. “Interesting. All right, I’ll bite. Tell me what you’re getting at.”

Bob explained it to Richard. “So, does it hold water? Does it make sense to you? I think this is the best one yet. How would I check it? Does it connect with anything else? Has anyone else thought of this approach?”

“Jack, I love the way you get all into this, and how it becomes so important to you that you have to discuss it at”-he looked at his watch-“ten after midnight. Offhand, it seems new to me.”

“I thought you had a photographic memory.”

“I thought I did too. You are testing the limits of it, however, so let me think about it overnight. Maybe do some checking. I do have a business to run, you know. Anyhow, it’s late, and I’m no longer a monomaniac like you; I’m just a human, so I need sleep. I’ll check, you call in the next few days, and we’ll get together soon. Right?”

“Sorry, Richard. Okay, swell.”

“Drop you somewhere?”

“No, I’ll get a cab. I appreciate the way you humor me without really seeming to humor me. Your mother raised an honorable man.”

“Thank you, Jack. Okay, I know well enough to know that I can’t persuade you to accept a ride. I’ll await your call.”

They rose, shook hands, and separated, each heading off in his own darkness.

The Russian watched. The tall one crossed Houston and headed up Elm into the high buildings of downtown. It seemed he had a limp, as if someone had taken a hard shot at his hip. There had to be a story behind that! It slowed the old man considerably, and the Russian winced at the clear discomfort the man felt while on the go. The Russian waited for him to drag his wretched, bent old body along until it disappeared behind the corner of the building to his left, waited twenty seconds, then turned on his lights, drove slowly and under control to Elm, and turned left. He could see the tall man half a block ahead, sending out vibrations of painful imprecision but at the same time holding not a care for security in his mind, lost in whatever internal drama consumed him, limping along.