The Berlin Conspiracy Part 20

As the figure made the turn on the landing, my hopes faded because I saw that I'd walked straight into none other than the weasel Aleks Kovinski.

He didn't see me at first. I reached under my jacket, got my fingers around the pistol's grip, certain I could take him out but not so sure whether I'd make it to the exit before anyone reacted to the shots. Then he looked up. I was about to pull the Beretta when I realized that he didn't recognize me-he just slowed down and looked at me, slightly perplexed. A couple more steps and he was close enough for me to see that, in fact, this wasn't Kovinski, at least not the one I'd met. He was almost a dead ringer, if I can use that term, but slightly taller, with a broader face and a more athletic build.

"Could use an elevator in here," I mumbled as we crossed. He didn't respond, just stared at me and kept going. I was aware that he stopped at the bottom of the stairway and looked back up. I kept moving, made the turn at the second-floor landing before stopping. After a tense moment I heard the street door open and close and I was pretty sure he'd gone out.

If I was gonna turn back, this was the time. It seemed like the smart move-I could be walking into anything. I had almost talked myself into going back down the stairs when I thought, What the h.e.l.l do I do then? f.u.c.k it. I wasn't gonna turn back just when I was finally getting somewhere.

I climbed to the third floor and stopped on the landing to catch my breath. Iceberg, I thought with a chuckle. As in the tip of. Josef had said it was the "public relations" arm of ZR/RIFLE, which was the Company's Executive Action Group (or, in plain English, the a.s.sa.s.sination squad). Harvey King's domain until he was kicked out by the Kennedys for cavorting with the mob. I wondered who was running it now.

Iceberg's job was to divert blame by creating false evidence, or at least cause enough confusion that no one would be sure what had happened. The "plausible deniability" team. The Kovinski double was a nice touch. He'd probably been all over West Berlin creating witnesses who could testify to Kovinski's erratic behavior. The photo would've been manufactured here, too, along with the propaganda pamphlet, all part of the program to establish their stooge's credentials as a Commie menace.

I pushed the door open and stepped into a large, rectangular s.p.a.ce, maybe thirty feet wide, three times that in length. The early-afternoon sun was streaming through the south-facing windows, and I needed a moment to adjust to the bright light. There were no walls or part.i.tions on the floor, just row after row of empty metal shelving. Closing the door gently behind me, I went to one of the front windows and looked onto the street to see if I could catch sight of Horst. The food van was too far away and I couldn't pick him out among the crowd, which was probably just as well. If I couldn't spot him, no one else would.

As I surveyed the room, a long white package caught my eye through the rows of shelving. I walked around and, as I neared, saw that the box was tied in red ribbon with a sizable bow on top. There were two plain blue containers, like large laundry boxes, sitting beside it and it was all situated directly in front of the freight elevator, ready for pickup. Using the small screwdriver that I still had in my jacket, I sliced through the packing tape on one of the blue boxes and opened the lid. Inside were three neatly folded uniforms, the type worn by the West Berlin police, complete with badges and sidearms. I replaced the top of the box and put it back on the shelf, looking more or less untouched, then opened the second box in the same manner. It contained three large padded envelopes, which I opened. Inside were wallets and identification badges for Secret Service agents. This obviously wasn't a fly-by-night conspiracy.

I stood back and studied the long white box. I was pretty sure what was inside, but there was no way I wasn't going to look. I undid the bow and slid the ribbon off as delicately as I could, then lifted the top. A gold card sat on top of a couple of dozen longstemmed red roses. The unsigned note read "Thinking of You." I removed the flowers, put them aside, then extracted the false bottom from the box. And there it was-a Russian-made Tokarev sniper's rifle, complete with telescopic sight, nestled snugly into its molded container. The rifle in the Kovinski photo.

My first thought was sabotage. I picked up the weapon, looked it over. It was heavy, but nicely balanced. I cradled it in my arms, checked the telescopic sight out the window, looked around the street, but still couldn't locate Horst. It would be easy enough to realign the scope, I thought, but the shooter would certainly recalibrate before firing. Even if I could throw the sighting mechanism off, it would probably mean innocent people getting hit. No, the firing pin was the way to go. I was no firearms expert, but I was pretty sure that I could remove the pin. ... Then I realized that this weapon could be just a decoy and the sniper wouldn't use it. There might even be more than one gunman....

The freight-elevator doors suddenly thumped open behind me, echoing across the empty floor. I spun around, half expecting to be met by a bullet, but instead came face-to-face with the man who, in my mind, represented all the demented lunacy the Company had to offer. Henry Fisher looked every bit the pompous p.r.i.c.k I remembered from Nicaragua.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack." He stepped out of the elevator, followed by Johnson and the Kovinski double. "What brings you our way?"

"I was hoping to join the Truth Commission."

He attempted a smile but it looked painful. "Didn't I hear that you're a wanted man?"

"Consider me armed and dangerous."

"So I see." He walked around behind me in a pathetic attempt at intimidation. "You know, Jack, you almost f.u.c.ked up the whole show. Kovinski was so spooked after you got to him that he was useless. We had to dump him. Two months prep down the drain."

"I guess I should feel bad about that."

"Don't worry about us, we're back on line now. But look at you," he sneered. "With your fingerprints all over our murder weapon." He nodded to the Kovinski twin, who stepped forward and grabbed the rifle by the barrel. I was already starting to get the picture, but it got a lot clearer when I saw that he was wearing surgical gloves. Johnson patted me down, reclaimed his Beretta, then gave me a gentle shove into the elevator.

"You're suddenly a very important man, Jack," Fisher said, following me in. "You're about to go down in history as the man who shot John Fitzgerald Kennedy."

The doors slammed shut and we started our descent.

The ground floor, with a large sliding door at the back, was being used as a garage for six nondescript, government-type vehicles, including the black Chrysler that had been crushed by Melik's taxi. Chase was sitting at a table near the door with four other men, two of whom I recognized as officers in the Cuban Brigade-men I'd first seen in Nicaragua and then again at the Miami Bowl when Kennedy got such an unexpectedly warm reception. Judging by this crew, his Berlin welcome was likely to be a lot less friendly.

Fisher sat me down in a small, windowless office, swung his size-twelve loafers onto the heavy wooden desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, and gave me a cagey look. He was feeling good.

"We've got a few minutes while things get prepped," he said. "I'd offer you a drink but I'm fresh out."

"Maybe some other time," I said, wondering if I'd forgotten just how big an a.s.shole he was or if he'd gotten worse.

Folding his arms behind his head, he rocked back in the chair. "I'm sorry you don't see the wisdom of what we're doing, Jack. Believe me, it's for the good of the country. ... The world."

I didn't bother to answer, which seemed to irritate him. He had a big, stupid grin stuck on his face.

"We're in a war, a bitter war that's going to determine the way this world looks in the twenty-first century. Some people don't have the stomach to win it, but I'm not one of them."

"Yeah, you're a real f.u.c.king patriot, Henry," I said. He glared at me for a minute, then dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. His voice pitched up a couple of notches with emotion.

"Are you one of those people that's so G.o.dd.a.m.ned enamored with this guy that you can't see what's happening? The son of a b.i.t.c.h has got most of the country snowed with his cute smile and his bulls.h.i.+t Harvard speechwriters, but you should be smarter than that."

"I guess I'm just not as sharp as you."

"Don't be an a.s.shole!" He leaned back again, picked up a rubber band, and fiddled with it, stretching it this way and that. "Haven't you noticed that ever since that Catholic b.a.s.t.a.r.d got into the White House, the Commies have run rings around us?"

"I think you're onto something there, Henry. He's probably taking orders from the Vatican. I hear the place is crawling with Marxist cardinals."

"f.u.c.k you if you don't take the future of our country seriously! You deserve your fate." The rubber band snapped. "For Christ's sake, Jack, you were on the Cuba team. ... Doesn't it mean anything to you that the b.a.s.t.a.r.d let those brave men die on that beach? That day f.u.c.ked up everything, I mean everything!"

He left a s.p.a.ce for me to say something, but I just stared at him. He shook his head, stood up, and started pacing. There was nowhere to go, so he walked in a circle. I don't know why it mattered so much to him, but for some reason he wanted me to see what a great thing he was doing. Maybe some corner of his mind had a problem with it and he needed me in order to justify it to himself. Or maybe he was just so G.o.dd.a.m.ned full of his own piety that it overflowed out of his mouth.

"It all all came out of Cuba!" he said, throwing his arms open, imploring me to see reason. "You think Khrushchev would've had the guts to put a wall through this city if our president hadn't been such a weak sister in Cuba? ... And forget the idea that he faced Khrushchev down over the missiles. Big f.u.c.king hero! Ask yourself why they were there in the first place! came out of Cuba!" he said, throwing his arms open, imploring me to see reason. "You think Khrushchev would've had the guts to put a wall through this city if our president hadn't been such a weak sister in Cuba? ... And forget the idea that he faced Khrushchev down over the missiles. Big f.u.c.king hero! Ask yourself why they were there in the first place! Nuclear warheads ninety miles off the Florida coast! Nuclear warheads ninety miles off the Florida coast! If Kennedy had done his duty at the Bay of Pigs, they wouldn't have been there! He made us look like a.s.sholes, so Khrushchev decided he could f.u.c.k us. ... It's just like with that G.o.dd.a.m.ned PT boat. Lieutenant Johnny-boy Kennedy navigates straight into the path of a j.a.p wars.h.i.+p, the only skipper in the whole d.a.m.n Pacific War to do so, and he becomes a f.u.c.king war hero for saving his crew-by writing a message on a coconut! They made a f.u.c.king movie about it, for Christ's sake! Well, I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I'm gonna let that Irish b.a.s.t.a.r.d navigate my country into the path of a Soviet destroyer!" If Kennedy had done his duty at the Bay of Pigs, they wouldn't have been there! He made us look like a.s.sholes, so Khrushchev decided he could f.u.c.k us. ... It's just like with that G.o.dd.a.m.ned PT boat. Lieutenant Johnny-boy Kennedy navigates straight into the path of a j.a.p wars.h.i.+p, the only skipper in the whole d.a.m.n Pacific War to do so, and he becomes a f.u.c.king war hero for saving his crew-by writing a message on a coconut! They made a f.u.c.king movie about it, for Christ's sake! Well, I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I'm gonna let that Irish b.a.s.t.a.r.d navigate my country into the path of a Soviet destroyer!"

I wish I could say that he was at the edge of sanity, or maybe over the edge, but I'm sorry to report that it wasn't the case. He was in touch with reality, all right, he just saw it all upside down and twisted inside out. Like a lot of other people. In the end, he was no more than a garden-variety fanatic spouting the kind of crazy ideas that you could find in any coffee shop, barber's chair, or executive boardroom in the country. It's just that Fisher, and a few others like him, had been let loose on the world. He was a Company man, and Company men saw the world in a way that we mere mortals could never understand. They would save the world from communism even if they had to blow it up in the process.

He was looking at me, waiting for a response. "I never thought of it like that, Henry," I said. "Thanks for setting me straight."

"f.u.c.k you, Jack," he said, finding his chair again. "It's all a big joke, right?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" He seemed to appreciate that and decided to have one last grumble.

"Meanwhile, Bobby sits up there in the l.u.s.tice Department indicting outstanding Americans, laughing when anybody mentions the international Communist conspiracy. Actually laughing! You know, I used to think they were just naive, but they're no more naive than you are."

He opened the top desk drawer, removed a group of black-and-white eight-by-ten glossies, and tossed them into my lap.

"You're a menace, Jack."

The first picture was taken at the Markthalle, early on Sunday morning. It featured me standing at a fruit stand, paying a little old lady for a green apple while Josef stood behind me. I flipped quickly through the others: Josef standing, me sitting on a bench near the playground; a grainy night shot of me getting into his car outside the dilapidated house on Berlinerstra.s.se; the two of us clasping hands as he dropped me outside Hotel Europa....

"Consorting with the enemy," Fisher smirked. "You're a traitor, Jack, an agent of communism who turned on his own country and shot our beloved president. It should play very well. I guarantee the press'll eat it up."

"You know, Henry," I said, pa.s.sing the photos back, "if it wasn't you, I'd be worried. But I know that you've f.u.c.ked up pretty much everything you were ever involved with." It was bulls.h.i.+t, of course. Fisher was a screwup, all right, but he wasn't running this show. It was way beyond him.

"That's right, Jack. You just relax," he purred, placing the photos back into the drawer. "Everything's gonna work out just fine. In fact, once I thought about it, I realized that you're much better in the role of a.s.sa.s.sin than Kovinski. It's more dramatic, you know, an American who's betrayed his country. I think it points up the danger from within. Too bad you don't speak Russian."

I was about to come back with a snappy reply, but I was cut short by Johnson, who walked through the door with a fully loaded hypodermic needle in his hand.

EIGHTEEN.

"I hope you're not planning to stick me with that thing," I said nervously. with that thing," I said nervously.

"Nothing to worry about," Johnson drawled. "Cosmic c.o.c.ktail, they call it, won't hurt a bit. In fact, it's kinda cool."

"You've tried it, have you?"

"I used to be a guinea pig," he smiled.

"How about putting it in a gla.s.s of water?"

"Sorry, man, it's gotta go intravenous." He held the syringe up to the light, tapped it a couple of times with his forefinger, then gently pushed the plunger up until a drop of liquid squirted out the end.

"You afraid of needles, Jack?" Fisher laughed. "He is. ... He's scared of the needle. That's f.u.c.king priceless!"

I've never been too happy about the sight of a pointed metal spike coming at me. One time in Kansas, I was broke enough that I tried to make a buck by giving blood, but I was out the door before the nurse could get anywhere near me. I even lived through the pain of a root ca.n.a.l rather than face the needle. I'm not embarra.s.sed. Everybody's got a phobia; that's mine.

Johnson promised that I wouldn't feel a thing, told me to take my jacket off and roll up my sleeve. He chuckled when he saw that I still had what was left of his cuffs around my wrists and I recounted the story of how I'd removed them, just to stall the inevitable.

"Christ, you're lucky you didn't blow a finger off," he said, producing the key and removing the manacles.

"I hope that's a spare," I said.

"The original," he smiled. "Little trick I do," and he demonstrated by placing the key on his tongue, showing me his empty hands, swallowing hard and then producing the key out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket.

"Very impressive," I said. "How about sawing Fisher in half now?"

"Why not?" he said amiably as he punched the needle into my arm, pulled the trigger back until blood surged into the barrel, then reversed the flow and injected the solution into my vein.

Things got very strange very quickly. The first thing I noticed was an odd, bitter taste at the back of my throat, followed by a gentle surge, like warm water pa.s.sing through my inner ear and was.h.i.+ng over my brain. The room didn't exactly spin, it just moved, changed shape, kind of stretched itself out, pulling away until I was separate from everything, including myself. My mind was still clear at this point, but that was about to change. I was headed over the rainbow.

Time started to overlap and get disjointed. Johnson was standing back looking me over in the same moment he was in my face pulling an eye open and flas.h.i.+ng a light onto the back of my skull. The beam exploded on impact and formed a million fragments of colored gla.s.s that became planets floating in whatever universe I was entering. Everything was foreign, including myself, and I wasn't even sure that I still existed. The thought crossed my mind that they'd given me a lethal dose and I was already dead....

The next thing I knew, I was lying on a four-poster bed in a quiet room, looking up at the ceiling, with no idea where I was or how I got there. I didn't know if seconds, minutes, or hours had pa.s.sed. I tried to sit up, but aside from my eyes, I was immobile. I was back in my body, but not connected up yet.

I looked around the room. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn across French windows and soft flames crackled away in a big stone fireplace. It was first-cla.s.s accommodation, although a bit bloodthirsty in decor. The heads of various beasts stared down from the walls and the marble floor was covered with the pelts of bears, zebras, tigers, that sort of thing. Above the fireplace was a dark painting of a naked man on horseback firing arrows into a wounded lion. I was having a deja vu, feeling I'd been there before-not just the place, but the moment. It was the drug, I thought, causing a memory synapse to misfire.

I closed my eyes, exhaled, and tried to relax. There was something I wanted to remember, something important, but it kept slipping away. I let myself drift back into the dark....

Twilight on the ca.n.a.l, the lights of the city coming to life, flitting across the water like playful angels drowning in our wake. I was in the back of the boat, a blanket around my shoulders, feeling safe and calm, at one with everything around me. As the ca.n.a.l opened up into a broad waterway, we picked up speed. The sudden rush of air was exhilarating and I got lost in the moment. everything around me. As the ca.n.a.l opened up into a broad waterway, we picked up speed. The sudden rush of air was exhilarating and I got lost in the moment.Then I sensed something. I turned my attention back into the boat. Chase was in front, behind the wheel, Johnson in the seat beside me, his head thrown back, eyes closed. But there was someone else, too. ... J J leaned forward, looked past Johnson, and there, sitting head in hands, looking very seasick, was what I was looking for. leaned forward, looked past Johnson, and there, sitting head in hands, looking very seasick, was what I was looking for.Horst. ...

I sat up sharply. The son of a b.i.t.c.h had set me up. That's what I was trying to remember. Horst had set me up.

Realizing that I was mobile again, I jumped onto my feet too abruptly, went light-headed, and had to catch myself on one of the bedposts. I lowered myself onto the floor and let it pa.s.s.

The pamphlets hadn't come from Kovinski's jacket! Horst had planted them so I would find the address stamped on the back and go to the warehouse, where Fisher and friends would be waiting to jump me! Horst had probably been in the middle of putting them in Kovinski's file when I interrupted him. And I'd gone for it, convincing myself that Kovinski was just dumb enough to stamp the Company address on a piece of disinformation. The words hook, line, and sinker hook, line, and sinker came to mind. But Horst was just playing spies, doing what he was told. The person who had truly set me up and sold me down the river was none other than Sam Clay. came to mind. But Horst was just playing spies, doing what he was told. The person who had truly set me up and sold me down the river was none other than Sam Clay.

He was right on cue. The door opened and in he walked. "I see you're back among the living," he smiled.

I pulled myself up off the floor and gave him a "f.u.c.k you from the bottom of my heart" look. I felt betrayed in a way that I didn't realize I still had in me. Sam had been my sponsor, my mentor, and even, I thought, a true friend. Not an idealist by any means but, I'd believed, a man with some basic principles. Apparently not.

"You don't seem surprised to see me."

"I saw Horst on the boat."

"No s.h.i.+t? They said you wouldn't remember a thing. I'm impressed."

"I guess I should be, too. I didn't know you had it in you."

He drew a breath and frowned. "It's complicated, Jack."

"No, Sam. It's not complicated. It's simple. It's so f.u.c.king simple that I'm not even going to say it."

He turned away and moved to the window, peeked past the drapery into the outside world. It wasn't just idle curiosity. He was looking for something.

"Why'd you bring me here?" I said. "Why didn't you just leave me doped up and put a couple of bullets in me at the appropriate moment? That's the idea, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's the idea." He dropped the curtain and turned back toward me. His face betrayed no emotion, just a cold hard stare.

"How's it supposed to happen?" I asked.

"No idea," he said with a smile. "Operational details are being held at a lower level."

"Plausible deniability."

"That's right."

"Which was created to protect the president."

"Not this time," he said blithely.

I tried to fathom what would make Sam sell out like this. Was he being pushed aside and didn't like how it felt? He was too much of a player to call it quits and maybe this was his insurance. Without the game he had nothing, so maybe in order to keep his place at the table, he was willing to bet it all, including his soul.

"It's wrong, Sam."

"Sure, Jack, I know. It's wrong as h.e.l.l." He looked out the window again. "We don't have much time. They'll be here soon."

"Who?"

He moved away from the window, looked around the room. "You almost f.u.c.ked up the whole plan, you know, spooking Kovinski like that. He went off half-c.o.c.ked."

"I take it he's history."

"More like he never existed. You're the one slated for the history books."

"So I hear." I was feeling kind of wobbly, but didn't want to show it, so I stayed on my feet. "Whose bright idea was that?"

"Mine."

"Great ..." The room started to spin. "Always could count on you for a good time. ..." I was heading for a crash landing, but Sam got hold of my arm, guided me over to the bed.

"That s.h.i.+t really did a number on you."