"And he's obviously keeping an even lower profile, because Harry didn't turn him up in any of the usual checks," said Marlene. After a moment, she continued, twirling her fingers through her hair, as she did while in intense thought. "So here's Harley Blaine's pet ex-spy, who knew Oswald, who knew that Richard Dobbs was guilty and lied about it, and here we also have Richard Dobbs's son, working himself into a position of influence on the assassination committee, and pushing for a strong investigation, he says, but really steering the investigation away from the CIA, or why would he have arranged to have those memos and the film ripped off, and have told someone you were going to Miami to see those guys, and that must mean-" She stopped, confused. "What must it mean?"
"It means we're becoming Kennedy nuts," said Karp sourly. He tapped the film on the editor. "But for sure this is blackmail material. If somebody else has this information, Dobbs is in their pocket. The only question is who."
"You think your Irishman in New Orleans?"
"Baton Rouge. Yeah, he's looking better and better. I want to go out there and take a look at him. And then talk to Gaiilov in Dallas. And maybe Blaine too."
"I want to come," said Marlene.
He stared at her. Behind her, unwatched, the cocoa boiled over, filling the apartment with the dark, cloying odor of burned chocolate.
The man called Caballo looked out on the falling snow and felt cold. He hated snow, not only because it was cold, but because it meant he couldn't move, couldn't do what he had come to Washington to do. He hated Washington too. The public buildings all looked like prisons to him. They were full of little people making little rules for other people to follow, pretending that you could live real life according to lists of rules. Caballo knew that wasn't true. You just had to do what was necessary; you had to survive. That was why he liked Guatemala, that and the climate.
On the second day after the blizzard, Bishop called.
"There's a little hitch," he said.
"There's always a little hitch lately," replied Caballo, with uncharacteristic impatience.
"Oh? Getting antsy, are you?"
"Yeah. I want to do the job and get out of here. I'm getting a bad feeling about this operation. What was that hitch, anyway?"
"Our candidate elected not to take over the investigation. However, the man they found is just as good, maybe better. We won't have any trouble with him. But this man, Karp, is still something of a loose cannon. He has a copy of the film, and we need it back."
"We should do him, Bishop. I told you, he saw me."
"Don't touch a hair on his head!" Bishop snapped. "That's all we need. And don't give me any smart ideas about convenient accidents. We're past all that. The lid is just about nailed down once and for all and I'm not looking forward to spending the rest of my life waiting for another investigation. Nor are you, I imagine." He waited, but the other man said nothing. "This is a retrieval, pure and simple. You'll wait for the apartment to be completely empty, and then you'll go in and get it. And Bill?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't get seen again. Our friend would be extremely upset if you were seen again."
NINETEEN
Karp had to admit it, Claude Wilkey knew how to run a meeting. He was running it in the wrong direction, but at a good clip. They were sitting around the conference table in the chief counsel's office-Wilkey, Karp, V.T., several young, intense-looking men whom Wilkey had recruited, and a small, tight-faced young woman, the new administrative chief. Bea Sondergard was gone with Crane.
Wilkey was talking. He had a pleasant, light, confident voice, well suited to reasoned academic discussions. He looked like the professor he was: a bland, pale face topped by thinning brown hair, horn-rims magnifying mild blue eyes. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows over a knitted sweater bearing a diamond pattern, slacks, polished loafers, and a striped button-down shirt with a foulard tie. Everyone else in the room, including the woman, wore dark suits.
Wilkey's lecture was well organized and easy to understand. The staff had one purpose and one purpose only: to complete the committee hearings as quickly as possible and to write a report. The staff would be reorganized into teams, each responsible for a section of the final report; the intense-looking men would be in charge of these teams. As Wilkey described their duties, Karp realized that no one was assigned to the conduct of any field investigation.
"What about the people we have in Miami, New Orleans, and Dallas?" Karp interrupted. "What happens with those operations?"
"I'm afraid we're closing all that down," explained Wilkey in a patient tone. "We simply don't have time for it."
"You read my report?" Karp demanded. He had, on Wilkey's request, composed a brief summary of the major new leads he had uncovered: the Depuy film, the CIA papers, the interview with Mosca, the trove of material from Guel's house, the investigation of P. X. Kelly. He had included some of the more obvious next steps.
"Yes, I did. Interesting. But really, you don't have anything I can bring before the committee, do you? Some unsolved murders, a film of uncertain provenance, suspicions…" He glanced at his new people as if to say, This is just what we want to avoid. "No, I want to redirect the core of this effort toward the scientific analysis of solid evidence."
"You mean like the magic bullet? That's what you call solid evidence?"
Wilkey pursed his lips. "Yes, that's what we have to work with. We're going to settle the scientific issues, the forensics, the autopsy, once and for all. That's what the Congress expects and that's what we intend to do."
Karp was about to make his old point about the chain of evidence for all the physical sequelae of the assassination being hopelessly corrupt, but thought better of it and slumped disconsolately in his chair. The meeting resumed. Wilkey was also, it appeared, going to deal with the organized crime issue "once and for all" as well. Karp listened without interest. Of course they would try to pin it on the Mob! Congress would love that-Wilkey had written a book on the Mafia, Karp now recalled-because of all the powers in America, the Mob was the only one that didn't have a lobbying office in Washington. Not an official one anyway.
The meeting broke up. It was clear to Karp that the "team leaders," all three of them Wilkey's men, were not going to report to him in any meaningful way. It was a neat and familiar bureaucratic maneuver. The graceful thing would be for him to resign, which he intended to do as soon as possible.
He walked out of Wilkey's office and through the corridors. There was a heightened purpose in the air. People were bustling about, carrying papers; the new people were cracking the whip.
Karp had no doubt that Wilkey would produce a professional report, on time and within budget.
He went out of the building for a bite to eat. The snow had melted off the roadways but lingered in slushy piles in the gutters. The temperature was moving up into the fifties and the cherry trees in front of the botanical gardens were showing the little knobs that would be blossoms in a week or two. He doubted that he would be there to see the famous display.
Two hot dogs and a root beer later, Karp walked back to the Annex and went to see V.T.
V.T. was arranging files on his long table, working off a large stack of paper that he was distributing among the various folders.
"What zeal!" said Karp. "I guess our new leader's inspired you to really start working."
"Yeah," said V.T., "old Claude has that charismatic, inspirational quality that makes you want to do a lot of busywork, puke your guts out, and quit."