Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

it.’

      Donaghue stood and straightened his suit, Pearson slightly behind him and Jordan at his shoulder. The rest of the passengers were still seated, all watching. He passed along the line of crew members and shook each of their hands.

      ‘Give it to ’em today, Jack.’ The voice was from the back of the plane.

      ‘Good luck, Mr President.’ Another.

      Abruptly the passengers rose and began to clap. Donaghue turned and waved his thanks at them, then left the plane and stepped through the jet bridge and into the terminal, everyone wanting to shake his hand this morning, everyone wanting to wish him luck. Some addressing him as Jack, others as Senator. More than the occasional person calling him Mr President.

      The doors of the Lincoln were open. Brettlaw stepped forward and Donaghue shook hands with him, embraced him.

      ‘Good to see you.’

      ‘You too, old friend.’

      Eleven thirty-three.

      The Lincoln left National.

      Hendricks checked his watch. Not much traffic today, therefore the target on time.

      Even though the road out of the underpass was in front of him and the glistening white of Capitol Hill was behind and to his left, he saw it differently, as if he was the driver of the Lincoln, as if he was the man delivering the target to the killing zone.

      Right out of National and on to George Washington Parkway – he ran through the route again. Off the Parkway and across 14th Street Bridge. Fork right at the end into the series of underpasses dissecting DC, the cars which would funnel the Lincoln into the correct lane, and into the correct position in the killing zone, already closing. First underpass then second, right at the first exit but still underground, then right again at the second exit, the carriageway of this section single-lane, still climbing and curving left, then straightening into the sunlight. Sixty yards from the underpass to the traffic lights at First. White multistorey housing the National Association of Letter Carriers on the right, and side road joining the underpass road from behind the multistorey, so that at the junction with First the road was two-lane. Six-foot-wide central reservation of grass and trees to the left and wire fence down the middle, and the road on the other side leading only to an underground car park. Grey multistorey of the Federal Home Loan Bank beyond the road. Grass and more traffic lights in front and leading to the Hill.

      Everything quiet, little traffic and hardly any pedestrians. Everything perfect.

      Eleven thirty-four.

      The Lincoln eased on to George Washington Memorial Parkway.

      Thirty-five.

      The Lincoln pulled right, off the Parkway and across 14th Street Bridge, the grey-blue of the Potomac below them and the white of DC suddenly in front. The white always dazzling, but this morning almost blinding. Fork at end of bridge, Route N1 goes left and Route 395 right.

      The Lincoln swung right on to 395.

      Eleven thirty-seven.

      First exit, to Maine Avenue. First underpass coming up. The dark blue Chevrolet fell in behind them then drew to the outside lane, but not overtaking.

      Thirty-eight.

      First underpass. Two-lane. Short. Out of the underpass in fifteen seconds.

      The pale Chrysler sedan eased in front of them, the Chevrolet behind them still in the outer lane and preventing them from overtaking.

      Thirty-nine.

      Hendricks saw the truck edge from the feeder road at the side of the Letter Carriers building, the engine clattering and the smoke billowing from its exhaust. The lights at First were on green. The truck crossed to the left lane, jerked apparently haphazardly towards the lights, and shuddered to a halt at them.

      Eleven-forty.

      Ford replacing the Chrysler and Oldsmobile replacing the Chevrolet. Yellow sedan three hundred yards in front.

      Donaghue reached into his jacket pocket and glanced again at the speech, read again the quote he had included at the request of his wife. The quote after which he would pause, after which he would look down reflectively then look up again, after which he would declare he was running for the White House.

      In the long history of the world

      few generations have been granted

      the role of defending freedom

      in its hour of maximum danger.

      I do not shirk from this responsibility

      I welcome it.

      Except that in his mind he had rewritten it slightly:

      In the long history of the world

      few generations have been granted

      the role of defending freedom.

      In the hour of maximum danger

      I do not shirk from this responsibility.

      I welcome it.

      Two hundred yards in front the yellow sedan drew them in as if they were on a piece of string.

      Eleven forty-one.

      The Lincoln closed on the second underpass and entered its darkness. The underpass was long and curving, pale in the overhead lights. The underpass was climbing slightly, the first exit – D Street NW and US Capitol – coming up fast. The climb was steeper, they turned right, the yellow sedan in front and the Lincoln behind, the Oldsmobile behind it, the Ford keeping to the main carriageway and accelerating away.

      The light of the exit was in front of them, the carriageway still climbing out of the underpass. Second exit, D Street straight on, Capitol right. Yellow sedan going right, the Lincoln following it, Oldsmobile straight on. The underpass still single-lane, still curving and climbing.

      Eleven forty-two.

      They left the underpass and drove into the brilliant sunlight of the killing zone. The white building of the Letter Carriers Association towering over them to the right and the grey of the Home Loan Bank to the left. The side road joining from the right, so that the single-lane became two lanes and the lights sixty yards in front. The truck broken down in the left lane and the yellow sedan suddenly stalling beside it in the right. The Lincoln immediately behind the sedan, more traffic behind it so it was unable to move, and the man called Hendricks waiting.

      Twenty-eight years before, on 22 November 1963, President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

Four months earlier …

1

      They should have waited for the back-up, Cipriani knew.

      Of course they sometimes got separated, of course they sometimes ran in to problems, but the back-up car should have caught them up by now.

      The evening was warm, early June and still two hours of daylight left, the dual carriageway curving slightly in front of them and the pines rising up the mountainside to their left and falling to the valley to their right. Perhaps that was why Moretti hadn’t noticed. Because they were from the city and therefore expected trouble in the city; because this was Switzerland and nothing happened in Switzerland except they made cuckoo clocks and lots of money.

      South, across the border into Italy, and Cipriani would have begun to worry, would have whispered to Moretti to slow it. Except that Mr Benini liked to be driven fast. If they slowed the banker would glance up from the rear seat and ask what the hell was happening without uttering a single word.

      And nobody knew they were here.

      He and Benini had flown out of Milan the previous afternoon, stayed last night at London’s Grosvenor House Hotel, Mr Benini attending a meeting at the bank’s office on Old Broad Street