“If I had a dollar for every time somebody said that to me…” Flynn’s voice trailed off, but his cynical comment didn’t deter the caller.
“Look, I’m sure you get plenty of whackos calling you, but what I’ve got is something that warrants a trip out here.”
“OK, I’m listening. What is it?”
“I just found an eight millimeter camera my father placed in a box years ago and it’s got footage of JFK’s assassination.”
“I believe they confiscated all the cameras that were rolling in the area immediately after President Kennedy was shot.”
“Well, they didn’t get this one. And I think you’ll be amazed at what’s on it.”
Flynn continued his conversation in a hushed voice. He grabbed a pen from his coat pocket and began scratching down contact information on his drink napkin before hanging up.
“So, what was that all about?” Natalie asked, apparently ready to order.
“I’ve got to go to Dallas tomorrow,” he said. “A man just found footage of the JFK assassination that the FBI never confiscated. Apparently, it’s big.”
CHAPTER 8
Early Wednesday morning in New York City, Ivan pressed the last wrinkle out of his white dress shirt and slipped on his coat. Security was ridiculously tight around the U.N. building every day. It became almost impenetrable when the President was scheduled to address the general assembly. Ivan looked smugly at himself in the mirror. That’s why real anarchists plot their revenge over years. You’re never gonna see me coming. He tucked his shirt in and glanced at himself once more before heading out the door.
His phone rang.
“How’s our little operation coming along?” asked the voice on the other end once Ivan answered.
“Like clockwork.”
“What about Flynn? Is he preoccupied?”
“Yes. His bug went dead yesterday afternoon, but I listened to everything he said. All indications were that he was moving on to other things. He especially liked the lead that we gave him with the Bay of Pigs.”
“Good. We don’t need him poking around any more. At least, not until we’re done executing this plan on Friday.”
“I understand.”
Ivan hung up and reveled in his skills. Some people might label him a terrorist. It was a label Ivan found belittling. To him, the term “terrorists” represented radical ideologues. They had no purpose but to kill and destroy, all done in the name of vengeance — or, in some twisted way, God. It didn’t even matter which god. Everybody seemed to follow a god that encouraged people to murder and plunder in his name. No matter the religion, some variation of God’s name was invoked as a basis for an attack on other innocent people. It was disgusting really. Vengeance always proved to be such a vain pursuit. That’s why Ivan loathed hearing media reports about attacks he led termed as “terrorist attacks.” He wasn’t exacting revenge; he had purpose to his actions. Ivan saw meaning in what he did, attempting to create a better society for everyone. So maybe there was a little collateral damage. And maybe even innocent civilians got hurt or died. What he did was for the benefit of all people — they just didn’t know it yet. One day, perhaps. But certainly not now.
Twenty minutes later, Ivan arrived at Elite Catering, set to accompany his cousin, Andrei. His name meant “warrior”—and he was. Prior to moving to the United States, Andrei served in the Russian Federation army as a major. He loved his country more than anything, which is why Ivan admired him so much for leaving the motherland behind to work a thankless job in a country he loathed. Ivan realized it’s what a true warrior would do.
Andrei and his deadbeat co-worker, Nelson, were scheduled to make a delivery to the U.N. A luncheon about the efforts of drought on the world’s food supply necessitated Elite Catering’s services. Ivan gawked at the invoice sitting next to some of the trays of food in the delivery truck before crawling beneath one of the wheeled carts. He clearly wondered how these pompous diplomats couldn’t realize the irony in what they were doing. The bill was so high that it could have fed an entire village for a month. Another reason we do what we do.
The plan was simple: drop off the food and get Ivan in the building. Ivan handled every detail with precision. A week ago, Andrei worked with Ivan to develop a replica of the U.N.’s security clearance card as well as an ID badge for Elite Catering. The gun Ivan would be using was secured beneath the bottom of one of the carts. Since the carts always set off the metal detectors, no guard would perform a thorough search. Once inside the elevator, Andrei would allow Nelson to exit with his cart first while Andrei lingered just long enough to allow Ivan to crawl out and conceal his disassembled rifle. Ivan would continue up several floors to gain access to the balcony overlooking the general assembly and wait there until Friday.
It was a long time to wait, but it would be worth it. Nothing to do but hide and wait. Anarchy would come soon enough — and then his organization would take control.
CHAPTER 9
Flynn gazed out the window of the DC-9 jet descending toward the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport runway. He struggled to settle his thoughts as he had so many interesting things to think about. His burgeoning romance with Natalie. The newly discovered polygraph cover-up. And now, possible never-before-seen footage of JFK’s assassination? If the latter was true, his mind might spin endlessly for days on end. It was enough to excite him about the possibility that he might be the one to discover the truth behind JFK’s death. Fifty years had passed since Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot America’s most popular President and the public was no closer to knowing the truth about what really happened. Or were they?
After Flynn secured his rental car, he headed for the address that Sam Golden gave him over the phone. He didn’t make a practice of meeting people at their home, especially with all the kooks out there today. But Mr. Golden seemed harmless enough — and due to the nature of his evidence, it wasn’t exactly something they could discuss and view in a public coffee shop.
While Golden claimed to live in Dallas, it was a lie. When it came to metro areas, Flynn learned most people felt such fibs were acceptable. In Georgia, nobody wants to be from Doraville. They are from Atlanta. In California, who wants to be from Culver City? Those people live in Los Angeles, no matter what the U.S. Postal Service says. And while Mr. Golden may have told Flynn that he lived in Dallas, what he really meant was Crandall.
Flynn wondered if he was in another country when he passed the city limits sign for the rural town about forty-five minutes southeast of Dallas. He noted corn stalks sticking up in people’s backyards. The bedroom community seemed to struggle with what kind of place it wanted to be — an extension of Dallas or a farming town. Only a few major restaurant chains had wormed their way into Crandall, which seemed to prefer the past over the present. White picket fences and wrap-around porches highlighted almost each house along the tree-lined streets. It’s not quite Mayberry, but it’s sure trying to be.
Sam Golden rocked in a chair on the front porch as Flynn pulled into the driveway. Apparently Sam’s job could wait, whatever it was. Welcoming a big city slicker into Crandall meant no work for him.
“Are you Mr. Golden?” Flynn asked as he got out of his car.
“It’s Sam. Please call me Sam,” he said, lumbering down the porch steps and toward Flynn with his hand outstretched as a welcoming gesture.
They shook hands as Flynn looked around.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Flynn said, trying his best to be polite.