“Who is this?” Sandford demanded, his voice rising.
“Just remember what I told you: When you become President…”
“Hey. Who are you —”
The caller hung up, leaving Sandford alone to decipher what it all meant. If anything, it picked at an old wound, the wound that became the driving force for Sandford’s political ambition. He wanted justice for his daughter’s death. But if the caller was to be believed, Sydney wasn’t dead after all. All his buttons were being pushed and he couldn’t handle it.
Sarah knocked on the door and poked her head in.
“Is everything OK, Gerald? Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Somebody’s messing with me. It’s nothing.” Sandford slumped into the chair behind his desk.
“OK, I’m about to bring out dessert.”
“Honey, I’ve got to be honest — I’m not really hungry right now. Can you save me some for later?”
“Sure thing,” she said as she closed the door behind him, leaving him alone in the office.
Sandford buried his head in his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t know what to believe. He especially didn’t like being toyed with. But getting worked up was no way to govern. You rule with your head, not your heart, Sandford’s father told him when he first got elected to represent his home state of Tennessee as a representative. At the moment neither seemed sufficient.
He placed a call to his office and asked a staffer to get the NSA to track the most recent call placed to his cell phone. He waited in silence before a quick response came back: they couldn’t trace it — neither the phone’s owner nor the location.
Sandford decided he needed a drink, a strong drink. Vodka would suffice. At least there’s one thing good to come out of that godforsaken country. Sandford slammed the drink down and poured himself another. He needed to think about what his first move would be as President.
CHAPTER 11
Flynn still felt like he was groping in the dark, trying desperately to make sense of the shards of evidence he had collected. It was one thing to identify the shooter — the real shooter in the JFK assassination plot. It was another to figure out who he was working for. By his estimation, Flynn solved the easy part. The question everybody wanted answered still clung to his back like a 400-pound gorilla.
Navigating afternoon traffic in Dallas was not one of the more glamorous parts of the job. After visiting Sam Golden in Crandall, Flynn returned to Dallas proper for another meeting he’d delayed for several weeks. He received a call from a man named Stephen Moore who had some documents he wanted to give to Flynn — but it had to be in person. He asked Mr. Moore to wait patiently until he could get there. Fortunately, the invitation to see Sam Golden’s video gave Flynn the opportunity to make it a two-for-one trip, something that would make those finance people at The National happy.
Flynn also wanted to make Theresa happy, which is why he recorded a playback of Sam Golden’s footage of the shooter hidden in the culvert. It took all of three minutes, after he emailed the footage to his editor, for her to call him back.
“Are you serious? Is this for real?” Theresa asked.
“You know me. I always air on the side of caution and cynicism. But if this is a hoax, it’s one elaborate one. Just get an expert to compare it with official television footage. It shouldn’t be hard to prove or disprove.”
“But we have no idea that the man in the culvert actually fired his weapon.”
“I’m not concerned with whether he fired his weapon or not. I want to know who he is.”
“Do you have any idea of who he might be?”
“Strangely enough — yes. But it’s going to take some time to verify who he is.”
“Got any friends left at the CIA who can help out?”
“I’ve still got a few friends there, but this is not something I want to transmit to them and put into their database as coming from me. Just give me some time. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Take all the time you need. You know this might be bigger than Watergate.”
“Maybe. Depends on who was really behind it all — the only question that needs to be answered at this point.”
“Just keep me posted, OK?”
Flynn bid his editor a good afternoon before hanging up and turning his full attention back to the road. But it didn’t stay there for long before his mind began to drift. How could this be possible? It doesn’t make sense.
A half hour later, Flynn arrived at Mr. Moore’s residence. He remained in the car for a moment to ponder what might be next as he stared at the manicured yard in the center of this upper-middle-class neighborhood. The week’s events sent Flynn’s mind spinning as he worked through the evidence to find the shred of truth that would unravel the lie sold to the American public. Could Mr. Moore’s documents shed more light on the JFK assassination conspiracy or simply lead to more questions? Flynn hoped his victorious battle against Dallas’ afternoon traffic would yield a positive result for the case. He hated more questions in a conspiracy this old.
Flynn knocked on the black door of the brick ranch house and waited. The door creaked open, revealing a gentleman who appeared to be somewhere around eighty years old. The thin splotches of white hair dotting his otherwise bald head and his slightly hunched back alerted Flynn that his host had a few stories to tell. Yet there was only one that interested him.
Mr. Moore welcomed Flynn and showed him to the den where the two settled into plush chairs. They made small talk for a few minutes before addressing the main reason for their meeting.
“So, Mr. Moore, what documents did your brother give you that were so important you had to give them to me in person?” Flynn asked.
Mr. Moore chuckled, which quickly turned into a gravely cough. Upon regaining his composure, Mr. Moore answered him.
“I’m a big fan and I wanted to meet you in person,” Mr. Moore said.
“Seriously?” Flynn asked, starting to seethe beneath his breath.
“Absolutely. But that’s not the only reason I wanted to see you in person. It has to do with the nature of these documents, documents that my brother said were for your eyes only.”
Flynn sighed.
“Look, if I don’t have your permission to share these with the public when I go to write a story — if these documents are even newsworthy — then this is just a waste of time for both of us.”
Flynn abruptly stood up to leave.
“Now, now, Mr. Flynn. I didn’t say you couldn’t share the information. Only the documents can’t be broadcast or shown to anyone. However, he was a big fan of yours too and made a short video for you to watch. He never said anything about not showing it to anyone.”
With that last sentence, Mr. Moore gave Flynn a wink and turned on the television with the video apparently already cued up.
The video started with an introduction by Mr. Moore’s brother, who surprisingly was only ten days away from dying. He was rather lucid and appeared in good spirits as he began talking.
Hi, Mr. Flynn. My name is James Moore, but you likely know me as J. Walton Moore, a CIA agent based here in Dallas in the 1960s. As I near death, I think it’s important that the world know the truth about cover stories I told when deposed by the Warren Commission and the House Select Committee on Assassinations.
I first met George de Mohrenschildt at a charity event in Dallas in early 1962. At the time, he believed it was a chance meeting, but it was nothing of the sort. I had been tasked by the Deputy Director of Plans, Mr. Richard Helms, to make contact with Mr. de Mohrenschildt and deploy him as an asset for Central Intelligence. I was unsure the extent of Mr. Helm’s plans for our new asset. However, I was instructed to introduce him to Lee Harvey Oswald when he and his wife first moved to Dallas in the spring of 1963.