“What I mean is that everyone wanted JFK dead for various reasons. But nobody did anything about it until the Kuklovod hired a CIA asset to orchestrate a plan that included Lee Harvey Oswald serving as the patsy.”
Clarke furrowed her brow.
“Now, back up here for a minute. Who exactly is the Kuklovod and why have we never heard of them?”
“The Kuklovod is an extremist group dedicated to the principles of communism. And you’ve likely never heard of them because the CIA barely knew of their existence in the early 1960s. By the time they had plenty of information on them, the horse was out of the barn, so to speak, when it came to trying to figure out who killed JFK. And quite frankly, accusing another group would look bad since they had claimed to have their man already.”
“So, why now? Why come out with this information today?”
“Because I’ve learned the Kuklovod is active again on U.S. soil and that they’re plotting some act of terrorism very soon.”
“How soon? Or can you say?”
“I can say, Frances. I believe they’re going to make another attempt on the life of a U.S. President — and they’re going to do it tomorrow at the U.N.”
Clarke ate it up. Seconds after the words spilled out of Flynn’s mouth, a ticker at the bottom of the screen captured a condensed version of the quote: “Journalist believes President’s life in danger at U.N. speech.”
For the rest of the interview, Clarke looked intrigued and excited, like she had struck the TV talk show lottery. And she had. Flynn picked her show to reveal one of the greatest mysteries in American politics, even if the details were sketchy and didn’t make complete sense yet.
Flynn, ever the showman, refused to divulge all the details, encouraging viewers to go to The National’s blog if they wanted to know more and view supporting media and documents. Teasing people’s curiosity on such a subject equated to mental torture. The second Flynn left the set, he imagined everyone bolting for their computers, tablets or smart phones, visiting the magazine’s blog for more information.
On his way back to the Wyndham, his cell phone buzzed nearly the entire time, from text messages or voicemails. Requests for more information, and invitations to appear on other TV and radio programs streamed in. The only incoming call he answered came from his editor, Theresa.
“That was quite a show you put on tonight,” Theresa said.
“Thanks. I hope what I said is taken seriously,” Flynn replied.
“Well, if our web traffic is any indication, people are definitely interested. The site has already gone down twice in the past ten minutes. It’s easily going to set a record for our most-read story if we can keep the site live.”
“Fantastic. I hope I’m wrong about tomorrow, but I’ll be here to prove myself a fool or prove myself right if they arrest someone. Either way, it’s going to be a big day.”
“Well, thanks for all your hard work. I knew sending you to New York was the right call.”
Flynn rolled his eyes. The only reason she asked him to do it was because two other reporters were sick. Otherwise, none of this would be happening.
He decided to take the humble route.
“I appreciate the opportunity. I hope I can make you proud tomorrow, too.”
Theresa wished him a good night before hanging up. Flynn couldn’t help but feel like that interview would be the turning point of his career, one that was already going well. If he could make all the evidence make sense, book deals would come flying in, and so would the speaking engagements. It might give him the time and resources necessary to chase a few other conspiracy theories that befuddled him more than JFK’s assassination. Maybe I could hire an assistant, too. He already had in mind a certain young lady from Washington.
He thought about calling her and seeing if she happened to watch his revelation of JFK’s assassination conspirators. But she always went to bed around nine o’clock. Calling her at this hour wouldn’t be thoughtful and might even come across as braggadocio. He could wait until the morning.
Ivan sat still in the darkness. His back ached even more as he remained perfectly positioned out of view. If he survived the morning security sweep, nothing would stop him from accomplishing his mission. Less than 24 hours and it would be over with.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Yes,” he answered.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“I’m sure we can handle it. What is it?”
“We’re going to need to get that leverage on Flynn after all. He just went on national television and said that the Kuklovod was going to kill the President tomorrow.”
“Well, he’s right. We are. And he won’t say another word about it.”
“Just handle it.”
Ivan ended the call and then began texting another operative. It was a simple message:
“Get the girl.”
CHAPTER 19
Todd Osborne arrived at his office in Langley, Virginia, earlier than usual. He needed to check on the results of the photo the Vice President had sent him of Sydney. Deep down, he hoped it was real. While he never was involved romantically with Sydney, Osborne often considered asking her out. They were playful in their flirting, but neither one of them made a move. He hadn’t even kissed her, though he’d wanted to on several occasions. When he found out she died, Osborne entered a depressed state for a couple of months. Hearing the news of a loved one dying is always difficult to take — but the toll of losing someone with whom you had unfinished business can create a chasm of regret in the heart. Osborne felt himself slipping into it before snapping back. He knew he might not ever find out who was behind her death, but he vowed to use every resource at his disposal if he ever had the opportunity to investigate. Yet in sixteen years, Osborne never had the chance. Seeing the image of her on his screen made him wonder if he’d lost his humanity since joining the agency.
One of the new analysts eager to curry favor with Osborne left a note on his desk. It simply read: “It’s real.”
Osborne sat down and sent a short note to Sandford’s secret email address, alerting him to the image’s authenticity. In some ways, he thought Sandford would be excited. In others, it might dredge up tortured memories best left buried. There was no telling how someone might react to the news of a loved one once believed to be dead now found alive. Osborne took the news as he might have an opportunity to tell Sydney what he always wished he had told her before she left for the Peace Corps.
A light tapping on his office doorjamb made Osborne spin around in his chair. It was Bill Barkdale. If there was one person who made Osborne’s stomach turn, it was Barkdale. When Flynn uncovered what that one rogue Marine had done, Barkdale sought to silence him, claiming that it was in the interest of national security not to say anything. But Flynn kept pushing back, contending that the truth kept people more responsible and honest. Barkdale refused to back down, launching a personal vendetta against Flynn. In the end, Barkdale won — and had worked his way up to Deputy Directory of the CIA.
“What are you doing in here so early, Osborne?” Barkdale asked. His tone more accusatory than inquisitive.
“I’ve got a lot do, sir. Just trying to catch up on some work.”
“You’re not trying to help Flynn, are you?”
Osborne evaded the question. “What makes you think I would do a thing like that?”
“Did you see him on television last night, banging the drum of fear? He needs to realize he’s not an operative any more.”
“True, but he might have a point.”
“That nut job wouldn’t know a point if it poked him in the eye. He’s just trying to sell magazines and get hits on his website. Besides, have you heard any chatter that anyone — much less the Kuklovod — is planning an attack on the President?”