Gordon Stevens - Kennedy’s Ghost

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.

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 this morning, then the flight back. But not to Italy. To Switzerland. Moretti, Gino and Enzio driving up to meet them. The afternoon in the bank’s Zurich office, then the overnight in the slightly old-fashioned hotel in the mountains which Mr Benini preferred to the more modern establishments in the city. More meetings tomorrow, then the flight back to Milan. Depending, of course, on the twists and turns of Mr Benini’s timetable.

If it had been Milan – on the way to or from the family villa in Emilia at weekends, from the apartment on Via Ventura in the morning or the office behind La Scala in the evening – they would have been on edge, would have worked one of the dozen variations of route. But this wasn’t Italy.

The police car was on the hard shoulder a hundred metres in front of them; as they passed it rocked in their tailstream. Still no back-up Merc – Cipriani adjusted the second of the two rearview mirrors – still no Gino and Enzio sitting like guardian angels behind them. The movement was enough to warn Moretti; the driver glanced up then the rev counter dropped slightly as he eased back. Not enough to disturb the man in the rear seat, but enough to slow them by ten kilometres an hour.

The road was still curving, still climbing gently, no other traffic.

The police car passed them, suddenly and unexpectedly, then slowed in front of them, the observer waving them down.

The layby was gravel, forty metres long and a car’s width wide. They pulled in behind the police car and waited. In the back seat the banker glanced up. The police driver left the Audi and walked towards them, the observer remaining seated and facing forward. Cipriani got out and shut the door behind him, heard the dull click as Moretti locked the doors.

Standard procedure. The driver never leaving the car. Doors and windows locked, vehicle in gear and held on the clutch, handbrake off. Enough space to pull away even if it meant driving over whatever or whoever was in front, even a policeman. More correctly, even someone wearing a police uniform. For this reason Cipriani did nothing to obstruct Moretti’s get-away route or his line of vision.

The 450 was armour-plated – up to a point. Ten-millimetre glazing on the windows; Spectra plating for doors, sides, roof-liner and floor boards; plus cell fuel tank. Not the protection some of the Saudis carried, but Benini was still Benini.

‘One of your tyres is going down.’ The policeman spoke with what Cipriani assumed was the regional accent.

‘Which one?’

The wheels were reinforced, a steel rim between the hub and tyre, so the car could run even if the tyres had been ripped by bullets. Except that the opposition would know that.

Cipriani confirmed the observer was still seated and his door was still closed, confirmed that the driver’s gun was still strapped in its holster.

‘Rear left.’

Coincidence that the police car had happened to be parked up on their route out of the city – Cipriani was tight with adrenalin. Coincidence that the tyre was on the driver’s side so that he had to walk round the car to see it? Coincidence that if he walked round the front of the car he would obstruct Moretti’s vision and exit path, but if he walked round the back he would lose sight of the policeman’s hand and gun.

Moretti rolled the Merc back slightly and turned the front wheels so they were pointing out.