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Kennedy’s Ghost
Gordon Stevens
It was the sort of day you remembered. Where you were when you heard and what you were doing; who you turned to and who you telephoned.This is not 22 November 1963, but now. This is 'KENNEDY’S GHOST', a nerve-shredding thriller of kidnap, conspiracy and assassination.Former SAS man Dave Haslam is hired to negotiate the release of a top banker being held to ransom in Italy. In America, Deputy Director Brettlaw of the CIA has dark reasons of his own to fear for the banker’s safety, while charismatic politician Jack Donaghue is striding ever closer to the White House … and the deepest secret of the Camelot years.Haslam, Brettlaw, Donaghue: three men on a collision course, on a switchback ride of intrigue and suspense, on the shocking trail of 'KENNEDY’S GHOST'.
GORDON STEVENS
Kennedy’s Ghost
COPYRIGHT (#)
Kennedy’s Ghost is a work of fiction. All of the events, characters, names and places depicted in this novel are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994
Copyright © Gordon Stevens 1994
Gordon Stevens asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780006490029
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008219352
Version: 2016-09-21
DEDICATION (#)
To Art Kosatka,
for introducing me to Washington DC
through the back door
and without whom this book
would not have been possible
CONTENTS
Cover (#u1f392ffb-1FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Title Page (#u1f392ffb-2FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Copyright (#)
Dedication (#)
Prologue (#)
Chapter 1 (#)
Chapter 2 (#)
Chapter 3 (#)
Chapter 4 (#)
Chapter 5 (#)
Chapter 6 (#)
Chapter 7 (#)
Chapter 8 (#)
Chapter 9 (#)
Chapter 10 (#)
Chapter 11 (#)
Chapter 12 (#)
Chapter 13 (#)
Chapter 14 (#)
Chapter 15 (#)
Chapter 16 (#)
Chapter 17 (#)
Chapter 18 (#)
Chapter 19 (#)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#)
Other Books By (#)
About the Publisher (#)
PROLOGUE (#)
It was the sort of day you remembered. Where you were when you heard and what you were doing; who you turned to and who you telephoned.
The assassin was in position at eleven, the cars which would steer the Lincoln into the killing zone at eleven-five. The truck which would break down in the left lane of the traffic lights, ensuring that the Lincoln would move to the right-hand lane, at eleven-six. The yellow sedan which would stall in front of the Lincoln by eleven-seven.
The senator’s flight from Boston was on schedule; his Lincoln, plus the man who would accompany him, already waiting. Twenty-five years before, Donaghue and Brettlaw had been undergraduates together at Harvard.
At eleven-fifty Donaghue would join his wife and daughters in his room on the third floor of the Senate Russell Building on Washington’s Capitol Hill. At one minute to twelve he would walk with them along the marble corridor to the historic setting of the Caucus Room. And at midday exactly, with his wife at his side and Brettlaw in the wings, Senator Jack Donaghue would formally announce his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for the Presidency of the United States of America.
It was eleven-fifteen. In the Caucus Room the television cameras were in place and the lights ready, the cables running to the scanners outside. The walls of the room were marble, the slim Corinthian-style columns rising to the ceiling, and the ceiling itself was exquisitely decorated with four large chandeliers hanging from it. The windows on the side of the room facing the dome of Capitol Hill were wall-height, arched at the top and draped in purple. On the wall opposite them, on either side of the door leading into the hallway beyond, two plaques listed some of the events to which the Caucus Room had born witness: the 1912 enquiry into the sinking of the Titanic, the 1941–42 commission into the World War Two National Defense programme, the 1966 Fulbright hearings on the Vietnam War, the 1973 Watergate enquiry and the 1987 commission on Iran-Contra.
The platform from which Donaghue would declare was against the right-hand wall, flanked on the right by the Stars and Stripes of the Union and on the left by the flag of his home state of Massachusetts, two massive black and white photographs hanging on the wall behind and dominating the room.
‘Why the Kennedy photos as backdrop?’ the NBC reporter asked the Donaghue press secretary. ‘Why John and Robert?’
‘Because they also declared in this room,’ she told him.
The floor was packed with supporters, already excited and some singing. Most such crowds were the same, the CBS reporter knew: young and preppy, a blaze of hats and banners. Not this one, though; this one was different. Young and old, a range of ages, creeds and colours. As if they not only stood for what the country had struggled for in the past, but also represented the dream it still clung to for the future. Blue-collar and white-collar, men and women, youthful students and gnarled veterans. Three of them in the second row talking about a Swift boat in ’Nam and laughing about the way The Old Man had bellowed into a bullhorn for the boats they knew didn’t exist to follow him in.
The woman in the front row was young, the radiance of youth on her face, her blond hair falling on to her shoulders and her child in her arms. The man next to her was in the dress blues of the Marine Corps, the eagle, globe and anchor on the collar, the sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, and the medal ribbons across his left breast, the top row the most important and the ribbon on the wearer’s right of the top row the most important of all. The ribbon next to it was the Silver Star, after that the Bronze Star, three stars on it indicating it had been won three more times and the ‘V’ indicating they had been won for heroism in battle. The service ribbons at the bottom, the Vietnam service ribbon in the middle.
‘Mind if I take a close-up of the decorations?’ one of the cameramen asked.
‘No problem,’ the marine told him.
‘What was that all about?’ the reporter asked as he and the cameraman moved on.
‘You see what he was wearing?’ The response was tight, almost angry. ‘Top right, next to the Silver Star. The Congressional Medal of Honor.’
The highest award for valour the nation could bestow.
‘Mommy,’ the reporter heard the voice of the girl in the arms of the young woman next to the marine. ‘Why has that man only got one arm?’
It was eleven-twenty, the morning bright and the silver of the 737 gleaming against the faultless blue of the sky. Ten minutes to landing, the pilot informed his passengers. In the second row from the front Donaghue checked the speech for the last time and whispered the words of the first quote. Perhaps to Pearson, perhaps to himself.
Some men see things as they are and say why;
I dream things that never were and say why not.
The boy was ten years old, seated with his mother towards the rear.
‘You think he’ll mind?’
Of course he’ll mind, the woman knew she should say. He’s busy, too many things on his mind, especially today. ‘Ask him,’ she said instead.
‘Come with me.’
‘Go by yourself.’
The boy gripped the Polaroid camera and made his way down the aisle, the nerves consuming him. Halfway along he hesitated and looked back, saw the way his mother nodded for him to go on.
‘Excuse me.’ He stopped by the two men seated on the left and realized he had forgotten to say sir. ‘Would you mind if I took your photograph?’
Donaghue smiled at the boy and turned to Pearson.
‘I think we can go better than that, don’t you, Ed?’
‘Sure we can.’
Fifteen rows back the woman watched as Pearson stood, took the camera from her son, sat him by Donaghue, and took a photograph of the two of them together. The boy watched as the print rolled out and the image rose on the slippery grey of the plastic.
‘What’s your name?’ Donaghue asked him.
‘Dan.’
‘Dan who?’
‘Dan Zupolski.’
The print was dry. Donaghue took a pen from his pocket and signed it.
To Dan Zupolski, from his friend, Senator Jack Donaghue.
It was eleven twenty-five.
In the Caucus Room the doors opened and the supporters turned, suddenly expectant, the television crews cursing that they had not been forewarned. Catherine Donaghue walked in and stood on the platform. Mid-forties and slim; the blond of her hair and the steel and the sun in her eyes.
‘Sorry to give you a heart attack, boys.’ She knew what the crews had thought and smiled at them, acknowledged the way they laughed back.
He’d seen it all before, the NBC correspondent thought. Except not like this, not like today. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but one hell of a day to be the front man, one hell of a thing to tell the grandkids.
One hell of a smile, the CBS man whispered to no one in particular. One hell of a First Lady.
Cath Donaghue looked round the crowd. ‘I thought you’d like to know. We’ve just heard from the airport. Jack’s plane is five minutes out; he’ll be landing on time at eleven-thirty, be here at twelve.’
There was a roar. She held up her hands to still it.
If this was the prelim, Christ knows what the main event is going to be like, the CNN reporter thought. Give me some cut-aways now, he told his cameraman. Couple of veterans, couple of kids.
‘How’s it looking?’ He heard the voice of his producer down the line.
‘Looking good.’
