The Willard (24 page)

She could still stop it. Or she could do her part to make sure it happened as it did. She still didn’t know how to do either one. And she didn’t know if she had the courage to do either. She kept walking. Amidst the celebration, the gaiety, and the fireworks she was a lone figure, walking the night away.

C
HAPTER 52

TOM KELLY

1962

South Carolina kept factoring into Tom’s life all week. Ethan York had told him of his desire to attend Clemson University and it was a Clemson alumnus who grabbed headlines on this twelfth day of the crisis. Early in the morning, a textile management major from the class of 1948 climbed into the cockpit of his U2 plane and set off on a reconnaissance mission like many that had been flown in recent days. But his mission didn’t end with rolls of film being developed for analysis. Major Rudy Anderson, now of the United States Air Force, was shot down by a surface-to-air missile over Banes, Cuba. The theoretical had just become the reality.

The mood at the White House was so tense Tom felt that a loud noise might send them all ducking for cover. As if the shooting down of an American warplane wasn’t enough, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara had the unenviable task of reporting to President Kennedy that a completely unrelated problem had crept up over Alaska as a second U2 had gone missing and possibly strayed into Soviet airspace.

When Tom had left the White House the night before, he thought they were on good footing with Khrushchev offering to pull out the missiles and personnel in exchange for an American promise not to invade Cuba. All that had changed when a second letter came through clandestine channels that
now required the U.S. to remove their missiles from Turkey. The game had changed and the Soviet premier was coming out charging. Now with a downed plane on Cuban soil and one missing off the Alaskan coast, the fuse was closer than ever to being lit. Tom gathered all the intelligence he could and hurried back to the Willard to communicate with Volkov and his network.

After establishing their bona fides as they did with each new transmission, Tom sent a series of coded lines that made up an incomplete message. It was enough for Back Channel to use to compare against chatter they were monitoring from the “official” clandestine pipeline. Everything was checking out at first. Khrushchev wanted the missiles out of Turkey and he would leave Cuba in return. But the messages began to show some deviation and after a few hours of back and forth between the White House and the Willard, Tom could see that something was off in the way the messages were being interpreted. He couldn’t be sure if it was a language issue or something more serious.

“Thomas, my boy. Do you think us incapable of translating Russian to English?” Volkov asked.

“Of course not, Anatoly. But there could be a cipher problem,” Tom answered.

“There is no problem with the code translation, Thomas. Your messages are tracking perfectly except for this single line. You have someone working an angle that is different from the official party line.”

“Can you trace it? Do any of your people know where it’s coming from?” Tom asked.

“It appears just like the other transmissions as far as we can tell. There is no difference in the way it is encoded or the origination,” Volkov answered.

“I don’t understand. Why would they be proposing two different options?”

“I don’t think
they
are, Thomas. I don’t think your organization is as cohesive as you thought. It might be a group or just one person working alone, but there are definitely two plans here and they could have very different outcomes,” Volkov said.

“Have your people been able to finish the translation?” asked Tom.

“It’s just coming in now.” Volkov paused to read the teletype he received. “The first one is as we thought. You take the missiles out of Turkey and they take the missiles out of Cuba.”

“And the second one?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Volkov said.

“What does it say?” asked Tom.

“It says that to make the missiles in Turkey part of the withdrawal package the Soviet Union must remove more than just their existing missiles and personnel from Cuba.”

“What else do they want?” Tom asked.

“The message says there is no deal unless the Soviets take out Fidel Castro.”

C
HAPTER 53

CALVIN WALKER

1963

From the window of the police wagon where he was being held, Calvin could hear the “Tribute to Negro Women” portion of the program. He remembered from his study of the event in college that Myrlie Evers, the widow of Medgar Evers, was supposed to lead this part, but she was unable to attend. Calvin found himself glad that she wouldn’t be here to see more brutal violence. He expected to hear explosions any second and the longer the program went without incident the more tense he became. He knew Kifo had to be waiting for something specific, some trigger designed to inflict maximum damage.

When he was carted away by the officer with the bruised and bloody mouth, he kept spouting off as loud as he could that he was a member of Dr. King’s entourage and demanding to see the chief of police. He didn’t figure it would get the chief there, but he hoped it would be enough to get someone with authority to come and talk to him, if for no other reason than to cover their own asses in case he was telling the truth.

Finally, he was rewarded for his patience when a police captain named Perry introduced himself and asked Calvin his name. The program was moving on. John Lewis had taken the podium and was delivering his remarks. Time was running out.

“My name is Calvin Walker. I know this sounds like a hoax and I’m very sorry I punched your officer. I needed to get to someone in authority and it seemed like the only way.”

Captain Perry didn’t look like he believed Calvin’s story either. Calvin could see he was losing him.

“Last night, I was with Dr. King when he was working on his speech at the Willard Hotel. You can call the concierge, Edward Chase, to verify my story.” Calvin said.

The captain no longer looked disinterested. He knew Dr. King was a guest at the Willard, however it wasn’t common knowledge. If this guy knew where he was staying and was willing to offer a witness he might be telling the truth.

“What did you say your name was?” Perry asked.

“Calvin Walker.”

Captain Perry stepped aside and made a quick call on his radio.

“What’s this about bombs, Mr. Walker? How would you know about that from working on a speech?”

“I don’t have time to explain everything, Captain, but please believe me when I tell you there is a group of radicals here at the march and they are armed with bombs. I came into the information and I was following up on it this morning.”

“Why didn’t you alert the police?” asked Captain Perry.

“I planned to, but the leader of the group, a guy they call Fish, was suspicious of me and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I convinced him I was going to get your officers to leave the area where he was setting up and then I went directly to them to explain what was going on. They didn’t believe me.” He shot a sideways glance at the officer who was rubbing his sore jaw.

“So you punched an officer and claimed to be part of Dr. King’s entourage so I would come and talk to you. Is that about right?”

“Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous. Please call the Willard and ask for Mr. Chase. He’ll vouch for me. But do it quickly because I don’t know when those bombs are going to be detonated but it can’t be long now.”

“Mr. Chase called headquarters this morning with a story about this but he didn’t have enough information to go on. He did give us your name, though, and given the stature of the Willard we gave it more credence than we might otherwise have.” He turned to the officers who had taken Calvin into custody. “Take the cuffs off him.”

The one with the injured jaw looked ready to protest, but Perry stopped him. “Do it!” He gathered a group of officers around and starting issuing orders. He told them about the bombs and assigned them to various areas to start searching. He motioned for Calvin and the two officers who had detained him to follow.

“All right, Mr. Walker. Show me the man you call Fish.”

C
HAPTER 54

OLIVIA FORDHAM

1913

James had made the mistake of telling his brother and the others at the upscale gathering about Victoria and her involvement with the march. He had been so excited about seeing her again and his decision to look after her well-being and now he was being taken to task for it. The men at the club were having a heyday with him as they swirled their expensive brandy.

“Watch out, son, she’ll make a woman of you yet!”

“We know who’ll wear the pants in your house!”

His brother joined in on the action. “Can’t wait for Mother to hear about this one. Promise me, brother, that you won’t tell her until I can be there to see her face!”

Some of the comments weren’t meant as light-hearted jokes.

“Those women need to remember their place. I wouldn’t be surprised if something happened tomorrow to remind them they belong at home.”

“I’d never let my wife or daughter anywhere near those harlots. I hear they like each other, if you know what I mean. Can’t get a man, I guess.”

“Who would want any of them anyway? A bunch of harpies! Mr. Asher, I hope you like asking a woman for permission to put on your pants!”

“Maybe she won’t let him wear pants. She’ll wear them instead!”

They were having a grand time at his expense. There was much laughter, but also an undercurrent of something ugly. James didn’t know what he’d been thinking. They were right. No man in his right mind would get mixed up with this group, especially not when he had his pick of lovely young things back at home who had no interest in such matters. He doubted if he would ever be able to hold his head up high again if he brought home such a woman.

Someone passed him a brandy and then another. After the fourth one James was pretty sure he wouldn’t be anywhere near the parade route tomorrow. No matter how lovely she was or how much he secretly enjoyed her fiery convictions, he
was
a man after all and it wouldn’t do for a girl of his to be known as a harpy.

He ordered another brandy.

C
HAPTER 55

CATHERINE PARKER

1865

Good Friday. The sun was up but Catherine had not closed her eyes all night. She had walked all the way to the Capitol and along the streets lined with extravagant displays of lights and when she was too tired to take another step she collapsed on her bed and sobbed until dawn. Eventually the stress of what she had to do overcame her and she began vomiting. Exhausted and spent, she took a hot bath and washed her hair. Then she sat by the open window and let the cool breeze soothe her, but her nerves remained frayed. Finally, when she couldn’t put off the day any longer she dressed in a simple gown and went down to the restaurant for some dry toast and tea to try and settle her stomach. She was seated there picking tiny pieces of bread off her plate when she overheard the conversation at the next table and noticed she was seated next to Julia Grant and another lady.

“I thought he would be back by now. I am determined to be on that train, but I fear my husband may give in to the president’s invitation to the theatre tonight. I simply cannot bear to spend an evening with that insufferable Mary Lincoln. She’s a terrible gossip and I do not wish to spend another moment away from my children, especially in the company of so distasteful a companion,” Mrs. Grant explained.

“Do you dare send such a note to your husband while he has an audience with the president?” asked her companion.

“I have found that a man may lead other men in battle with great decisiveness, but when it comes to navigating his home life he can use a bit of prompting. I hate to interrupt his meeting, but he’s been there for hours,” she responded. “I suppose it might be the height of bad manners to send a note. But if I don’t do it I just know I’m going to end up watching a play tonight instead of traveling home,” she responded.

At that moment Mrs. Grant’s companion excused herself to join her husband and Mrs. Grant was left alone at her table. She was holding a note but seemed unsure of what to do with it. The bile in Catherine’s stomach began to roll again. This was her moment. She could see the tear as clear as day. If Julia Grant sent that note, her husband would likely join her on the evening train and be on his way home. But if she didn’t, he might capitulate and accept the invitation to see the play. Catherine knew the Grants had not attended the theatre with the Lincolns on the night the president was shot. But here was Julia Grant saying she thought her husband was going to agree to go. Ulysses S. Grant was a warrior who had spent four long years on high alert in the theatre of war. His instincts were good and his reflexes were sharpened on the battlefield. If he accompanied Lincoln to the theatre he would be more likely to detect the intruder in the box and to be quick in his response to disarm him. The scene played itself out in Catherine’s mind.

If General Grant is Lincoln’s guest he may be able to stop the assassin
.

Catherine knew her moment had come. She looked around for Edward Chase. He always seemed to be near and yet he was nowhere to be found now. She sent a waiter to the lobby to find him and he returned a moment later reporting Mr. Chase was not at his post. She closed her eyes and did something she hadn’t done since before her father had died. She prayed. For guidance. For deliverance. For anything that would take this
decision out of her hands. She tore at the gloves in her lap and finally she turned to Mrs. Grant.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Grant, I couldn’t help but overhear your dilemma,” she said softly.

“Yes, I’m not usually so wishy-washy, but I know the general is needed at the White House now. I just really don’t want to miss that train. I’m sorry you overheard the unkind things I said about Mrs. Lincoln. I know it’s not very ladylike,” she sighed and looked down at the note.

“It’s been a long war, Mrs. Grant. I don’t think the president would begrudge you wanting to get home to your family,” Catherine consoled her.