The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(72)

I drove from the dry cleaner and turned left, heading off down the street, keeping watch in the rearview mirrors.

No one was following.

“We have much to discuss,” Foster said.

I agreed.

“Nate and I were taken a few miles outside of Palm Beach,” Foster said. “Like they were waiting for us.”

“Valdez and Oliver are definitely working together. Before you say a word, though, there’s something you need to listen to.”

I hit play on the radio and watched as Foster listened to his conversation with Jansen from thirty-two years before. When it was over, I stopped the cassette. I wanted him to know that this was going to be a no-bullshit conversation.

I knew it all.

“Where did this come from?” Foster finally said.

“Bruce Lael kept a copy. He gave it to me.”

“Coleen said you found him. But he’s dead?”

“Nope. That was all for show. He is long gone, now, though.”

Foster pointed at the player. “Jansen is prepared to give me the original of that taped conversation in return for Valdez’s files. Do you still have them?”

I reached beneath the seat and displayed two manila envelopes, thick with contents. “Right here.”

Then I stuffed them back beneath me.

He still hadn’t said a word about the recording. I assumed everything seemed unreal, distant, too dreadful to contemplate. My instincts told me to stay cautious. Nothing had been proven and nothing would be until I could unearth names, times, and dates. The minutiae. Which always told the whole story. Sure, I had feelings and emotions on what I knew so far, but those rarely led to victory. Winning demanded good judgment, steady discipline, and perfect timing.

“The files are bad enough,” he said. “But you understand now why Coleen cannot hear that recording. Why she has to let this go.”

“I get it. But I’m a different story. I know the truth.”

I kept heading south out of Gainesville.

“Coleen has read the files,” I told him.

I saw the concern on his face.

“But they say nothing about you. They only refer to an unnamed confidential informant. I’m assuming that was you.”

After hearing the tape, it was the only thing that made sense.

He nodded. “Martin was the Bishop. I was the Pawn.”





Chapter Forty-four


“I know exactly who your spies are,” Foster said to Jansen.

They were sitting inside a Krystal hamburger joint in Macon, Georgia, fifty miles south of Atlanta. This was their first face-to-face meeting. Contact before had always been by phone, Foster calling a number Jansen had provided to report information. A few days later a mailed envelope would arrive at a post office box, filled with hundred-dollar bills. The rules were clear. No envelope, no more information.

“As if I’m going to admit or deny anything to you,” Jansen said.

Foster rattled off four names.

The look on Jansen’s face confirmed that he was right.

“King told me to search out our ranks for any problems. He knows you have people there watching him. I searched and found those four. Fortunately for you, I haven’t told King what I learned. Not yet anyway. I’m figuring that silence is worth more than a few hundred dollars.”

“I’m not saying any of those people work for us.”

“Okay. That’s not a problem. I’ll report their names to King. He’ll fire all four and that will be the end of it. You can then start recruiting a new set of eyes and ears.”

Jansen held up a hand in mock surrender. “All right. I get the point. You’re calling the shots here. How did you ID them?”

“It wasn’t that hard. They’re not good at what they’re doing.”

“And you are?”

“I’m still here, working for King. He trusted me to find the spies. That means he doesn’t suspect me at all. So yes, I am that good.”

“Cocky is what you are.”

“I’m still waiting for an amount from you on what you think I’m worth.”

Jansen seemed to consider the matter, then said, “Five thousand.”

“Twenty.”

“Since I have no choice, okay.”

“Send it the usual way.”

“Why do you do this?” Jansen asked.

“White people think that all Negroes worship at King’s altar. We’re just mindless followers. That’s not the case. A lot of black people out there have suffered to make a name for Martin Luther King Jr. They didn’t get Nobel Prizes or invites to the White House. They don’t hang out with celebrities or appear on television all the time. They just get beat up, arrested, then beat up some more, all while he lives the life of a hypocrite. You don’t see what I see with King.”

“I know enough to hear what you’re saying.”

“I owe a lot of people money. I barely make my rent with what the SCLC pays me. I need what you pay me, and more. So I want you to do something. Pass a message along to the men above you. The ones who tell you what to do. Ask them if they’re willing to go all the way with King.”

I listened as Foster told me about his face-to-face meeting with Jansen somewhere around the first of October 1967. In my mind I placed it in context with the reports I’d read from Valdez. That would be about the time James Earl Ray, posing as Eric S. Galt, was sauntering around Puerto Vallarta.