The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(81)

“I had a lot of agents, like you, work for me. Young hotshots, eager to make a name for themselves, prepared to take chances.”

“Like Jansen.”

“Exactly. Jim always wanted to please. He was good, though, at following orders.”

I realized that the only two reasons he hadn’t shot me yet were the files and the coin.

He had to have both.

Which I commanded.

Since we were all alone, I decided to ask, “Why kill King?”

“Hoover gave that order. Not me. I just did what the old man wanted. Valdez was willing to make it happen, and Ray was supposed to disappear into Rhodesia.”

“Where he would have been killed.”

“Definitely. He was told he’d be paid for what he did once he made it to Africa.”

“Since paying him beforehand, if he was caught, would smack of conspiracy.”

“Absolutely. Valdez was already there, waiting on him. His body would then have been returned to DC. Killer found by the FBI. Hoover does it once again.”

“Things didn’t work out, did they?”

He shrugged. “Ultimately, they did. No money was found on Ray. Nothing pointed anywhere, but to him. Hoover got the credit for catching him. Then his narcissistic personality took over and he lied so much no one gave him a thought.”

I’d been thinking, so I told him, “Hoover hated the civil rights movement. He thought it all a communist plot. But in reality, he was just a racist, pure and simple. He wanted black people kept in their place. And he was intuitive enough to realize that if the movement went violent the country would want it stopped. Whites who’d supported King would flee him. There’d be riots. Deaths. Destruction. It was King’s nonviolent methods that had traction. Images of rednecks spitting on calm, young blacks sitting at a lunch counter were never good for the segregationists. Stay the course and King’s way might just ultimately work.”

Oliver nodded. “The riots did happen after King died. The militants tried to change the course. But King’s legacy proved stronger than Hoover thought. The civil rights movement kept going, pretty much as King would have wanted. Still, we did have more control after that. King had been a pain in the ass for a long time. Both Kennedys aligned themselves more with him than with Hoover. JFK even warned King we were taping him. With King gone, things were easier.”

His eyes looked tense, the muscles around them taut, his cheeks flushed with blood. I had to keep telling myself that this man traded in misery. How careful must he be not to be trapped by his own lies? For so long Oliver had basked in power, a shrewd and experienced operator, tough, sure of himself. Now he was running scared, everything dependent on a loose cannon from Cuba and a rookie from the Justice Department.

I said, “It would’ve all stayed buried, if not for Valdez and Foster.”

“I need Valdez to go away, and he won’t without the coin.”

The gun remained aimed at me.

I’d managed a few quick glances at the control panel and spied the switches that activated the movable walk. We stood in the center of the building, seventy-five feet of air on either side of us, the crosswalk capable of traversing the entire length. This guy had spent a lifetime containing problems. He’d been head of COINTELPRO, one of the most corrupt organizations the U.S. government ever created. He was certainly immoral, more likely amoral. What Oliver didn’t know was that Bruce Lael had sold him out. I’d heard the cassette. I knew the truth about Foster. All I had to do was survive and I could take this bastard, Jansen, and Foster down to the mat for the ten-count.

“Where are the files?” he asked.

“Foster has them.”

And with any luck he was still hidden away at the train station near the park’s main gate.

The walkway was a latticework of aluminum with lots of openings. I stared down, as if assessing the situation, but what I was really interested in was the controls to my left. I saw a red, a green, and an orange button. I decided red was bad.

Push the orange and green.

“You’re going to take me to Foster,” he said.

I nodded.

Then my left arm swung over and my palm slammed the two buttons. Motors came alive and the crosswalk quickly shifted left, then one side dipped lower than the other and I realized the buttons were for lateral movement and vertical attitude, the catwalk capable of assuming differing positions depending on what needed to be done.

Oliver’s arms went skyward in an attempt to regain his balance but the catwalk had shifted from flat to about a thirty-degree angle. I gripped the control panel, which allowed me something solid to hold on to. Oliver had only the low railing that ran the crosswalk’s length. I moved to hit the buttons again and stop all movement, but it was too late for Oliver. He dropped over the side and smacked into the acoustical ceiling, which offered little resistance, his body plunging through, falling another forty feet. Unlike Jansen, he did not find the water. Instead, he pounded into the concrete flooring of one of the pirate displays.

A dark pool of blood welled outward.

I locked away the bad thoughts that were racing through my brain and hit the buttons. The catwalk stopped moving. I had traveled laterally about thirty feet from where I started. I worked the orange button and brought the thing level. Time to go and fast. I could hear people below in the boats, voices raised in fear and concern.