President Noah Omar and his wife rode in the back seat of the armored presidential limousine. As usual, Mona was typing on her iPhone. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, she kept up with all of them, just like their two teenage daughters. A Secret Service agent and the president's deputy chief of staff, Richard Finch, sat in the rear-facing middle seats, in front of the president and first lady. The president gazed out the window at the buildings and the people rushing past as the motorcade rolled west on Main Street.
"Is this the same route Kennedy took?" the president asked.
"Yes, sir," the Secret Service agent said. "We tried to lay out another route, for security reasons, but..." He looked pointedly at Finch.
The deputy chief of staff nodded and cracked a smile that looked forced. "But for purely partisan political reasons I suggested we stick to the same route President and Mrs. Kennedy took."
"Well, I'm glad you did, Richard," the president said. Then he turned to the Secret Service agent. "No offense, but this way feels more...connected to history."
The first lady looked up from her phone. "It's kind of spooky, if you ask me."
"Spooky is a good word for it," the president said, realizing that was exactly the feeling he'd had since they landed at Love Field yesterday. Spooky. He looked at his wife. "But you're not getting superstitious on me, are you?"
"No. Not really." She shrugged. "Well, maybe just a little. I mean, you can't help but think about it. What it must have been like. Especially for her. How much it changed...everything. The whole world."
The president was glad he and Mona hadn't brought the girls on this trip. Neither of their daughters had much of a sense of history or any appreciation for it. November 22, 1963 was just a date to remember for a test and then forget. They knew a man had killed the president here a long time ago, but it was an even-money bet, the president thought, whether either of his girls could name the assassin. Still, what teenagers-even the nation's "first daughters"-needed all these reminders of death? If his wife thought the trip was spooky, the girls certainly would have. They were just like their mother in so many ways, both of them. He patted Mona's knee.
She was already back to typing on her iPhone. "What?"
"Nothing," President Omar said. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"That fifty years ago our parents' generation was getting blasted with fire hoses and having dogs turned loose on them." He smiled and raised his hands, gesturing to the interior of the presidential limousine. "And now look at us."
"Took long enough," she said, managing to work a bitter edge into her words without looking up or even breaking stride with her thumbs. Then she added, "And as I recall from history, JFK wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to pass the Civil Rights Act."
"He had a reluctant Congress," the president said. "And believe me, that's something I can understand. If I lose the Senate next year..."
Now she did look up from her phone. "Then you shove executive orders down their throats."
"It's not just the Republicans," he said.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, the deputy chief of staff staring out the window the whole time.
"Richard, are you all right?" the president asked.
Finch looked at the president but didn't quite meet his eye. "Yes, sir, I'm fine."
"You look a little...peaked."
With a forced smile, Finch said, "Might be the chicken from last night."
"In that case, I'm glad I had the fish," the president said. "You still good to play a round after the speech?"
"Absolutely, sir."
The president smiled. "You're worried about what happened to Connally aren't you?"
"Connally, sir?"
"Governor Connally," the president said. "And getting hit in the crossfire in case history repeats itself."
"Noah," the first lady snapped, looking up from her iPhone.
The president turned to the Secret Service agent, more to needle Richard than anything else. "So what do you think?"
"About what, sir?" the agent said, as if he hadn't heard anything that had been said before.
"Are we going to be safe at this event?"
"Of course, sir," the agent said. "We've taken extraordinary precautions."
"Why extraordinary?" the president asked. "Is there something I should know?"
The agent shook his head. "Just the venue, sir. And history."
"That's not what I was thinking about, sir," Richard Finch protested. "And I'm sorry if I—"
The president dismissed Finch's apology with a wave. "I'm just messing with you, Richard. But I tell you what, in the last five years I've become somewhat of a minor scholar on presidential assassinations and attempted assassinations."
"I don't think this is a good time to talk about that," Mona said.
The president turned to his wife. "What better time could there be?" He pointed out the window. "Look around you. This is one of the epicenters of history. You said it yourself, after Dallas, the whole world changed." He didn't wait for her to respond before he turned back to Finch. "Everybody knows about Kennedy and Reagan. But how many people know that a man fired five shots at Franklin Roosevelt in Miami and hit four people? Two of them died, including the mayor of Chicago, who had the bad luck to be shaking hands with Roosevelt when the shooting started."
"I didn't know that," Finch said. "Or if I did..."
"You forgot," said the president.
The deputy chief of staff nodded.
"And so did just about everybody else," the president continued. "Then a few years later, two Puerto Rican nationalists attacked Blair House and almost killed Harry Truman. And Gerald Ford, who never even wanted to be president, came close to being assassinated twice in the span of two weeks."
"Noah, I don't want to hear about assassins and assassinations," Mona said. "Especially not right now."
The president shrugged. "Baby, when you're the target of as much hatred as I am, as we both are, it helps to know what to look out for. You remember what George Santayana said, Those who forget history are—"
"Doomed to repeat it," the first lady finished for him. "It's not an exact quote but close enough."
"There are a whole lot of books in the White House library that I've never even heard of," the president said with a smile. "And one I happened to pick up a while back was about presidential assassins. It's actually pretty interesting."
Mona gave the Secret Service agent a look that said, Can you shut him up? The agent just shrugged.
President Omar glanced at his watch. He didn't actually need to keep track of the time. He had a dozen people who did that for him. Richard was one of them. But the watch, a Timex, had been a gift from Mona on their first anniversary. Back when they barely had two nickels to rub together. Now he had an Omega, a TAG, a Jorg Gray, even a Patek Philippe, but he still kept a battery in the old Timex and every once in a while he pulled it out and wore it. He thought of it as sort of a good luck charm. So why was he wearing it now?
"Something wrong, Mr. President?" Richard Finch asked.
The president looked up from his watch without even really noticing the time. "How are we on time?"
Finch checked his own watch, then opened his leather portfolio and consulted a printed copy of the daily agenda. "We're fine, sir. The commemoration party will gather at the front steps at 11:55. The ceremony will begin at noon. After introductions, you will speak from 12:10 to 12:25. Then Father O'Donnell will give the benediction and ask for a moment of silence. The bell will toll thirty-five times beginning at exactly twelve-thirty and last ninety seconds."
"Isn't there a tour of the museum?" the first lady asked.
"Yes, ma'am. A quick one, from 12:35 to one o'clock."
"And the reception?" Mona asked.
"Already started by the time we arrive," Finch said. "We're there for half an hour and scheduled to leave at 1:45. We can stay as late as two o'clock, if you like."
"Quarter till is fine," the president said. "I want to get to the golf course."
"Of course, sir," Richard said.
From the corner of his eye, the president saw his wife roll her eyes. She didn't play golf, so she didn't understand how seductive chasing that little white ball was. "Thank you, Richard," the president said. "As usual, you've done an excellent job. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Richard Finch nodded.
The president looked out the window again. The motorcade was getting close to Dealey Plaza. He could feel the weight of history beginning to press down on him.
***
"I really do admire your loyalty to your men," Max Garcia said. "And I find it particularly commendable that you're willing to spend the rest of your life in prison to keep them out of danger."
Bill Blackstone shook his head. "There you go with the prison thing again. Who said anything about going to prison?"
They were sitting in the Chevrolet Tahoe outside the Dallas police station where Favreau and his colleagues were being held.
"I keep mentioning prison," Garcia said, "because that is exactly where we're headed if we don't get control of this situation." He glanced at his watch. "Within the next hour."
"What you want them to do is a suicide mission," Blackstone said. "Plain and simple."
Garcia stared at him for a long moment. "Better them than us."
"Agreed. But I still have to sell it to them."
"Don't they follow orders?"
"They're contractors," Blackstone said. "They're in this for the money. And the action. But mostly for the money, and they're smart enough to know that if they get arrested, all they're going to be spending their money on is lawyers."
"They're not going to get arrested. Not if they're as good as you say they are. We're talking about a surgical strike against a pretty soft target. In and out. Two minutes, tops."
"I wouldn't exactly call it a soft target," Blackstone said.
"Soft enough."
"There's no fake ID or phony writ you can pull out of your briefcase that's good enough to get them out of this if they get caught."
"That's why they can't get caught."
Blackstone stared out the windshield for nearly a minute. "This is an extreme step, even for you."
"This is an extreme situation."
Another minute ticked by. It was crunch time and every minute counted. Still, Garcia waited. He saw Blackstone glance up at the rearview mirror. The second Tahoe was parked behind them, the four men inside it waiting for instructions. "In and out?" Blackstone asked.
Garcia nodded. "In and out."
"Two minutes?"
"At most."
"Then we're done?" Blackstone said.
"Then you're done."
"Completely out of the picture?"
"Totally."
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"No, I guess I don't," Blackstone said. "But we're free and clear. No...repercussions."
Garcia raised his hand. "You have my word."
For a moment, Blackstone looked like he might challenge that. But he let it pass. "All right," he said.