I agree.'
I'd also recommend we forget all about Harvard Hall. One, it's used for lectures and tickets for Harvard sports events, so people will be coming and going at all times. And two, we both agree there will probably be an agent in the bell-tower. That leaves Hollis, which is this one, and Stoughton, between Hollis and Holsworthy. Holsworthy's too far, same as Grays. Stoughton's good, but Hollis gives us longer for a shot. Especially if we can gain access to one of these windows on the top floor, to the side. Thirty-two feet high, plus a hundred and fifty across the yard, to the steps of University Hall.'
Tom pointed to a photograph of a building whose grey granite was in contrast to the red brick of all the others.
Kennedy comes out of this door, on the steps here, to the left of the statue of John Harvard. Anyway, according to Pythagoras, that's a range of one hundred and fifty-three feet.' He pointed to the white balustrade atop University Hall's three-storey facade. Figure on a couple of Secret Service agents up here, on the roof of University Hall. They'll command quite a good view of the whole quad when looking down. But not such a good view of the top floor on the southern side of Hollis, when looking up. Which they'll have to do. Hollis is a whole storey higher than UH. Just as good is the fact that you cannot see any of these four windows from the bell-tower.'
Tom removed the photograph of University Hall and replaced it with some wider shots of the whole western quad.
By the way, we're lucky those aren't evergreen trees,' he said. If they were, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. If it was the other side of UH, in the eastern part of Harvard Yard, we'd almost be in as much trouble. There's a pine tree in front of the chapel, and a smaller one in front of Boylston Hall.' Tom puffed his cigarette and shrugged. So I hope the information from your Russian comrades is good. The car only drops him at the back door of UH, right? But he leaves from the front, on the western side, which is where we'll be.'
That's right. Ten thirty a.m., January ninth. He'd be out of the car for ten seconds at the most before going inside. Not much of a window. Not compared with the front door. He'll come out of there at midday, with the rest of the overseers, and then they'll stroll across the Yard, and then the Square, to Brattle Street. They're planning to have lunch at the new Loeb Drama Center. If he wants drama, we'll give him a drama.'
Tom nodded. Depending on the number of people in the Yard, I figure it will take him at least three or four minutes to walk between University Hall and Johnson Gate. For seventy-five per cent of that time we'll have a clear view of him from Hollis.'
Three or four minutes. That's more than enough time.'
All you have to do is figure out a way for us to get into one of those rooms in Hollis,' said Tom.
Alex Goldman grinned back at him. I'm in the FBI, aren't I? Shit, no one argues with the FBI, especially when it's some eighteen-year-old kid who's fresh out of school. You can relax and leave the talking to me, Paladin. After nearly five years working COINTELPRO ops, I eat bullshit for breakfast.'
The following Tuesday evening, at around five o'clock, and wearing dark suits and ties under their G-man type raincoats, Goldman and Tom drove along Massachusetts Avenue to Harvard, in the Rambler Station Wagon. They parked in Harvard Square, alongside the Old Burying Ground, where early settlers and revolutionary soldiers - not to mention Harvard University's first eight presidents - are interred, and walked across Peabody Street, through Johnson Gate, with Harvard Hall to their left. There, they turned on to a path now cleared of snow, and paused before the southern side of Hollis Hall for a brief moment.
Observing that there were lights in all the fourth-floor windows, they came around front and walked coolly through the first of two entranceways, called Hollis South. Immediately to their left was a staircase which, like the walls surrounding it, was painted white, so that the interior of Hollis looked almost as if some negligent student had left the front door open to the elements. And certainly it was none too warm inside, even with the door closed.
The two men proceeded up three flights of stairs, ignoring a couple of young men carrying green cloth bags, apparently full of books, who ignored them right back. There were five plain wooden doors on the top landing, four of them numbered, and one, at the back of the building, an unoccupied bathroom. Somewhere they could hear the sound of a record player - Elvis Presley singing Are You Lonesome Tonight?' Immediately at the top of the stairs, at the back left of Hollis, was room thirteen. Down the hall, on the front left, was room fifteen. Rooms fourteen and sixteen, having no side windows, were of little interest to Tom and Goldman, beyond the names of the two roommates posted on a piece of paper that was taped to each of the doors.
Okay,' said Goldman. In room thirteen we have John McMurry and Michael Salant. And in room fifteen we have Chub Farrell and Torbert Winthrop. Good Ivy League names, if ever I heard them. Okay. It's your call, Paladin. Which of these two pairs of roommates is going to receive the benefit of a real education in the university of life?'
Fifteen,' said Tom.
Fifteen,' repeated Alex. Tonight's winning number is fifteen.' He knocked softly on the door. They don't know how lucky they are.' Both men took out FBI identification - fakes from one of Alex's COINTELPRO ops, but indistinguishable from the real thing - and held them up to the scrutiny of the young man who threw open the door. FBI,' growled Goldman. I'm Special Agent Christopher. This is Agent Rutter.
The student's mouth opened and then shut again, several times, as if he had been thinking of spitting out some butter that would not melt in there. He was tall, red-haired, with large ears, and a face that looked as though it had fallen off the side of a church. Finally, he stammered,Wow.'
Goldman grinned. Can we come in for a minute, son?'
Sure,' said the young man, and stepped politely aside as if he had been standing in a ballroom full of debutantes. Please do, come in.'
Tom and Goldman advanced into a large but cosy room that was approximately thirty feet square. A fireplace with a roaring fire jutted out about two or three feet into the room, on either side of which was a single bed. Elsewhere in the room were two dressers, two closets, two desks, two desk-chairs, two sets of well-stuffed bookshelves, and two library chairs. A large, heavily stained Bokhara rug covered about half of the uneven hardwood floor.
Chub?' The tall, red-haired fellow closed the door and, springing nervously from one foot to the other like a dancing bear, attempted to get the attention of his roommate who, seated at his desk, had yet to look up from the book in which he appeared to be thoroughly absorbed. Hey, Chub. Get up. It's the FBI.'
The FBI. Sure it is,' muttered the boy at the desk, still not looking round. Jerk.'
I'm not kidding, man.'
Chub leaned back in his chair, glanced around wearily, and then did a Stan Laurel of a double-take as he saw Goldman and Tom, and the badges they were still flourishing. Jesus Christ, Torbert,' he exclaimed loudly, jumping up from his chair. What the hell did you do?'
We're sorry to disturb you two gentlemen,' Goldman said smoothly. No one's in trouble. No one's done anything. So there's absolutely nothing to get alarmed about. This is just a routine background security check we're making, in advance of Senator Kennedy's visit to Harvard, next month.'
Chub Farrell frowned. Jack Kennedy's coming to Harvard?'
Tom laughed wryly and walked over to the windows, of which there were four, each about three feet wide by six feet high, with wood-panelled window seats, and two pairs of matching shutters. There were no drapes. He stamped gently on the floorboards a couple of times, and spent the rest of his time staring out of the two windows that looked immediately on to Massachusetts Hall. These two windows remained his favoured place for a rifleman's position. From either one it was possible to cover the whole quadrangle, from the snow-covered steps that led down from University Hall to within only a few yards of Johnson Gate.
Chub's roommate, Torbert Winthrop, was remonstrating with him wearily. Don't you read the newspapers?' he demanded. Jack Kennedy's on the Harvard Board of Overseers. That's why he's coming. For the January meeting.'
That's right,' confirmed Goldman. January the ninth, to be precise.'
He is? What do they do?'
They talk about a whole lot of stuff. Committee report on things like the performance of the football team.'
Hell, that sure won't take long,' snorted Chub. The team's lousy. What else is there to say?' Chub was shorter than his lanky roommate, but better-looking, with longish fair hair and a pale complexion that seemed to indicate he needed to spend more time outside the Widener Library. Like Torbert, Chub wore a Harvard pullover, a cotton shirt,
