no sign.
I'm glad they're not protecting me,' said Tom. Dumb bastards.'
Neither man ate much that day. Since they planned to spend almost thirty-six hours holed up in Hollis Fifteen without the facility of a lavatory, they wanted to empty their stomachs as much as possible. For most of the evening they watched television, aware of Jack Kennedy coming nearer to them now, flying from Washington to New York aboard his private plane. In less than twenty-four hours the same plane would land at Logan airport, in Boston, and a motorcade would drive the President-elect to his Beacon Hill apartment at 122 Bowdoin Street.
At around one a.m. the two men dressed in suits and ties and put on warm coats. Then they collected a couple of small bags and went out into the cold night air. A gentle southwest wind tossed a small flurry of snow in their faces as they began the three-quarter-mile walk along Harvard Street and Massachusetts Avenue. The streets were quite deserted, almost surreally so. As if everyone in Cambridge had gone to some underground A-bomb shelter. Goldman remarked upon it.
Maybe they'll go there soon enough,' said Tom. I was reading in the paper how the state of Massachusetts is building a shelter, at a cost of two million dollars. Not that you would ever get me in one of those mausoleums. When the bomb goes off I want to be in the fresh air, for as long as fresh air lasts. As near to the centre of the blast as possible. It'd be quicker that way. Like a single shot through the head.'
On Massachusetts Avenue they passed by the Widener main gate that led to the back of the eponymous library. The gate was closed now, but it would be through the Widener that Kennedy's car would enter the campus on Monday morning. Goldman and Tom passed through the smaller gate, near Boylston Hall, that, like the Johnson Gate, was nearly always open. Entering the east quad of Harvard Yard, they paused in front of the rear entrance of University Hall, where Jack Kennedy would be greeted by the president of the Harvard Board of Overseers. Then they passed into the western quad, with Weld - the freshman dormitory where Kennedy himself had roomed in his first year at Harvard - on their left. They walked quickly across the quad in the direction of Hollis and, still seeing no one about, unlocked the door to Hollis South and went inside.
For several breathless seconds they waited, hearts thumping, in the darkness. All was quiet. The only curfew in a freshman dormitory was one on noise after one a.m. After a minute, they started up the stairs, but almost as soon as they arrived on the second-floor landing they heard a door above them open, and someone, smoking a cigarette, came out to use the bathroom. Tom and Alex Goldman stayed motionless on the creaking staircase as the young man, humming Floyd Cramer's hit Last Date', began a loud pee that echoed up and down the staircase. After a good minute and a half, they heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the student returning to his room. Goldman began to climb again, and Tom, with his heart in his mouth, followed. A short while later, having negotiated the stiff doorlock, the two men were inside Hollis Fifteen.
So far, so good,' whispered Tom, locking the door carefully behind him.
Goldman slipped off his shoes, padded across to Chub's bed, and then sat down. As stakeouts go, I guess this is not so bad.'
Tom lay down on Torbert's bed and closed his eyes.
What are you doing?' whispered Goldman.
I'm going to get some sleep, that's what I'm doing. The gear can wait until morning.'
What happened to the usual insomnia?'
I reckon I'll sleep all right tonight. Don't ask me why.'
You're a cool one, Paladin, I'll say that for you.'
Nope, just a tired one.'
On Sunday, it turned a lot colder, but they did not light a fire. They watched TV with the sound turned low, and urinated into empty beer bottles, planning to empty these out of a window after it got dark.
There were few words between them now and they moved around the room without shoes, lest anyone hear them and think Chub, or Torbert, were at home. Once, there was a knock at the door, but after a moment or two they heard a voice shout from down the hall, They're away skiing this weekend, with a couple of broads,' which drew the response, Lucky bastards.'
In the early part of Sunday afternoon, Tom retrieved his rifle from behind the closet and, out of habit, cleaned it carefully, wearing gloves so as not to leave any prints. The Winchester was as cold a gun as it was possible to find outside of a forgotten foxhole in North Korea, and Tom wanted it to stay that way. Even the serial number had been filed off.
They kept the lower shutters closed, just in case a resident of Hollis South should glance up from the Yard and see someone moving around. But mostly they lay on their beds and waited for the time to pass. Throughout the day, each felt a lump growing inside his stomach that was as much tension as it was hunger. Only Tom was used to this kind of waiting. Patience was an essential quality in a sniper. One time, in the South Pacific, he had stalked a Japanese sniper for a full four days, before finally killing him. But even he had never felt a palpable tension like this. It was almost unbearable.
By six o'clock it was dark, and Goldman opened the shutters to admit whatever light was in the Yard outside. The moon was in its last quarter so there was not much to be had, just the dull sodium glow of a few streetlights in the east quad, and some windows in Massachusetts Hall, opposite. Sometimes they would drink coffee from a thermos flask, or eat a little chocolate, but by nine o'clock the coffee was cold and the chocolate was nearly all gone.
At ten o'clock Goldman put on some headphones, plugged them into the Hallicrafter short-wave radio, and began to hunt for the Secret Service wavelength. Meanwhile, Tom changed channels on the black and white TV in search of a news bulletin. If Jack Kennedy was on time, his plane would be coming in to land at Logan. Finding nothing on TV, Tom tried to picture the scene in his mind's eye. Massachusetts' top political figures there to greet the young Senator: Governor John Volpe, Lieutenant Governor Edward McLaughlin junior, Mayor Collins, the Commissioner of Public Safety Henry Goguen, Sheriff Howard Fitzpatrick, and the Democratic State Chairman John Lynch. Maybe, if they could stand the freezing cold, there would be some well-wishers. Boston Irish, too thick to feel the cold. And more fool them, thought Tom, shivering inside his coat. It was not a night for a snowman to be standing around outside.
At ten thirty Goldman said, He's landed. Kennedy's plane just touched down at Logan. He's here, Tom. The President-elect's in Boston.'
Chapter 26
The Shot
At precisely eight o'clock on the morning of Monday, 9 January 1961, Jack Kennedy's portly Negro butler, George Thomas, knocked softly on the bedroom door of suite thirty-six, 122 Bowdoin Street. He had served Kennedy for fourteen years, ever since Arthur Krock, an old friend of Joe's, had sent him over' to take care of Congressman Kennedy, as he then was.
It's okay, George, I'm awake.'
George turned to face John McNally, and Ken O'Donnell, who were two of Kennedy's special presidential aides. Behind them stood a tall bald man, holding a breakfast tray. George nodded, and all four entered the Senator's bedroom.
O'Donnell, another Boston Irishman, said, You remember Joe Murphy, Senator, the building supervisor? Mrs Murphy usually prepares your breakfast.'
Kennedy sat up groggily as George pulled the drapes. The crowd in the street buzzed a little as it saw movement in the window. Sure, Joe,' said Kennedy. How are ya? Come on in? How's Mrs Murphy?'
Not so good, sir.'
I'm sorry to hear that, Joe.'
I'm afraid she couldn't do your breakfast, this morning. So I did it myself. Two four-minute eggs, toast and coffee, just like you always have.'
That's really kind of you, George. And I appreciate it very much.'
Murphy laid the tray carefully on the bed. It's my pleasure, sir. And may I say on behalf of everyone in the building how proud we all are of you, sir. And how pleased to have you back in Boston.'
It's good to be back, Joe. It's been too long.'
Well, I'll be on my way now, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.'
As Murphy went out of the bedroom, George looked down into the street. Kennedy's apartment was on the third floor, immediately above a barber's shop. The Senator had kept the apartment for about the same length of
