was like to ride in a motorcade directly behind the President's car, which the Secret Service called “Stagecoach.”
A couple of NYPD police cruisers pulled out in front of the pack. Their red and yellow roof lights began to revolve in quick kaleidoscopic circles. The presidential motorcade started to wind its way out of La Guardia Airport.
Don Hamerman spoke as soon as we were moving. “No one has seen Kevin Hawkins in the past three days, right? Hawkins seems to have fallen off the face of the earth,” he said. His voice was full of frustration, anger, and the usual petulance. He enjoyed bullying people beneath him, but neither Grayer nor I would put up with it.
“No one knows the route we're taking,” Hamerman said. “We didn't have a final route until a few minutes ago.”
I couldn't keep quiet. “We know the route. People in the NYPD know it, or they will momentarily. Kevin Hawkins is good at uncovering secrets. Kevin Hawkins is good, period. He's one of our best.”
Jay Grayer was peering out of the rain-streaked window into the fast lane of the New York highway we were traveling on. His voice sounded far away. “What's your instinct about Hawkins?” he asked me.
'I think Kevin Hawkins is definitely involved somehow.
He's extreme right-wing. He's associated with some groups that are opposed to the President's policies and plans. He's been in trouble before. He's suspected of a homicide inside the CIA. It all fits.'
“But something's bothering you about him?” Grayer asked.
He'd learned how to read me pretty well already.
“According to everything I've read, he's never worked closely with anyone before. Hawkins has always been a loner, at least until now. He seems to have problems relating to women, other than his sister in Silver Spring. I don't understand how Jill would fit in with him. I don't see Hawkins suddenly working with a woman.”
“Maybe he finally found a soul mate. It happens,” Hamerman said. I doubted that Hamerman ever had.
“What else pops out about Hawkins?” Jay Grayer continued to probe. He shut his eyes as he listened.
'All his FBI psych profiles and workups suggest a potential loose cannon. I don't know how they justified keeping him active for all those years in Asia and South America. Here's the interesting part. Hawkins can get committed to causes that he believes in, though. He strongly believes in the importance of intelligence for our national defense. President Byrnes doesn't, and he's said so publicly several times. That could explain the Jack and Jill scenario.
Could explain it. Hawkins is experienced and resourceful enough to pull off an assassination. He definitely could be Jack.
If he is, he will be very hard to stop.'
We were starting to cross the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Manhattan. New York, New York. The presidential motorcade was a strange, eerie parade of wailing sirens and bright flashing lights. The island of Manhattan lay straight ahead of us.
New York looked amazingly huge and imposing, capable of swallowing us whole. Anything can happen here, I was thinking, and I'm sure Don Hamerman and Jay Grayer were, too.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
The three of us jumped forward in the backseat of the town car. I had my hand on my gun, ready for almost anything, ready for Jack and Jill.
We all stared in horror at the President's car up ahead -- Stagecoach. There was total silence in our car. Awful silence. Then we began to laugh.
The loud noises hadn't been gunshots. They just sounded like it. They were false alarms. But it was chilling all the same.
We had passed over worn and warped metal gratings on the ramp coming off the bridge. Everyone in our car had experienced an instant heart attack at the sudden and unexpected noise. Undoubtedly, the same thing had happened in the President's car.
“Jesus,” Hamerman moaned loudly “That's what it would be like. Oh, God Almighty”
“I was there at the Washington Hilton when Hinckley shot Reagan and Brady,” Jay Grayer said with a tremor in his voice.
I knew that he was back there once again, with Reagan and James Brady Experiencing a flashback, the kind no one wanted to have.
I wondered about Grayer's personal stake in this. I wondered about everybody on our team.
I watched the President's car as it swept down onto the crowded, brightly lit streets of New York City. The American flags on the fenders were flapping wildly in the river breeze.
No regrets.
THE PHOTOJOURNALIST had arrived early on Monday, December 16, for his work in New York.
He had decided to drive from Washington. It was much safer that way. Now he walked along Park Avenue, where the presidential motorcade would travel tomorrow morning, only a few hours from now. He was relaxing before the historic day, taking in the sights and sounds of New York City in the holiday season.
Kevin Hawkins had occasional flashes, mind photos of memorabilia he had studied on the JFK killing, the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, even the badly botched shooting of Ronald Reagan.
He knew one thing for certain: this particular assassination wouldn't be botched. This was a done deal. There
