Boyd was reading through the routine statistical report prepared by the CIA. It was only marked “Secret” and there were several hundred recipients on the circulation list.
It seemed that the population of the United States was now 189,242,000. And 70,000,000 of them were employed. The statistical population centre of the USA was now located four miles due east of Salem, Illinois, fifty-seven miles further west than it had been in the 1950s. The greatest westward movement since the 1880s. The median age of the population was 29.5 years. The Labour unions had lost about half a million members and an internal CIA evaluator had put in a query as to whether this figure heralded the twilight of the labour movement.
As Boyd turned over the first page his telephone rang. It was the car showroom. His new car had been delivered that morning. It had been checked and registered and was waiting for him to collect.
A CIA pool car dropped him at the garage and the car was there on the forecourt already being admired by two boys and a girl. It was the first Stingray of the garage’s quota, the first of the new cars called “fastbacks,” and it was a bright, vulgar scarlet with white-wall tyres. The salesman was smiling as he came out of the showroom.
When Boyd had seen the demonstration model he had needed very little persuasion to place his order. He had said that he wasn’t all that interested in cars. But the salesman had heard that story too many times to believe it. He knew that they actually believed it when they said it. But it wasn’t true all the same.
The salesman said, “She’s all yours, Mr. Boyd. All the documents are in the glove compartment and the keys are in the ignition control.” He smiled. “Why don’t you get in behind the wheel and I’ll go over it again for you.”
Boyd nodded and tried not to look too elated as he slid behind the wheel. He absorbed very little of the salesman’s efficient run-down of the car’s controls. The salesman turned to look at him smiling, “The stereo radio and the electrical antenna are with the compliments of our management. We much appreciate your business.”
The saleman’s hand went to the radio switch and pressed one of the FM station buttons. They were playing a Beatles record—“I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” The music suddenly stopped and as the young man’s hand reached forward to adjust the set a breathless voice said, “We have just received a news flash from UPI which states that President Kennedy has been shot in the head in downtown Dallas. We are doing our best to check on the … excuse me a moment … we have just received news direct from Dallas that the President has been taken to Parkland Memorial Hospital suffering from bullet wounds in the head. His medical condition has been described by a doctor at the hospital as ‘grave’ … our normal programming is being suspended and we shall bring you news from Dallas as and when it comes in … we expect no further information for at least an hour … meantime we are taking you over to our reporter in Dallas to describe what happened earlier today …”
Boyd had leaned forward without thinking, to switch off the radio. He didn’t know why he switched off but he knew he needed time to absorb that stunning, incredible newscast. It was utterly impossible. Beyond belief. But he knew it was just a plain, cold fact.
He turned to the young man in the passenger seat who was shaking his head slowly, tears brimming at the edges of his eyes. “What rat-fink could do a thing like that?”
“I’ll have to get back to Langley I’m afraid. Let’s hope it’s not serious.”
“Mister, it’s serious. You can tell from their voices. He’s dead or dying, you can bet your last dollar on that.”
And as he turned into the employees’ parking lot at Langley the news came over that John F. Kennedy was dead. For twenty minutes he sat alone in the car. It was the end of something. He wasn’t sure what. An era maybe. But Kennedy’s short presidency couldn’t be described as an era. It wasn’t long enough for that. But it was the end of an American dream, he knew that. Kennedy hadn’t been able to get his legislation through Congress but that almost didn’t matter. He represented the American dream. Handsome, articulate, well-meaning, modern, manly. Whatever the desirable adjectives were he was heroic, and from that moment on millions of Americans would know that there never was going to be an American dream again.
And Boyd knew in that moment that there was no longer a chance that he would take up Langley’s offer. Flattering it might be, but he knew that he could never fit into a society where such things could happen. The deed didn’t represent the people, it merely proved that it could happen. And it was frightening to know that somewhere that night there were people who would rejoice that it had.
7
The TV cameraman cursed loudly as his assistant hurriedly raised the tripod yet again. It was now fully extended but heads were still blocking the view. Finally, in desperation, he swung the camera off the tripod and balanced it on the reporter’s shoulder.
The basement of the Dallas Police Station was a shambles as the pressmen waited for the prisoner to be brought in. A dozen microphones recorded every word that
