The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [109]
“If he’d already clipped the story, he might have gone ahead with the shooting anyway.”
“It’s possible,” Ruiz said. “He’d had the idea for a long time. All I did was give him a rationale. After he talked to me, he was doing it for the revolution, entering history. I think that would have been important to him—to have his act known by the men in the apparatus. That way, he wasn’t just a cheap little nut, he was the avenger of the masses.”
“You’re a good psychologist, Manuel.”
“Fair. Oswald was easy material.”
Ruiz rose from his chair and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt away from his body. He reached under the table and brought out a bottle of beer. When he struck off the cap, placing its lip against the edge of the table and striking downward with the heel of his hand, the beer spurted. Ruiz put the neck in his mouth to prevent waste, then filled Christopher’s cup. It was a bitter local brand, heavily carbonated. Ruiz belched and shook his head rapidly in apology.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Christopher said. “Oswald did enter history, but he never had any idea who he was killing for, did he?”
“Not a clue. That was the beauty of it. I wondered at the time, just as you did, why Do had let me give him this pathetic queer, why he imagined this man would have the balls to do it. Do had it planned down to the day and the hour and the exact intersection of streets. He seemed to think the plan was so foolproof that any fool could fire the rifle. It goes to show you how clever these Vietnamese are, and how we underestimate them. The Americans are going to learn a lot over there.”
Christopher lifted his canteen cup. “I hope so,” he said.
Ruiz had told his story with nonchalance. Now his face collapsed into an expression of comical urgency. He slammed the beer bottle on the tabletop and rushed out of the hut. Christopher followed and saw Ruiz, tearing at his belt, running toward the bamboo screen that hid the latrine. He heard the Cuban’s bowels open in a loud burst of gas and liquid. Ruiz groaned and retched, squatting astride the ditch with his arms wrapped around his own body.
Christopher, a pace behind the crouching man, drew the .22 pistol from his belt and fired two rounds of birdshot into the base of Ruiz’s neck; the pistol’s weak report could barely be heard above the drums. Ruiz emitted a groan, full of breath as if he had been kicked in the stomach, and fell forward into the ditch.
A mile down the path, Christopher found Nsango sitting in the Jeep, listening to the drums.
“The Cubans may follow,” Christopher said. “Manuel won’t be good for much when he wakes up, but he’ll be able to send the others.”
“The drums will tell me,” Nsango said, “the savage heartbeat of the Congo.”
His teeth shone in the darkness. He held up a finger for silence and turned on the headlights. Behind them in the camp, the drums stopped. They heard four long bursts of fire from the Kalashnikovs. After each burst, Nsango held up another finger.
“Only Manuel is left,” he said. “Send me a postcard, Paul, when he’s no longer needed.”
FOURTEEN
1
When Christopher arrived at Patchen’s house on M Street, the others were already there. Foley still wore a black tie, but he had taken off his PT-109 tie clasp. He spoke in a louder voice and his handshake was rougher. He had begun to take on some of the mannerisms of the new President, but he hadn’t yet perfected the style. Foley was between personalities; though his language was stronger, he was pale and less alert than he had been. It was apparent that he counted for less in the White House. He deferred to another man, a stranger to Christopher, who stood with his back to a fire of birch logs in Patchen’s fireplace. Patchen introduced Christopher.
“J. D. Trumbull,” said the man. Trumbull had a disarming smile and a chuckling Texas accent. He wore Western boots and a brown suit, beautifully