The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Read online

  The Council House

  Also by Frances Fletcher

  Day of Terror

  The Subway Plot

  The Council House is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 by Frances Fletcher

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Sunset Park Press.

  Cover design by Neil Hague

  The Council House

  Frances Fletcher

  This novel is dedicated to the whistle-blowers

  and the people who stand with them—

  humanity depends on your courage.

  Prologue

  March 1962

  Jack Kennedy kicked off his shoes and sank into a soft club chair. The throbbing in his head lessoned a little. Loosening his tie, he leaned his head back and sighed. He closed his eyes, relishing the peace and quiet.

  Two sharp raps on his bedroom door—his eyes snapped wide open. Was a moment of solitude too much to ask?

  More knocking; each whack pounded louder inside his head. He massaged his temples.

  Bob McNamara’s voice sounded muddled through the thick walnut door. “Sir, I must speak with you at once.”

  With a groan, Jack raked his fingers through his thick hair and said, “Come in, Bob.”

  The door swung open and the man rushed across the threshold holding a thick packet. “Thank goodness you’re still awake. I’d hate to disturb you.”

  He inhaled and shook his head. “Of course you would hate to disturb me, Bob.”

  “Read this report right away.” The secretary of defense sat across from the president, in Jackie’s chair.

  After taking the packet, Jack scanned only the first few pages. He lowered the report to his knees. This can’t be right. “Bob,” he said and looked up. “You can’t be serious.” He examined McNamara’s face trying, but failing, to interpret his stoic expression.

  “Read the rest.” McNamara removed his eyeglasses and inspected the lenses.

  Jack narrowed his eyebrows.

  “Please, continue reading.” McNamara plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table beside him and wiped his glasses.

  Jack cocked his head and shrugged. I suppose I must. He continued reading. When he reached the last page, he stood and paced, keeping a death grip on the packet. He examined the signature pages twice, just to ascertain which fools had signed this thing. He slapped his thigh with the rolled report and stared down at McNamara. “The Joint Chiefs signed this?”

  “The Department of Defense unanimously approves Operation Northwoods. It just needs your signature. And then it’s a go.”

  Jack shook his head and let out a slow breath. The outrageous recommendations were unconscionable. Staging terrorist attacks on American citizens and Cuban refugees, making it appear as if Fidel Castro had conducted the hostile activities. I must have passed over a key sentence that clarifies everything.

  McNamara looked at him over the rim of his eyeglasses. “It’s harsh, I realize that, Jack. But it’s a good solution.”

  The president sat, and after a half-minute of relaxed breathing, he read the report again. Slower this time, line by line. Heat rose from his chest, up his neck, and into his cheeks as he finished the last page. He hadn’t missed a damn thing. His skin crawled. “No. Robert. No!” He fanned the report over his head, and brought it down with such force that it made a whishing noise. “The United States government will not murder innocent American citizens. Not while I’m president.” As long as breath remains in my body, a false-flag attack will never happen on American soil.

  “A staged event will make the country—the whole world—see things our way.”

  “What is our way, Bob?” The president’s jaw clenched.

  McNamara blinked and pinched his lips together.

  “I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “Defeating communism, of course.”

  “By murdering innocent citizens?” The president towered over the secretary of defense and squared his chin. “No. That is not acceptable.”

  “We have to take military action before Castro joins the Soviet Warsaw Pact.” McNamara tapped his foot on the carpet. “Collateral damage is sometimes justifiable, Jack.”

  “How the hell can mass-murdering American citizens ever be justified?”

  “Unless they feel outraged, American citizens will never tolerate another war, even against Cuba or Russia. A false-flag attack is the only way to make the American public angry enough for war. And we have to stage the attack before it’s too late.”

  “What agency will conduct this—this—false-flag attack?” The president’s steady stare commanded an answer.

  McNamara licked his lips and looked at the floor.

  “Bob, who will create this problem that a war would apparently resolve?” He was pretty certain the Central Intelligence Agency would carry out the attack, but he needed to make sure.

  “The Joint Chiefs of Staff will have authority over all operations.” He cleared his throat. “The Department of Defense and the Central Intelligence Agency will conduct the activities.”

  The president dropped the packet onto the coffee table. It was just as he’d thought. “I understand the ramifications.”

  McNamara shifted in the club chair and adjusted his glasses. “Then it’s decided.” He seized the report from the table, flipped to the last page, and held out a pen. “Sign here, Jack.”

  The president snatched the pen, took a deep breath, and darted it across the room. The point plunged into the wall. “Fire the chairman of the Joint Chiefs!”

  McNamara looked at the pen teetering in the plasterboard and gulped.

  “Did you hear me, Robert?”

  “Yes, sir.” McNamara stood and turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” said the president of the people of the United States. “Disband the CIA as well.”

  “Sir, you cannot—”

  “Yes, I can. The CIA works for Wall Street, and not the American people as it should. I will no longer tolerate it.” The president looked down at McNamara. “Disband the CIA or I’ll replace you with someone who will act in favor of the American people.”

  McNamara’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a huge puff of air. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night, Robert.”

  McNamara walked toward the door, his legs dragging the whole way. “Good night, Mr. President.”

  As soon as the door closed, Jack slumped into the chair and hammered the armrest with his fist. God help me. Give me strength to untangle the tentacles of the creature that is squeezing away America’s freedom!

  * * *

  Bob McNamara closed the president’s bedroom door, and his sweaty hand slipped from the brass knob. Why couldn’t Jack just sign the damn report? Disband the CIA! Didn’t he understand his limitations? Jack was only the president, for goodness sake.

  He wiped his palms on silk trousers and felt for his car keys in his pocket. Shaking his head, he stormed through the White House, without even stopping in his office for his suit jacket.

  While driving to a secluded pay phone, he tried hard not to think about what would happen after he made this phone call. Because he’d had Jack pegged all wrong all hell was about to break loose. With a trembling finger, he dialed a long distance number. “Tell the Rock, that POTUS will not play ball.”

  “Understood,” said a flat voice.

  McNamara banged his forehead against the phone console, squeezing his eye lids shut tight. Dewer Rock was at bat now, and he’d turn the nation upside down. He clutched the telepho
ne receiver until his fingers became numb. It dropped from his fingers and dangled by a metal cord. Rubbing his head, he inhaled deeply and stepped from the phone booth. A brisk March wind whistled around him and he shivered. Shoving his hands inside his front pants pockets, he rushed to the warmth of his idling sedan.

  The great masses of the people

  will more easily fall victims to a big lie

  than to a small one.

  —Adolph Hitler

  Chapter 1

  Richie Carson tossed the pen on his desk and grumbled. He’d begun filling the surveillance report out at 8:00 a.m.—forty-five minutes ago—and had completed only the time, location, and the subject’s description. The rest of the worksheet was blank. If Mel were here, the report would have been typed, approved, and filed by now.

  Last night, he had volunteered to take notes and prepare the report first thing this morning, just to keep from being bored. Sitting in an unmarked police sedan with a different detective every tour was getting old. The other detectives on his team were all sharp cops, and nice enough, but they weren’t Mel.

  He glanced at her desk, backed up against his, and noticed the clutter. It must have built up gradually over the months she’d been on maternity leave. Knowing she would hate the haphazard stacks of unopened mail piled higher than her computer monitor, he stood to neaten the piles. But the window across from their desks captivated him. The view from the twenty-ninth floor of 26 Federal Plaza hadn’t been this clear all summer. A blue, cloudless sky framed Lower Manhattan, the Hudson River, and Jersey City. Richie’s detective skills went into overdrive observing all the details of the city landscape. He made a game of it, trying to find something he hadn’t noticed before.

  The river gently rocked a small group of sailboats. He craned his head and looked down at Broadway. A stream of yellow cabs travelled downtown in a silent flow. Shifting his gaze to the next block, he paused at a flower-covered trellis on the Chamber Street Co-op’s rooftop garden. An oasis in a cement desert. He smiled; only in Manhattan. The plants had probably been there since spring, and he hadn’t noticed them until now, after the whole summer had gone by. His observation skills were slipping. He shook his head. He spent too much time supplementing other detectives’ investigations—he needed his own cases to puzzle out. Lieutenant Jordan would put him back on the catch sheet next week, when Mel returned. Then he and Mel would each rotate cases with the team, leaving no down time to window gaze.

  Stretching his arms over his head, he arched his back and then plopped back into his chair. He should get back to work. Where had that pen gone? He was patting the paperwork on his desk when a mechanical humming vibrated in his ears. Trying to pinpoint the origin of the strange sound, he cocked his head and listened. A low humming coming from outside the building quickly transformed into a loud whooshing. An eerie feeling built in his gut. The noise crescendoed to a deafening roar and he jumped from his chair.

  Richie stepped across the aisle and plastered his right cheek against the window, turning his face toward the sound. A gray jet was flying from the Hudson River and eastward over Chambers Street. The wing seemed close enough to clip his building. He noticed a blue emblem below the pilot’s window as the plane turned south, and he got an up-close view of the jet’s underbelly. A large cigar-shaped pod was attached to the fuselage. The rumbling diminished as the jet soared toward Manhattan’s southern tip.

  The plane neared the towering buildings of the World Trade Center. Richie’s heart thumped against his rib cage harder and harder as the jet headed directly toward the north tower. Pull up! Pull up! For God’s sake, pull up. Oh no. He brought his hand to his pounding chest and held his breath.

  A flash of light burst from the jet and then smashed into the north tower. An orange fireball of jet fuel exploded, and white smoke billowed from the north and east walls of the building. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

  Doors slammed and feet stomped all around him. He remained motionless for a moment. Do something, Richie! With shaking fingers he dialed the Division Radio Dispatcher and reported the plane crash.

  “There are numerous reports of an explosion at One World Trade Center. Can you confirm an airplane has struck the building?” asked Central.

  “A jet flew into the top third of the north tower.” Richie snatched his sports jacket from the back of his chair.

  “My screen is lit up, Detective. Do you have anything else to add?”

  “Take the calls.” He hung up and raced down the hall toward the elevator bank. He jabbed the yellow elevator call button over and over, as if pressing the button would make it turn green.

  “Richie!” Lieutenant Jordan trotted across the corridor. “Forget the elevator. Take the stairs with me.” He tossed Richie a set of car keys and flung open the stairwell door.

  They dashed down twenty-nine flights and jumped into an unmarked police sedan parked near the Duane Street entrance. Richie shifted into reverse, spun the wheel to the right and slammed into drive. A river of fast-moving pedestrians suddenly blocked the street. He stomped on the brakes and braced his arm across the lieutenant’s chest as their bodies jerked forward.

  He tooted the horn and switched on the emergency beacon. It made no difference. The crowd thickened and sailed northward at a quick pace. Even after turning on the police siren full blast, he couldn’t nose the sedan out any further without nudging pedestrians. “Damn.” Richie reversed the car back into the parking spot, smacked the gear shift into park, and shrugged. “Let’s hoof it downtown, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter 2

  Mel glanced at her four-month-old baby girl napping beside her on the sofa. As soon as the baby woke from her morning nap and Mel changed out of her pajamas, they would be off to Shore Road for a run. She had unfolded the jogging stroller last night, after Hope’s last feeding, and loaded it with toys and a light blanket. The stroller waited next to the apartment door, just a few feet away.

  Mel glanced at the baby; she was sound asleep on the middle sofa cushion. She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle, slipped it into the stroller’s cup holder and settled next to Hope again. She took a deep breath. The roundtrip dash lasted only a few seconds, but it was too long for Mel. She really shouldn’t have left the baby’s side. Hope might roll over for the first time any moment now.

  The activity hadn’t disturbed the baby, but the dog, resting at the foot of the sofa, raised his head. She scratched under his neck. “Stay and rest, Boxer. The baby and I are going out alone today.”

  Boxer lowered his nose onto his paws and his eyes drooped shut. If she took the aging dog on her run, he would slow them to a crawl. This might be her last chance to work off some baby weight before returning to work at the NYPD’s Intelligence Division. She could barely zip her pants and dreaded buying a larger size.

  Hope’s belly rose and fell with each breath, a sure sign she was still sound asleep. She’d watch television until the baby woke. Mel grabbed the remote and turned on channel seven. A breaking news story was interrupting Good Morning America. Charles Gibson reported a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

  A plane? She crawled to the edge of the couch and stared at a broadcast of smoke rising from the north tower. Her palm covered her mouth and she mumbled a quick “Hail Mary”. The fire reached above the ninetieth floor. How would the fire department put it out? She exhaled. FD would find a way, they always did.

  Charles’s voiceover said a passenger airliner had crashed into the north tower. He reported an air traffic control mix-up. An air traffic error? Mel vaulted to her feet. No way. Air traffic controllers rarely made mistakes and passenger jets did not fly through downtown Manhattan’s skyline. This was no accident.

  Something else was going on. And she’d never find out what by sitting on her couch. She needed to report to work. Fighting the instinct to run into the bedroom to dress, she gazed at her sleeping infant. How could her first thought be to leave her daughter?
She should snuggle next to her and forget all about the fire in the tower. She had another full week home with Hope. She and Mark had planned everything months ago, before the baby was born. She would begin steady day tours next Tuesday while he continued working steady four by twelves. The perfect child-care arrangement. Closing her eyes tight, she dug her fingernails into her palms. She hadn’t made any emergency babysitting plans. How could she be so dumb? She and Mark were both New York City cops, for God’s sake. Emergencies happened all the time!

  And manpower was spread pretty thin in the first half of September, with the United Nations General Assembly and the Tennis Open both needing coverage. She couldn’t stay home. Intel would need all the extra help it could get with passenger identification, background checks, and target assessments.

  Dad could take care of the baby today. Hope adored her grandfather. She would be fine. Mel would be the only one suffering separation anxiety.

  She wedged a pillow next to Hope and tossed a sofa cushion on the floor. Just to be sure the baby was still sound asleep, Mel watched her belly for a few seconds before dashing into the bedroom. She squeezed into too-snug jeans, pulled off her pajama top, and yanked a shirt over her jogging bra before running back to the living room to check on Hope. The baby hadn’t budged.

  The diaper bag rested on a dinette chair; she looked inside. How much formula should I pack? She had no idea how long she would be away from the baby.

  Stepping into the kitchenette, she grabbed two full baby bottles from the refrigerator. After opening cabinet doors until she found the extra quart of back-up formula, she dumped everything into the diaper bag. As she swung the bag over her shoulder it grazed the counter top and sent a small plastic flask flying. Mel jumped back and caught the white object in mid-air. It held holy water. She was prepared to baptize her newborn in case something went horribly wrong during childbirth. Thank God she hadn’t needed the holy water then. She set the flask back on the kitchen counter.