The Fourth K by Mario Puzo
“It will take a few days to make the necessary arrangements,” Christian said. “And Jefferson has to know.”
“Anybody else?” Kennedy asked.
“Maybe six other men from my special division,” Christian said. “They will have to know Yabril is in the White House but not necessarily that you’re seeing him. They’ll guess, but they won’t know.”
Kennedy said, “If it’s necessary I can go to where you’re holding him.”
“Absolutely not,” Christian said. “The White House is the best place. It should be in the early hours after midnight. I suggest 1:00 A.M.”
Kennedy said. “The night after tomorrow. OK.”
“Yes,” Christian said. “You’ll have to sign some papers, which will be vague, but will cover me if something goes haywire.”
Kennedy sighed as if in relief, then said briskly, “He’s not a superman. Don’t worry. I want to be able to talk to him freely and for him to answer lucidly and of his own free will. I don’t want him drugged or coerced in any way. I want to understand how his mind works and maybe I won’t hate him so much. I want to find out how people like him truly feel.”
“I must be physically present at this meeting,” Christian said awkwardly. “I’m responsible.”
“How about you waiting outside the door with Jefferson?” Kennedy asked.
Christian, panicked by the implication of this request, slammed down the fragile coffee cup and said earnestly, “Please, Francis, I can’t do that. Naturally he’ll be secured, he will be physically helpless, but I still have to be between the two of you. This is one time I have to use the veto you gave me.” He tried to hide his fear of what Francis might do.
They both smiled. It had been part of their deal when Christian had guaranteed the safety of the President. That Christian as head of the Secret Service could veto any presidential exposure to the public. “I’ve never abused that power,” Christian said.
Kennedy made a grimace. “But you’ve exercised it vigorously. OK, you can stay in the room but try to fade into the Colonial woodwork. And Jefferson stays outside the door.”
“I’ll set everything up,” Christian said. “But, Francis, this can’t help you.”
Christian Klee prepared Yabril for the meeting with President Kennedy. There had, of course, been many interrogations, but Yabril had smilingly refused to answer any questions. He had been very cool, very confident, and was willing to make conversation in a general way—discuss politics, Marxist theory, the Palestinian problem, which he called the Israeli problem—but he refused to talk about his background or his terrorist operations. He refused to talk about Romeo, his partner, or about Theresa Kennedy and her murder or his relationship with the Sultan of Sherhaben.
Yabril’s prison was a small ten-bed hospital built by the FBI for the holding of dangerous prisoners and valuable informers. This hospital was staffed by Secret Service medical personnel and guarded by Klee’s Secret Service special division agents. There were five of these detention hospitals in the United States: one in the Washington, D.C., area, another in Chicago, one in Los Angeles, one in Nevada and another on Long Island.
These hospitals were sometimes used for secret medical experiments on volunteer prison inmates. But Klee had cleared out the hospital in Washington, D.C., to hold Yabril in isolation. He had also cleaned out the hospital in Long Island to hold the two young scientists who had planted the atom bomb.
In the Washington hospital, Yabril lived in a medical suite fully equipped to abort any suicide attempt by violence or fasting. There were physical restraints and equipment for intravenous feeding.
Every inch of Yabril’s body, including his teeth, had been X-rayed, and he was always restrained by a specially made loose jacket that permitted him only partial use of his arms and legs. He could read and write and walk with little steps, but could not make violent movements. He was also under twenty-four-hour surveillance through a two-way mirror by teams of Secret Service agents from Klee’s special division.
After Christian left President Kennedy, he went to visit Yabril knowing that he had a problem. With two of the Secret Service agents he entered Yabril’s suite. He sat on one of the comfortable sofas and had Yabril brought in from the bedroom. He pushed Yabril gently into one of the armchairs and then had his agents check the restraints.
Yabril said contemptuously, “You’re a very careful man, with all your power.”
“I believe in being careful,” Christian told him gravely. “I’m like those engineers who build bridges and buildings to withstand a hundred times more stress than possible. That’s how I run my job.”
“They are not the same thing,” Yabril said. “You cannot foresee the stress of Fate.”
“I know,” Christian said. “But it relieves my anxieties and it serves well enough. Now the reason for my visit: I’ve come to ask you a favor.” At this Yabril laughed, a fine derisive laugh but a laugh of genuine mirth.
Christian stared at him and smiled. “No, seriously, this is a favor it is in your power to grant or refuse. Now listen carefully. You’ve been treated well—that is my doing and also the laws of this country. I know it’s useless to threaten. I know you have your pride, but it is a small thing I ask, one that will not compromise you in any way. And in return I promise to do everything I can so that nothing unfortunate will happen. I know that you still have hope. You think your comrades of the famous First Hundred will come up with something clever so that we will have to set you free.”
Yabril’s thin dark face lost its saturnine mirthfulness. He said, “We tried several times to mount an action against your President Kennedy, very complicated and clever operations. They were all suddenly and mysteriously wiped out before we could even get into this country. I personally conducted an investigation into these failures and the destruction of our personnel. And the trail always led to you. And so I know we’re in the same line of work. I know that you’re not one of those cautious politicians. So just tell me the courtesy you want. Assume I’m intelligent enough to consider it very carefully.”
Christian leaned back on the sofa. Part of his brain noted that since Yabril had found his trail he was far too dangerous ever to be let free under any circumstances. Yabril had been foolish to let out that information. Then Christian concentrated on the business at hand. He said, “President Kennedy is a very complicated man, he tries to understand events and people. And so he wants to meet you face-to-face and ask you questions, engage in a dialogue. As one human being to another. He wants to understand what made you kill his daughter; he wants, perhaps, to absolve himself of his own feelings of guilt. Now, all I ask is that you talk to him, answer his questions. I ask you not to reject him totally. Will you do that?”
Yabril, loosely locked in his jacket, tried to raise his arms in a gesture of rejection. He totally lacked physical fear, and yet the idea of meeting the father of the girl he had murdered aroused an agitation that surprised him. After all, it had been a political act, and a President of the United States should understand that better than anyone. Still, it would be interesting to look into the eyes of the most powerful man in the world and say, “I killed your daughter. I injured you more grievously than you can ever injure me, you with your thousand ships of war, your tens of thousands of thunderbolt aircraft.”
Yabril said, “Yes, I will do you this little favor. But you may not thank me in the end.”
Klee got up from the sofa and lightly put a hand on Yabril’s shoulder, but Yabril shrugged him away with contempt. “It doesn’t matter,” Klee said. “And I will be grateful.”
Two days later, an hour after midnight, President Kennedy entered the Yellow Oval Room of the White House to find Yabril already seated in a chair by the fireplace. Christian was standing behind him.
On a small oval table inlaid with a shield of the Stars and Stripes was a silver platter of tiny sandwiches, a silver coffeepot and cups and saucers rimmed with gold. Jefferson poured the coffee into the three cups and then
“No, Mr. President,” Christian said. “Those are jacket and legging restraints.”
“Can’t you make him more comfortable?” Kennedy said.
“No, sir,” Christian said.
Kennedy spoke directly to Yabril. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the last word in these matters. I won’t keep you too long. I would just like to ask you a few questions.”
Yabril nodded. Because of the restraints, it was with some difficulty that he helped himself to one of the sandwiches, which were delicious. And it helped his pride in some way that his enemy could see that he was not completely helpless. He studied Kennedy’s face, and was struck by the fact that this was a man who in other circumstances he would have instinctively respected and trusted to some degree. The face showed suffering but a powerful restraint of that suffering. It also showed a genuine interest in his discomfort; there was no condescension or false compassion. And yet with all this there was a grave strength.
Yabril said softly and more politely and perhaps more humbly than he intended, “Mr. Kennedy, before we begin you must first answer me one question. Do you really believe that I am responsible for the atom bomb explosion in your country?”
“No,” Kennedy said. And Christian was relieved that he did not give any further information.
“Thank you,” Yabril said. “How could anyone think me so stupid? And I would resent it if you tried to use that accusation as a weapon. You may ask me anything you like.”
Kennedy motioned to Jefferson to leave the room and watched him do so. Then he spoke softly to Yabril. Christian lowered his head as if not to hear. He really did not want to hear.
Kennedy said, “We know you orchestrated the whole series of events. The murder of the Pope, the hoax of letting your accomplice be captured so that you could demand his release. The hijacking of the plane. And the killing of my daughter, which was planned from the very beginning. Now we know this for certain, but I would like you to tell me if this is true. By the way, I can see the logic of it.”
Yabril looked at Kennedy directly. “Yes, that is all true. But I’m amazed that you put it all together so quickly. I thought it clever.”
Kennedy said, “I’m afraid it’s nothing to be proud of. It means that basically I have the same kind of mind that you do. Or that there is not much difference in the human mind when it comes to deviousness.”
“Still, it was maybe too clever,” Yabril said. “You broke the rules of the game. But of course it was not chess, the rules were not so strict. You were supposed to be a pawn with only a pawn’s moves.”
Kennedy sat down and drank a bit of his coffee, a polite social gesture. Christian could see he was very tense, and, of course, to Yabril the seeming casualness of the President was transparent. Yabril wondered what the man’s real intentions were. It was obvious that they were not malicious; there was no intent to use power to frighten or harm him.
“I knew from the very beginning,” Kennedy said. “With the hijacking of the plane, I knew you would kill my daughter. When your accomplice was captured, I knew it was part of your plan. I was surprised by nothing. My advisers did not agree until later in your scenario. So what concerns me is that my mind must be something like yours. And yet it comes to this. I can’t imagine myself doing such an operation. I want to avoid taking that next step and that is why I wanted to talk to you. To learn and foresee, to guard myself against myself.”
Yabril was impressed by Kennedy’s courteous manner, the evenness of his speech, his seeming desire for some kind of truth.
Kennedy went on. “What was your gain in all this? The Pope will be replaced; my daughter’s death will not alter the international power structure. Where was your profit?”
Yabril thought, The old question of capitalism, it comes down to that. Yabril felt Christian’s hands rest lightly on his shoulders for a moment. Then he hesitated before he said, “America is the colossus to which the Israeli state owes its existence. This by definition is what oppresses my countrymen. And your capitalistic system oppresses the poor people of the world and even your own country. It is necessary to break down the fear of your strength. The Pope is part of that authority, the Catholic Church has terrorized the poor of the world for countless centuries, with hell and even heaven; how disgraceful. And it went on for two thousand years. To bring about the Pope’s death was more than a political satisfaction.”
Christian had wandered away from Yabril’s chair but was still alert, ready to interpose himself. He opened the door to the Yellow Oval Room to whisper to Jefferson for a moment. Yabril noted all this in silence, then went on: “But all my actions against you failed. I mounted two very elaborate operations to assassinate you and they failed. You may one day ask your Mr. Klee the details, they may astonish you. The Attorney General, what a benign title, I must confess it misled me at the beginning. He destroyed my operations with a ruthlessness that compelled my admiration. But then, he had so many men, so much technology. I was helpless. But your own invulnerability ensured your daughter’s death, and I know how that must trouble you. I speak frankly, since that is your wish.”
Christian came back to stand behind the chair and tried to avoid Kennedy’s look. Yabril felt a strange tinge of fear, but he went on. “Consider,” Yabril said and half raised his arms to make an emphatic gesture, “if I hijack a plane, I am a monster. If the Israelis bomb a helpless Arab town and kill hundreds, they are striking a blow for freedom; more, they are avenging the famous holocaust with which Arabs had nothing to do. But what are our options? We do not have the military power, we do not have the technology. Who is the more heroic? Well, in both cases the innocent die. And what about justice? Israel was put in place by foreign powers, my people were thrown out into the desert. We are the new homeless, the new Jews, what an irony. Does the world expect us not to fight? What can we use except terror? What did the Jews use when they fought for the establishment of their state against the British? We learned everything about terror from the Jews of that time. And those terrorists are now heroes, those slaughterers of the innocent. One even became the prime minister of Israel and was accepted by the heads of state as if they never smelled the blood on his hands. Am I more terrible?”
Yabril paused for a moment and tried to rise, but Christian pushed him back down in his chair. Kennedy made a gesture for him to go on.
Yabril said, “You ask what I accomplished. In one sense I failed, and the proof is that I am here a prisoner. But what a blow I dealt to your authority in the world. America is not so great, after all. It could have ended better for me, but it’s still not a total loss. I exposed to the world how ruthless your supposedly humane democracy really is. You destroyed a great city, you mercilessly subdued a foreign nation to your will. I made you peel off your thunderbolts to frighten the whole world and you alienated part of the world. You are not so beloved, your America. And in your own country you have polarized your political factions. Your personal image has changed and you have become the terrible Mr. Hyde instead of the saintly Dr. Jekyll.”
Yabril paused for a moment to control the violent energy of the emotions that had passed over his face. He became more respectful, more grave.
“I come now to what you want to hear and what is painful for me to say. Your daughter’s death was necessary. She was a symbol of America because she was the daughter of the most powerful man on earth. Do you know what that does to people who fear authority? It gives them hope, never mind that some may love you, that some may see you as benefactor or friend. People hate their benefactors in the long run. They see you are no more powerful than they are, they need not fear you. Of course it would have been more effective if I had gone free. How would that have been? The Pope dead, your daughter killed and then you are forced to set me free. How impotent you and Ameri
Yabril leaned back in the chair to lessen the weight of restraint and smiled at Kennedy. “I made only one mistake. I misjudged you completely. There was nothing in your history that could foreshadow your actions. You, the great liberal, the ethical modern man. I thought you would release my friend. I thought you would not be able to put the pieces together quickly enough and I never dreamed you would commit such a great crime.”
Kennedy said, “There were very few casualties when the city of Dak was bombed—we dumped leaflets hours before.”
Yabril said, “I understand that. It was a perfect terrorist response. I would have done the same myself. But I would never have done what you did to save yourself. Set off an atom bomb in one of your own cities.”
“You are mistaken,” Kennedy said. And Christian was relieved again that he did not offer more information. And he was also relieved to see that Kennedy did not take the accusation seriously. In fact Kennedy went on immediately to something else.
“Tell me,” Kennedy said, “how can you justify in your own heart the things you have done, your betrayals of human trust? I’ve read your dossier. How can any human being say to himself, I will better the world by killing innocent men, women and children, I will raise humanity out of its despair by betraying my best friend—all this without any authority given by God or his fellow beings. Compassion aside, how do you even dare to assume such power?”
Yabril waited courteously as if he expected another question. Then he said, “The acts I committed are not so bizarre as the press and moralists claim. What about your bomber pilots who rain down destruction as if the people below them were mere ants? Those good-hearted boys with every manly virtue. But they were taught to do their duty. I think I am no different. Yet I do not have the resources to drop death from thousands of feet in the air. Or naval guns that obliterate from twenty miles away. I must dirty my hands with blood. I must have moral strength, the mental purity to shed blood directly for the cause I believe in. Well, that is all terribly obvious, an old argument, and it seems cowardly to even make it. But you say how do I have the courage to assume that authority without being approved by some higher source? That is more complicated. Let me believe that the suffering I have seen in my world has given me that authority. Let me say that the books I have read, the music I have heard, the example of far greater men than myself, have given me the strength to act on my own principles. It is more difficult for me than you who have the support of hundreds of millions and so commit your terror as a duty to them, as their instrument.”