"Which Oswald?"
"Both!" snapped the director. He dialed the local phone company and said, "This is the Secret Service. Reroute all calls from 555-6734 to this line."
The moment he hung up, the faxes began coming up. He lifted them off the tray as fast as they came, reading them with a face growing loose with the succession of shocks.
"Damn. Damn. Damn."
The other agents looked up expectantly.
"According to this, the serial number of that Mannlicher-Carcano is identical to the one Oswald used on Kennedy."
The other agents looked so blank they might have fainted on their feet.
The director looked up. "Anybody know where that damn gun ended up?"
"National archives."
"Check this out."
A hasty call later, Jack Murtha was saying, "Are you sure? Are you absolutely positively certain it's still there? Well, go look!"
He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "National archives say the rifle is still there, but they're looking anyway."
"God help them if they let that goddamn rifle out of their hands," the director said flatly.
A moment later word came back. "Director, they swear up and down the rifle is still under lock and key."
"Send a man over to double-check? No, do it yourself. Call me the instant you verify this and then call Boston to double-check their serial number. Damn! There can't be two rifles with the same serial number."
"What if there are?"
"If there are, we not only have a mess on our hands, but we may have to reopen the Kennedy hit, as well."
Later the phone rang, and a uniformed Secret Service agent reported, "Big Mac is back at Crown. Repeat, Big Mac is back at Crown."
"Stop talking like that. This is the telephone."
"Sorry, sir. Habit."
"Get word to the Man I'm on station."
"Roger. I mean, at once, sir."
Less than a minute later the telephone rang, and the President's breathlessly hoarse voice was saying, "See me in the Oval Office."
When he reached the Oval Office door, the director found the way blocked by three special agents instead of the usual one.
"Good thinking," he said.
"Identify yourself, sir," the middle agent said stiffly.
"You know who I am. Let me pass."
"President's orders, sir. Sorry."
"I'm hearing that word a lot," the director said, snapping out his ID.
"No sudden movements if you please," an agent cautioned.
"I hate the word sorry. Sorry means failure. It says, 'I do my job sloppily.'"
"Yes, sir."
When his ID was inspected and approved by all three agents, the door was opened and the director was ushered in. Once it was shut, he crossed the blue rug, saying, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. President. I want you to know that I will leave no turn unstoned- er. . . stone unturned-to get to the bottom of the fiasco in the ranks this afternoon."
The President waved him to a chair.
The director sat. His eyes fell on the President's T-shirt.
"Isn't Smith a women's college, Mr. President?"
"Borrowed my wife's T-shirt," the President said tightly.
"Didn't she go to Wellesley?"
"Never mind," the President said testily. "I want to hear about Boston."
The director's face fell. "We're still developing our Intelligence."
"Tell me what you have so far."
"It's very confusing. It really should be digested by professional analysts before you look at it. Certain facts could be misleading. Very."
"I don't give a rip. I want to hear what you have. You have been investigating this, haven't you?"
"Absolutely," the director said, clearing his throat. He did it three times before the Presidential glare forced him to cough up.
"We have the shooter."
"Alive or dead?"
"Dead."
"Who is he?"
"His driver's license says he's Alek James Hidell." The President made a face. "Seems to me I've heard that name before."