The Warren Omissions Read online

  What Others Are Saying

  About Jack Patterson

  “Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.

  -David Bashore

  The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID

  “Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  -Aaron Patterson

  bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  THE WARREN OMISSIONS

  “What can be more fascinating than a super high concept novel that reopens the conspiracy behind the JFK assassination while the threat of a global world war rests in the balance? With his new novel, The Warren Omissions , former journalist turned bestselling author Jack Patterson proves he just might be the next worthy successor to Vince Flynn.”

  -Vincent Zandri

  bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Cross Hairs. It’s that good.”

  -Vincent Zandri

  bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Cross Hairs , he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”

  -Josh Katzowitz

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  -Richard D. , reader

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  -Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  -Ray F. , reader

  OTHER TITLES BY

  JACK PATTERSON

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  The Cooper Affair

  Cal Murphy Thriller series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Mixing fact and fiction can be an exciting venture—and a risky one, too. When I set out to tell this story, I didn’t do so with the idea of creating a new theory on who was behind JFK’s assassination. My extensive research on the subject leads me to believe—just like the findings from the House Select Committee on Assassinations in 1978—that there was a conspiracy. After looking through the evidence, it's easy to understand why there are plenty of theories. However, instead of creating something new, I wanted to synthesize several theories in order to create a thrilling plot that could be considered plausible. I wouldn’t dare pretend that the theory proffered in the pages ahead should be added to the lengthy list already out there, though that's entirely for you to decide as the reader. I hope you do nothing more than find the story entertaining —and thought provoking.

  Jack Patterson

  Boise, Idaho

  October 2013

  To Pieter, you deserved to tell a real story like this

  PROLOGUE

  Luanda, Angola

  April 1954

  JOAQUIM BUSCAPE TAPPED HIS FOOT as he sat on the steps of his porch just beyond the reach of the rain. He swirled his glass, creating a circular current of rum. The darkness combined with the thrumming sound of raindrops on the roof should have soothed him. But it only created more angst for Joaquim. At least that’s how he was known here. Just Joaquim. However, back in the heart of Angola’s booming capital he was Father Buscape.

  Joaquim peered down the road, awaiting the arrival of his visitor. He hated waiting, but he needed more time—more time to drink the liquid courage. Tonight, he needed it all.

  In a way, this meeting represented a confession of sorts by Joaquim. He needed absolution from what he had done—and for what he was about to do. Despite being one of the most prominent non-political figures in Luanda, the house by the sea in Paisi do Bosos served as a necessary escape. The weight of presenting himself as a perfect model for his parishioners resulted in a painful existence, crushed beneath the watchful eyes of those seeking permission rather than transformation. They wanted to hear that their struggles were normal—and acceptable. Yet Father Buscape stood in stark contrast to their lifestyle. He appeared unblemished in every way, from his ruggedly handsome face atop his six-foot frame to the soles of his feet that trudged the streets serving the poor.

  And for a time, Joaquim’s outward actions mirrored the depth of his soul. He spent time with the orphans. He delivered food to the widows. He employed the jobless. Then one day, his perfection vanished.

  Sixteen years ago, Father Buscape was visiting all the widows in the parish as usual. However, when he delivered some produce to Maria on his final stop, it was anything but usual. Maria was too young to be a widow. Her husband, Umberto, worked on a local fishing vessel. One day a vicious squall arose in the South Atlantic and decimated the boat. The storm swept Umberto off the deck and into the frothy waters. He never stood a chance. Maria was also far too beautiful to remain unmarried. Her long flowing brown hair framed her soft face. Her figure far too voluptuous to avoid leering glances. Her dark complexion accentuated her radiant blue eyes. And that’s what made her stand out—those eyes. Father Buscape knew he shouldn’t stare too deeply into her teary blue pools that day. Temptation never looked so beautiful; sin never seemed more right.

  The silhouette of a man appeared in the distance, taking shape as it moved toward Joaquim. Absolution was nigh. To say that Joaquim looked forward to this day would be a mischaracterization. Most people look forward to something because it signals something new, something good. But for Joaquim, this meeting signaled something different. It would be good, but only on one hand—the evil hand that clutches dark secrets. His secret would all but disappear with the exit of the man steadily approaching him.

  Joaquim stood up and turned toward the house.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  The boy standing in the doorway nodded.

  Joaquim wasn’t sure if Marcos really understood what was about to happen—but it needed to happen. This was a small sacrifice for what this meeting would mean about the future. Not just his future, but the world’s future. Joaquim could maintain his position of influence and expand it to include something he truly believed in, something he viewed as equal to his faith in God: communism.

  Over the last 15 years, war had ravaged every corner of the world. The unquenchable thirst for power did mo
re to destroy the world’s good trust in mankind than any atomic bomb ever did. Now, there was a different war, a war over the ideology that would rule in the near future. Democracies and republics seemed poised to prevail, but Joaquim recognized that people left unto themselves would eventually destroy each other. Mankind needed a firm hand to rule them, but a compassionate, caring hand as well. People needed strict guidelines. They also needed provision. A government that could provide both elements just might lead to the world Joaquim hoped to see, the kind of world he spoke passionately about in his homilies: a global cooperative community. Or as it was more commonly known—communism.

  When a man who shared Joaquim’s deepest convictions contacted him, Joaquim couldn’t refuse the meeting. Nor could he resist joining forces. The man’s passion burned with a white-hot glow. He would do anything for the greater cause of establishing communism in the world. And he wanted to know if Joaquim would do the same. If Joaquim agreed to certain conditions, the man would finance the establishment of the Communist Party in Angola. Joaquim would share the leadership with his activist brother, Mário—and Joaquim could save his parishioners’ souls ... and their futures.

  Joaquim watched as the man sloshed through the many shallow holes pooling with muddy water. He walked deliberately up the steps and nodded at his host. Though the darkness prevented Joaquim from fully inspecting his visitor, he could see that the man’s face had begun to weather. He displayed signs of a warrior who engaged in battle, but not fierce battles. Those would lie ahead. That’s why he needed help. That’s why he needed Joaquim’s son.

  The man turned toward the boy.

  “Is this him?” the man asked. His thick accent revealed his Russian roots.

  “Yes. He’s all yours,” Joaquim responded.

  The man nodded at Marcos and reached out his hand to reassure. He needed the boy’s trust or it would be for naught.

  Marcos moved toward the man before stopping. He turned and hugged his father, a short embrace that ended with one firm pat on the back. No lingering. It was a clear parting of ways.

  “You know I love you,” Joaquim added.

  Marcos nodded yet said nothing.

  “I will see that he gets everything he needs,” the man said. “And don’t worry—I will take care of your son.”

  The man turned and walked down the steps with Marcos in tow.

  Joaquim watched as they walked away into the darkness, his vision blurred by the steady rain. As their figures quickly vanished, Joaquim couldn’t decipher the rain from his tears. He wondered what kind of monster he had become. He questioned the cost of his cause. But tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, Joaquim would be Father Buscape forevermore.

  But tomorrow was still a day away. His secret was not yet safe. And it wouldn’t be until he finished burying Maria’s body in a place it would never be found.

  CHAPTER 1

  Present Day

  JAMES FLYNN WRESTLED with his computer bag as he exited the terminal. A long walk awaited him before he arrived at his transportation. Flynn stared at the awkward innards of Washington National Airport, partially out of intrigue over the cavernous structure, partially out of his insatiable desire to know where every surveillance camera pointed. He believed the architecture, conceived and constructed in a bygone era, served as a microcosm of this city built on ambition. People in D.C. lived to leave a mark on the world, from the most crooked of politicians to the taxi cab driver on a 4 a.m. shift. Some architect likely fancied that his architecture would be adored by millions who flew into the nation’s capital via Washington National. However, Flynn thought every era demanded a closer look. He viewed nostalgia as a complicit accomplice in covering up our nation’s sins, sins he was determined to expose.

  Nearing the exit to the metro, Flynn felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He spun around to see one of his adoring fans. He knew it before the man even uttered a word. The scraggy brown beard, thinning mop of hair, and baggy jeans held all the telltale signs. But it was the ragged red t-shirt with the schematics of the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars that instantly alerted Flynn to the direction of this conversation.

  “Dr. Flynn? I’m Harold Baylor,” the man said, offering his hand.

  Flynn shook the man’s hand and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Harold.”

  “I’m one of your biggest fans,” Harold said. “Your story about how Reagan spied on Mondale during the election was fascinating.”

  “Thanks, Harold.”

  Then Harold leaned in close to Flynn and put his hand up near his mouth in preparation to share a secret moment. “Now if you can just figure out who killed JFK?”

  Flynn withdrew from Harold and smiled. Flynn then glanced around and then leaned in to share a secret moment of his own with Harold. “Oh, I’m sure if I try to solve that one, my life will meet an untimely demise.”

  Harold’s eyes transformed from squinty and beady to large saucers. He wiped clean any hint of a smile.

  “Well, be careful, Dr. Flynn. Nice meeting you.” Harold hiked up sagging jeans with one hand and turned toward the airport entrance.

  Flynn gritted his teeth, politely smiled and waved while Harold trudged away. Though Flynn preferred more anonymity, his regular appearances on cable news talk shows ended those wishes.

  Two years ago, Flynn achieved celebrity status when he uncovered evidence that Ronald Reagan followed in the footsteps of Richard Nixon by utilizing government resources to spy on his presidential opponent. Reagan supporters rushed to their hero’s defense, seeking to destroy Flynn’s credibility. They deemed the evidence fake. They questioned Flynn’s motives. They dug up dirt on his personal life. Typical Washington tactics. None of it bothered Flynn. He endured much worse from much more powerful people.

  The fact that Flynn was now writing for The National magazine instead of still serving as an intelligence operative for the CIA proved the worst had already been done to him. Serving in the Middle East beginning in 2002, Flynn’s contribution to the war on terror was discreet. He went under the cover of an English teacher, which is what he did in various countries. But at night, he analyzed intel, translating recorded conversations within terror cells. It made Flynn feel like he was leaving a mark on the world. It might not be as visible as an architect’s airport, but it was saving lives by helping the military eliminate enemy combatants.

  Then his sense of importance crumbled when he stumbled across a recording that revealed a rogue Marine strapped a bomb to a 10-year-old Iraqi boy just to prove that their presence in one sector of Iraq was necessary. Flynn still winced when forced to recall the moment he learned of this atrocity committed by a fellow countryman. He struggled with what to do with this information, weighing the cost of his decision to report it. When he finally concluded that he couldn’t be complicit in a cover-up, he reported the incident. Senior officials assured him it would be dealt with internally. But after two months, nothing happened. The soldier continued to serve on his post without any consequence.

  Enraged that nothing was done, Flynn spoke with his superiors again. They justified their inaction by explaining that the Abu Graib prison incident was sufficient embarrassment for the American military and that exposing this might result in rioting by Muslim extremists. Flynn threatened to go over their heads—then he was dismissed.

  Flynn sought out the help of a journalist friend who wrote a story about the incident, based on Flynn’s account, for The Washington Times . But everything Flynn said was dismissed, as government officials painted a nasty picture of Flynn: disgruntled after being passed over for promotion; poor performance reviews; faulty intel reports that resulted in the loss of innocent civilian lives. None of it was true, but they cooked up enough official documents to force The Washington Times to issue a retraction.

  With nearly every bridge burned, Flynn turned his intelligence skills to the only profession he could truly be appreciated—and universally reviled: journalism. More specifically, investigative journalism. After F
lynn discovered the files that proved “Reagan-gate,” his popularity soared. He proffered a few more government conspiracies and achieved rock star status among those who were leery of the government. Even www.TinFoilHatConspiracy.com recently named Flynn their conspiracy theorist of the year. Now whenever there was a conspiracy theory hatched, cable news talk shows clamored to be the first to get Flynn on their sets. It wasn’t a big mark, but it was something. His story on Reagan was toothless in the fact that it was learned long after Reagan’s death. Had Flynn been a reporter and discovered this while Reagan was still in the White House, he would’ve been immortalized. Instead, he was still in search of his Woodward and Bernstein moment. And that was exactly why Flynn found himself standing in D.C. today, braving the chilling October winds on the Metro platform.

  Three days ago, Flynn received a call from a woman named Emma Taylor. She told him it was urgent and needed to meet with him pertaining a document her grandfather willed to her. Flynn had grown accustomed to such calls. The conspiracy theorists often called him about leads and requested that he pay them a visit. But those visits were on his dime, unless he could convince The National that there really was a story to be written. Most of the time, Flynn politely declined the invitation. After crisscrossing the country a few times chasing bogus leads from people with fanciful imaginations, he wised up as he watched his bank account dwindle. Yet Flynn didn’t dismiss them all. He developed a handful of subjects and names that required more questions before he would agree to a visit. This latest call happened to fulfill his criteria.

  Squeezing through the Monday rush hour traffic, Flynn boarded the Branch Avenue rail line and sat in a seat at the back of the car. He felt anxious, something foreign to him since he left the agency. Anxious about what this document might mean; anxious that perhaps someone was following him. Based on his conversation with Mrs. Taylor, this document more than met his requirement for a personal visit. If this wasn’t the document, with one or two more it certainly could comprise that elusive smoking gun, the holy grail for every investigative journalist: Who was behind the JFK assassination plot?