a heart-pounding political satire
that eerily parallels Washington, DC today
“Jack Kennedy, FBI, sir.” Kennedy
reached into his
pocket, pulled out his badge, and
presented it.
Leo
paled. Should he make a run for it? No, Kennedy
looked about half his age and
could catch him easily, especially
since—at the moment—this block
was empty of people. His
palms and brow began to sweat.
Kennedy
noticed Leo’s discomfort.
“Oh,
don’t worry, Professor.” He smiled, a large, toothy
grin. “I’m not going to arrest
you. I’m here on more of, ah...
a social visit. A way to get
acquainted, I think. We need to
have a chat, you and I, and this
seems as good a place as any.
Somewhere we won’t be overheard.
So please, walk with me.”
Relief
flooded through Leo, though he remained guarded.
He recognized the name Jack Kennedy
as the son of Lindbergh’s
crony Joseph Kennedy, former
ambassador to the U.K. He
knew Kennedy as a defeatist and
before that, an arch-appeaser
of Hitler, and currently as the
Secretary of the Treasury. He
had been unaware Joe Kennedy’s
son was working for J. Edgar
Hoover and couldn’t imagine how
anything useful would come
from this interview. But since
Kennedy wasn’t hauling him off
to face a federal judge, Leo
thought it might be best to hear him
out.
The
two men crossed First Avenue at a traffic light and
continued along E. 71st Street in
the direction of the East River.
This block was distinctly
shabbier than the one to its west. There
were fewer single-family
brownstones fronting either side of the
street, and more four and
five-story walkups, which increased
the local population density.
Still, the block was a pleasant
residential neighborhood, a calm,
tree-lined lacuna in the midst
of Manhattan’s quotidian turmoil.
“I
understand, Dr. Szilard,” said Kennedy, when they
were about twenty yards from the
motorized tumult of Second
Avenue, “that you are the local
head, or leader, whichever you
prefer, of a group that calls
itself the Resistance.”
“Why,
Mr. Kennedy,” Leo said, his heart skipping one
beat and then another. “Where did
you get a silly idea like
that? I’m head of nothing and
leader only of myself. I’m afraid
someone is making up stories
about me.”
“Ah,
then I am sorry, Professor, for taking up your time. I
have some information that would
be of interest—I think great
interest—to that organization.
But perhaps you are not the right
person after all.”
Leo
squinted. There was no way to know if J. Edgar
Hoover was setting a trap, using
Kennedy as bait. But the fresh-
faced young man seemed so earnest
and honest that Leo was
moved to take a chance.
“And
if I may ask,” he said, “what kind of information?
It is possible I know people who
might be interested in talking
with you, though I have no direct
connection to the organization
you are referring to.”
The
two stopped next to a stunted oak tree struggling
to survive in the chemical
ambiance of midtown Manhattan.
Kennedy drew close so he wouldn’t
be overheard. “Information
that could take down Lindbergh
and the corrupt kleptocracy of
fascists destroying our beloved
country.”
Leo
stared at him. “Your father among them, Mr.
Kennedy? Am I to believe you are
ready to commit patricide?
Do you know what the ancient
Romans did to a man who killed
his father?”
“Ah,
something about a sack and a monkey and the Tiber,
as I recall.”
“You
are correct, Mr. Kennedy. They tied him up in a sack
with a monkey, a dog, a rooster,
and a snake and tossed him in
the river.”
“Ah,
that sounds, ah... painful, Professor.” Kennedy
grimaced. “But this isn’t ancient
Rome. Don’t get me wrong; I
love my father dearly, but he can
take care of himself. Always
has, always will. The man is
indomitable. But I have to make my
own way. And that’s why I want to join up with
the Resistance.”
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