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“Coleen said you found him. But he’s dead?”
“Nope. That
was all for show. He is long gone, now, though.”
Foster pointed at the player. “Jansen is prepared to give me the original of that taped conversation in return for Valdez’s files. Do you still have them?”
I reached beneath the seat and displayed two manila envelopes, thick with contents. “Right here.”
Then I stuffed them back beneath me.
He still hadn’t said a word about the recording. I assumed everything seemed unreal, distant, too dreadful to contemplate. My instincts told me to stay cautious. Nothing had been proven and nothing would be until I could unearth names, times, and dates. The minutiae. Which always told the whole story. Sure, I had feelings and emotions on what I knew so far, but those rarely led to victory. Winning demanded good judgment, steady discipline, and perfect timing.
“The files are bad enough,” he said. “But you understand now why Coleen cannot hear that recording. Why she has to let this go.”
“I get it. But I’m a different story. I know the truth.”
I kept heading south out of Gainesville.
“Coleen has read the files,” I told him.
I saw the concern on his face.
“But they say nothing about you. They only refer to an unnamed confidential informant. I’m assuming that was you.”
After hearing the tape, it was the only thing that made sense.
He nodded. “Martin was the Bishop. I was the Pawn.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“I know exactly who your spies are,” Foster said to Jansen.
They were sitting inside a Krystal hamburger joint in Macon, Georgia, fifty miles south of Atlanta. This was their first face-to-face meeting. Contact before had always been by phone, Foster calling a number Jansen had provided to report information. A few days later a mailed envelope would arrive at a post office box, filled with hundred-dollar bills. The rules were clear. No envelope, no more information.
“As if I’m going to admit or deny anything to you,” Jansen said.
Foster rattled off four names.
The look on Jansen’s face confirmed that he was right.
“King told me to search out our ranks for any problems. He knows you have people there watching him. I searched and found those four. Fortunately for you, I haven’t told King what I learned. Not yet anyway. I’m figuring that silence is worth more than a few hundred dollars.”
“I’m not saying any of those people work for us.”
“Okay. That’s not a problem. I’ll report their names to King. He’ll fire all four and that will be the end of it. You can then start recruiting a new set of eyes and ears.”
Jansen held up a hand in mock surrender. “All right. I get the point. You’re calling the shots here. How did you ID them?”
“It wasn’t that hard. They’re not good at what they’re doing.”
“And you are?”
“I’m still here, working for King. He trusted me to find the spies. That means he doesn’t suspect me at all. So yes, I am that good.”
“Cocky is what you are.”
“I’m still waiting for an amount from you on what you think I’m worth.”
Jansen seemed to consider the matter, then said, “Five thousand.”
“Twenty.”
“Since I have no choice, okay.”
“Send it the usual way.”
“Why do you do this?” Jansen asked.
“White people think that all Negroes worship at King’s altar. We’re just mindless followers. That’s not the case. A lot of black people out there have suffered to make a name for Martin Luther King Jr. They didn’t get Nobel Prizes or invites to the White House. They don’t hang out with celebrities or appear on television all the time. They just get beat up, arrested, then beat up some more, all while he lives the life of a hypocrite. You don’t see what I see with King.”
“I know enough to hear what you’re saying.”
“I owe a lot of people money. I barely make my rent with what the SCLC pays me. I need what you pay me, and more. So I want you to do something. Pass a message along to the men above you. The ones who tell you what to do. Ask them if they’re willing to go all the way with King.”
I listened as Foster told me about his face-to-face meeting with Jansen somewhere around the first of October 1967. In my mind I placed it in context with the reports I’d read from Valdez. That would be about the time James Earl Ray, posing as Eric S. Galt, was sauntering around Puerto Vallarta.
“Were you feeling them out?” I asked.
We were parked inside the municipal limits of a little town called Micanopy, about fifteen miles south of Gainesville, a lovely place from another time full of majestic live oaks dripping with moss. The main street came with a grand red-brick Greek revival mansion, complete with Corinthian columns, that housed a local historical society. The rest of the quaint old buildings supported a profusion of shops and eateries.
One caught my eye.
O. Brisky Books.
“I was definitely feeling him out,” Foster said. “I suspected that they were planning something. You could tell. They were always anxious. I’d helped one of the spies they were already utilizing, providing him access to information he could never get otherwise. That was passed on, which led to Jansen making contact and recruiting me. But once I discovered all three of the other spies, I used that to up my value.”
“When did they answer you? About how far they were willing to go.”
“We met again. About a month after. This time in a motel room outside Atlanta.”
“I posed your question,” Jansen said. “To the people above me. Their answer is yes, they are more than willing to go all the way. We want King removed from any and all positions of leadership.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you and they know it.”
“You want him dead?”
Foster nodded. “And don’t look surprised. You’ve checked me out. You’re the FBI. You know all about me. I’m a guy with a divinity degree that means little to nothing. My chances of ever becoming any more than I am now are next to zero.”
“And you think killing King is a smart move?”
“I think it could be a profitable move. For me. But let me tell you how it’s also good for you. There’s something I’ve heard the Bishop say more times than I can count. He calls it the parable of the tent. There was this king who sought refuge in a tent with a hundred of his subjects. The problem was, none of those hundred people got along. They always fought among themselves. One day ten of them made the king mad, so he banished them from the tent. The next day ten more did the same thing and they were banished. The following day twenty more were tossed out. Finally, one of the king’s advisers spoke up regarding the wisdom of throwing all those people out. “They’re on the outside now, working against you,” was the warning, which was a good one. The king laughed it off by pointing out that those forty people couldn’t agree on anything. All they did was fight among themselves. Not true, his adviser said. They all agree on one thing. They don’t like you.”
Jansen seemed to consider that statement.
“That’s your problem summed up,” Foster said. “Negroes love to fight among themselves. They can hardly agree on anything. King knows that, so he uses the parable of the tent to keep them united in the one thing they all agree on. They hate the white establishment. So the only move you have is to take him out.”
Foster told me when that conversation occurred. November 1967. I slipped it into its proper historical place. Ray/Galt was back in the United States, cocooned in Los Angeles, where they kept him until March 1968. Then he drove across the country, ending up in Atlanta by the end of the month.
“Did Jansen ever actually say they were planning to kill King?”
“Never. Not until the conversation you have there on the cassette, which was just days before. Prior to that we played cat and mouse on the subject. Both of us knew what we were talking about, but no one spoke the words.”
“To mak
e this work,” Jansen said, “we have to track his movements. I need precise details. This is not something that will happen immediately. Nobody wants to get caught. We have to plan this out.”
“I get it. I can provide everything. He moves around a lot. The man never sits still, and his schedule changes by the hour.”
“Your job is to keep us posted. We have to build a model of his movements. How he interacts with crowds, the people around him, how he travels, where he stays, who he sees. It’s all important.”
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“I gave him that information over the next several months,” Foster said. “Every detail on our movements. From November 1967 to April 4, 1968. I was never told directly what they were doing with it.”
I knew.
At least in part.
From one of the reports in Valdez’s files, dated March 28, 1968.
Since March 18 GALT has been traveling by car from Los Angeles to Atlanta. A confidential source who has furnished reliable information in the past reports that KING is currently in Alabama. Yesterday, GALT was diverted to Selma, Alabama. KING was scheduled to make an appearance there to drum up recruits for his 1969 Poor People’s Campaign in Washington, DC. GALT was sent there to evaluate KING in public and determine any vulnerabilities. Unfortunately, KING never made it to Selma. He was delayed in Camden, Alabama. The source alerted us to that fact and GALT was sent to Camden, 38 miles away, where he attended KING’S event and made his assessments. On March 23 GALT drove to Atlanta. For the past four days GALT has reconnoitered the city and identified both King’s home and the Ebenezer Baptist Church.
My analytical brain plugged that memo into the time line with the cassette’s recorded conversation. The report came three days before the face-to-face with Foster. Then, on March 31, 1968, they all decided that King would die in Memphis sometime on April 4.
