10:05 A.M., MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 1974—ENROUTE TO GERMANY
He got off the plane to stretch his legs at New Delhi. He stayed in his seat at Beirut. When the plane was airborne to Frankfurt he decided to risk having a half bottle of champagne. After the wine he fell asleep, and slept until the plane reached Germany. In Frankfurt he marched the letter to Yvette straight to the airport post office and sent it as registered mail. He used registered mail only for love letters. As the plane headed out toward London he felt the old bafflement again—a permanent confusion of doors slamming in his face, lights going off, distant voices singing that there was absolutely nothing to worry about, all of it repeated over and over again until, manipulated and bored, he had turned away, along with most of the rest of the people, telling himself, as they had told themselves, that the Pickering Commission was the receptacle of the consciences of seven wise men, seven just men who had pored themselves almost blind over every scintilla of the evidence, which had at last filled twenty-six volumes. These great men had finally decreed, separately and together, that there had been no conspiracy, that there had been only one lone, mad killer. Repeat: no conspiracy. Repeat: no conspiracy. With the help of the reassuring press—that greatest single continuing conspiracy of modern civilization—life had gone on, the nonconspiracy untroubled. Nothing could change except the truth.
The plane began its descent into London.
