Mortal Allies (61 page)

A big breath of air poured out of my mouth.

“I am not trying to hide my son’s relationship with Whitehall. Not any longer. But it’s best for both our nations if we simply say my son was murdered by the North Koreans, and Whitehall was framed, just as your protesters were murdered by the North Koreans. It would be best for our alliance.”

I wanted to say something meaningful, something to take away his pain, to make this easier for him.

But all I could get out was, “It’s true, Mr. Minister. Your son was murdered by the North Koreans.”

He nodded his head in the knowing way some very wise old people have, and he gently patted my arm and left.

Then General Spears and Brandewaite came back in. They stood beside my bed for a long moment. Brandewaite said, “I just want you to know, Drummond, that I bear no hard feelings toward you over all of this.”

I wasn’t exactly sure I heard that right. I mean, the last time I checked, I was the one who was supposed to have hard feelings against him. But I guess that’s what it takes to be a diplomat. Always distort the facts to your own advantage. Or is that a lawyer? Whatever.

Even General Spears seemed to catch the idiocy of it, because he waited till Brandewaite had his back turned and was headed toward the door before he rolled his eyes, and then he did this little jerky motion with his right hand that most folks would interpret to be a fairly disrespectful gesture.

Once Brandewaite was gone, the general reached into his pocket and withdrew a medal with a fancy ribbon on it. He placed it on the bed right beside me. “The President asked me to give you this. He said to tell you that the nation is very proud and appreciative of your efforts.”

I glanced at the medal for a moment, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. He finally squeezed my arm. “Sean, nobody’s more proud of what you just accomplished than me, but as far as the world is concerned, this whole thing never happened. There was an assassination attempt and you saved the Secretary’s life, but the true facts will never be known.”

I nodded like it made no difference to me, and really I guess it didn’t.

Then he paused for a moment before he said, “Son, most people would think a little piece of ribbon doesn’t seem like much for what you did, but in our profession it’s everything.”

Then he spun around and walked out and left me fingering the tiny medal he’d left me. I stared at it, and damn if it didn’t look just like the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest award for heroism.

But maybe I was just imagining all that happened. I was doped up to the max, and I’d been beaten, stabbed, and shot, then shot again — and the mind does play funny tricks.

T
he physical therapy was every bit as wicked as I had dreaded it would be. They actually transported me back to Walter Reed Army Medical Center on a medevac plane, keeping me happily doped up till we got there. Then the nazis at Walter Reed got their first look at me, took the drugs away, and my life turned into pure hell.

The Army’s idea of medicine can be summed up by that old maxim “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Phrased another way, “If you let a knife get dull, it takes a lot longer to resharpen than one kept sharp.”

If you want to hear more of these inane sayings, I could go on, because in my six-week stay at Walter Reed I heard about two million of them from the sadists who made me get up every morning and make my own bed, who brought me Jell-O and actually made me eat it, and thousands of other unspeakable things. My personal favorite was the 250-pound female nurse who showed up on my third day, deadly intent on rolling me over and giving me an enema. I put up one hell of a fight. I swear I did. But alas, I lost.

On my sixth night, an official State Department courier showed up with a handwritten note from the Secretary of State himself, thanking me for saving his life and inviting me to stop by for a private dinner after I got out of the hospital. I thought about sending back a note saying I was pretty busy and wasn’t sure I could make it. That lasted about a nanosecond. Like I’d ever turn down a free meal. And besides, I was dying to share my views about the world with the Secretary; and since I’d saved his life, he’d have to sit and politely listen. How often does life offer you a chance like that?

A few days later, I got a very nice note from Tommy Whitehall, thanking me profusely for everything I did. I can’t say we’d gotten to know each other well, and the circumstances of our relationship were certainly awkward, if that’s the right word to use. I did like him, though. And I thought he was a damned fine officer, too. If I were still an infantry officer, and I was getting ready to go into battle, I’d love to have a guy like Tommy on my flank.

A few days after that, I got an equally nice note from Allie saying she really enjoyed working with me and hoped I was feeling better. She actually gave me her address and phone number in case I ever needed anything. And I decided that maybe my first order of business once I got out of this hellhole was to go look her up and take her to dinner. I mean, she’s not the type I usually take to dinner, since she’s a little tall for me, and there’s that spiky hair, and I knew we’d draw some odd stares, but when you get right down to it, the honor and pleasure would be all mine.

Maria and Allie and Whitehall, and everything else about this case, had certainly forced me to do a lot of hard thinking about whether gays should be allowed to serve openly in the ranks. On the face of it, why not? Is this country really so rich in patriots that it can afford to turn down any Americans who volunteer to spend a few precious years of their lives in its service? And hey, do you ever hear anyone bitching about collecting taxes from gays who admit they’re gays? Right.

On the other hand, I’m just not sure us heteros can handle it. Maybe it’s our problem and not theirs. But it’s still a problem.

Imelda dropped by a few times. She brought my mail and a bottle of castor oil she insisted would cure all ills. She can be fusty and old-fashioned that way. The third time, she sat beside my bed and heckled me to quit faking it and get my ass back to work. She’d never admit it, but I knew she missed having me around.

And what
about
Imelda? Is she really gay? Nah, I don’t think so. I figured she was just trying to force some fresh air into my closed mind. If you really know Imelda, you know she’s not above a little playacting when it serves her. Like when she came by to see me in my hospital room that last time in Korea. She wasn’t checking on my health. She was there to get the doctor to wake me up, then guilt me into exerting one last breath of effort for Tommy Whitehall. See, Imelda’s that way. She does whatever it takes to get the job done. She’s old Army right down to her OD green undershorts. And if you think Katherine’s devious, Imelda could kick her ass at chess any day.

Then one day I watched on TV as the defense minister of North Korea paid a visit to the South Koreans, and every spinmeister on every talk show began yabbering about the surprisingly sudden breakthrough in relations between these two implacable foes. They called it a miracle, but it wasn’t any miracle.

I mean, North Korea’s lonely and broke and has millions of starving and unhappy people, and no matter how stubborn it is, any idiot can tell the clock’s running out on their future. What I figured was, Choi’s plot was a last-ditch attempt to have it their way. And had it worked, North Korea’s defense minister might still be visiting South Korea, only in a slightly different capacity — at the head of his three-million-man army. Of course, there were no guarantees it wouldn’t eventually end up that way, but the chances were suddenly much smaller.

On the second day of the fourth week, just when I thought I’d go crazy with boredom, I got my first glimpse of hope and salvation. She came waltzing into my room, wearing her usual pinstriped pantsuit with a bulging shopping bag under her arm. She didn’t say anything at first. Instead she grabbed a chair, went over and closed the door, then she actually propped the chair underneath the knob so nobody could peek in.

I sat up in bed and shyly hiked the sheets around my chest.

She walked over and fell onto the edge of my bed. “Hello, Attila.”

I smiled. “Hey, Moonbeam.”

She smiled back. “Wait’ll you see what I brought you.”

She reached into the bag and withdrew guess what? A magnum-size bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. No kidding, it was the biggest damned bottle I’d ever seen, and it was filled with that glorious, throat-searing golden liquid. It must’ve cost at least five or six hundred dollars, I figured. I rubbed my eyes and stared at it.

“Go ahead,” she told me, prodding the bottle in my direction. “I couldn’t afford it on my salary, but OGMM decided you deserved to be compensated for your out-of-pocket expenses.”

“Gee, I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, the Army’s got these fairly stiff regulations against accepting a gift that costs over fifty dollars. And from an organization like OGMM, to boot.” Then I yanked the bottle out of her hand. “Of course, when it’s compensation for legitimate expenses, I’m sure that’s a different thing.”

I swiftly screwed off the top and took a long gulp. My eyes actually glazed over and my throat felt like it was on fire.

“Where’s Tommy?” I asked when I could finally speak again.

“He’s home, on leave.”

“Uh-huh. He going to stay in or get out?”

“He hasn’t made up his mind. He has some bitterness. And he knows that if he stays, he’ll be under a microscope.”

“Yeah, tough decision. I guess he’s talking it over with your mom and dad, huh?”

It isn’t often that you surprise Katherine Carlson, but I got her on that one. I mean, I really got her. Her head reeled back and her mouth hung open.

“You knew he was my brother?”

“Hell yeah. The whole time,” I assured her.

“Liar.”

I shrugged. Of course, I should’ve known it when Ernie, Whitehall’s old cadet roomie, told me about that picture Tommy kept on his desk. That had to be a photograph of his sister. Or I should’ve seen the family resemblance any of those times we were together in those cells. I didn’t, though. Not until I saw them both through the camera’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Maybe I would’ve been more sensitive. Maybe I wouldn’t have stuffed my foot in my mouth so many times.”

“You? Sensitive? God, Drummond, give me a break.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, I was respecting an old oath.”

“Tell me about it.”

“When Thomas left for West Point, he made the whole family swear we’d stay away from him.”

“Why? Was he ashamed?”

“Maybe a bit, but we didn’t take offense. What we all decided was that he was actually ashamed of the Army, that it could be so closed-minded. The Army wouldn’t have approved of us.”

“Because your parents are hippies?”

“Certainly that. But when Thomas got older he really didn’t approve of their life, either. It just wasn’t for him. Remember that old TV series
Family Ties
?”

“What? Tommy was Michael J. Fox?”

She chuckled. “To a tee. Everybody in the commune was mystified by him. The rest of us were dressed in hand-me-downs, but Thomas always wore pressed pants and shined shoes. Whenever we played cowboys and Indians, the rest of us would fight to be the oppressed Indians, but Thomas always wanted to be the cavalry officer. Why do you think I call him Thomas, instead of Tom or Tommy? He insisted on it. He was just different.”

“And maybe he was worried about the fact you work for OGMM?”

“That, too.”

I nodded because she had a point. As much as I love the Army, it’s a pretty one-way organization. It’s famous for being one-way. Conformity and uniformity are almost synonymous with the word “Army.” Alternative lifestyles just aren’t real appreciated by the green machine.

I said, “That why you do it? That why you specialize in military gay cases?”

“It might be part of it. You didn’t think I was doing it because I was gay, did you?”

“Hell no,” I lied.

She smiled and chuckled because she knew I was lying.

I said, “So you decided to dedicate your life to crusade for your brother? Do I have that right?”

“Only partly. I love Thomas very much and I’m very proud of him. I don’t like the Army, but I can’t understand why this country won’t approve of him leading troops into battle. Him, and a few hundred thousand more just like him. I might’ve chosen this field anyway, but having my brother as an inspiration made it more personal.”

“And you figured, what? That if anybody ever knew the two of you were brother and sister, what with your work for OGMM, you might expose his sexuality?”

“That thought had crossed both our minds.”

“You still could’ve told me.”

“No, I couldn’t. It was even more critical to keep it private after he was arrested. If a court-martial board knew I was his sister, they would’ve discounted my advocacy as blind allegiance.”

She was right about that, obviously.

I said, “What about Whitehall? How’d he get that name?”

“Well, Carlson was the name of the commune where I was born, right? See if you can guess the name of the nearest town.”

“Let me see. Was it Smithsville?”

She punched me on the chin. As a trained lawyer my skills of deduction are razor-sharp.

I took another long sip to work up my nerve. I’d been anxiously waiting four weeks to clear this up. Finally I said, “Hey, about that morning.”

“What morning?”

“Christ, are we gonna go through this again?”

“Okay, about that morning . . .”

“That really was business. I swear it was. I was just trying to get your brother off.”

I probably could’ve said that any of ten other ways, but hey, a little spur in her conscience wasn’t going to hurt anything, right?

She looked me right in the eye and evaded the entire subject. “So have you heard anything about Bales? Or did he just disappear into the night?”

“Nah, they caught him,” I told her.

“Really?”

“Yeah. He was actually hiding out somewhere in the Philippines, using a false passport. But it seems he beat up a prostitute, and when the cops arrested him they notified the American embassy, and voilà.”