Word of Honor (54 page)

"Yes. I I

"Good. So am I fired?"

"No. But I'd like to beat the shit out of you."

"Later. Do you want to get drunk tonight?"

Tyson nodded distractedly. He said, "Why don't we plead guilty?"

"Another quirk of military law. You are not allowed to enter a plea of guilty to a murder charge."

"Right. I remember that. Good rule."

"So to recapitulate, I'm not fired, and you want to get drunk with me tonight?"

"Right. Anything to get off this post. Even drinking with you. "

"Fine. Let's walk back before the post Gestapo realizes you're missing."

They turned back toward the bridge and began walking slowly. Corva said,

"When we are both very drunk we are going to swap peace stories. R and R

stories. I have to tell you about this whorehouse located in an old French villa outside of Tay Nihn, run by a very crazy half-breed madam."

Tyson smiled. "Sounds like the same one we had outside of Quang Tri. Must have been a chain."

They passed under the bridge. The traffic overhead made a constant low humming noise, and sea gulls circled beneath the huge superstructure. Tyson said, "I was a damned good combat leader. But by the time I reached the hospital, I was a burnout case. I stopped doing my job. I really didn't give a shit anymore. I didn't even care if I lived or died."

Corva said, "Then eventually you would have died. But you got lucky and got wounded first. In the Strawberry Patch. And Brandt tended your wound. War is full of ironies.

"So I've heard."

They were back on 101st Street now, a commercial street WORD OF HONOR e 419

of two- and three-story brick buildings. Tyson looked at the fort's gates beneath the bridge. "It's like jail."

:'No. Jail is like jail."

'I always thought," said Tyson, "that if lawyers take a third of what they win for you in a civil case, they should do a third of the time their clients get in a criminal case."

"They would be permanently in jail," Corva pointed out.

Tyson stopped on the sidewalk outside the gate. "You took the subway here?"

"Right. Didn't want to run up your bill with a taxi. I'll walk to the station from here."

Tyson nodded.

Corva said, "I'm ready to talk to the witnesses for the defense. Sadowski and Scorello. I'm going to go at Army expense. You are authorized to come along. Sadowski lives in Chicago. Scorello lives in a suburb of San Francisco. Get you off post for a few days. Nice reunion."

Tyson shook his head. "I don't want to see them."

:'Why not?"

'They don't want to see me. We don't want to see one another. "

"Okay. I understand. It's not important. Do you want to see Brandt and Farley? You have the right to be present at a cross-examination. To confront them before a hearing or court-martial. "

:'Can we beat the shit out of them?"

'You bet."

Tyson smiled. "You're all talk, Corva." He lit a cigarette. "I considered killing Brandt."

" Did you? That would put a quick end to this business. That's the Nam solution to an annoyance. Blow it away."

"But now I'm under tight scrutiny. Couldn't get away with it. "

Corva smiled slowly. "WASPs don't know anything about these things. You put out a contract. I'll take care of it if you want."

:'Are you serious?"

'Are you?"

Tyson shook his head. "No."

" Well, don't talk about it if you're not. Do you want to see him? And Farley?"

420 * NELSON DEMILLE

"Just Brandt. Sometime before the court-martial."

"Good. Did you ever fuck what's-her-name? Harper?"

Tyson looked at him quickly. "No."

"Too bad." Corva looked at his watch.

Tyson threw down his cigarette. "By the way, I read Rashomon. "

"Did you learn anything?"

"Is this a test? Well, the answer is that an act-killingcan be legal or illegal, can be interpreted as battle, selfdefense, murder, and so forth.

And the odd thing is that not even the victim is always sure of his absolute innocence in the act. Such was the case of the samurai in Rashomon. Similarly, as Dr. Jean Monteau lay dying on the floor of Misdricorde Hospital, the thought must have crossed his mind that he contributed to his own death." Tyson stared at Corva.

Corva said, "And the perpetrators?"

"Yes, that's odder still. A man engaged in intercourse or killing is not always certain even in his own mind if he is making love or committing rape, waging war or committing murder."

Corva nodded again. "That's what juries are for." He added, "Your case is a bit simpler than Rashomon, however, because there are no surviving witnesses to give their impression of what they thought happened to them.

And unlike Rashomon, I doubt if the ghosts of any of the victims will be called to testify at the trial." Corva added, "However, there is that one surviving witness. Did she see much?"

"Enough.

Corva thought a moment before speaking. "I said before that the verdict was a foregone conclusion."

"Right. That's what a defendant likes to hear from his attorney. "

"Well, I was trying to set you up for the worst scenario. That's an old lawyer's trick. The real situation is more in the balance. What you have here is a bunch of tainted soldiers giving self-serving testimony. It's quite possible a court-martial board will be so confused and frustrated that they will decide the government hasn't proven its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, they'll have no choice WORD OF HONOR 9 421

but to return a verdict of not guilty though they know you are. But let me tell you something. It's the nun that concerns me. If she appears out of the blue and takes the stand, they will accept her testimony as gospel.

Arid I'm assuming that testimony will be very damning for you."

"Do you want to know what she'll say?"

"Not particularly. If they find her, you can give me a few details. If they don't find her, it doesn't matter. Point is, nuns don't lie. At least that is the conventional wisdom in trial law. And defense counsels don't try to browbeat or attack the testimony of nuns, priests, rabbis, or ministers, except at their own peril."

Tyson said, "I wonder why she hasn't been found or hasn't come forward?"

Corva rubbed his chin reflectively. "If I were paranoid, I'd say the government already knows the whereabouts of not only Sister Teresa, but also of Hernando Beltran, Lee Walker, and Louis Kalane. Kelly and DeTonq are another matter. Your former heros are lying low on advice of counsel.

They may never have to be called. But if they are, they will probably be your witnesses. Correct?"

"Probably."

"Because you all made a blood oath to lie. You all gave your word of honor that you would stand by one another. Correct?"

"Very astute, Vince."

"Oh, astute, my ass. Even a JAG lawyer could figure that out. What did Harper say in her report? Lieutenant Tyson made statements which were strikingly similar to those of Sadowski and Scorello. What do you think she was saying? You concocted a story nearly twenty years ago, rehearsed it, until finally you almost believed it. Christ, even if the government presented me with three or five more witnesses for the defense, I doubt if I'd march them all up to the stand to say the exact same thing. But no one can accuse me of coaching them. You coached them, Ben. Twenty years ago, You were their leader, you had the imagination to turn a massacre into an heroic epic. That's how you saved your life afterward."

Tyson's eyes met Corva's. Tyson said, "Don't be humble, Vince. You are astute."

422 & NELSON DEMILLE

"You're right," agreed Corva. "Point is, all war stories are bullshit. Did I tell you that?"

"You know you did."

"Don't forget it. See you tonight. Meet me at my office."

Tyson turned toward the fort. Every time he came away from a meeting with Corva, he felt just a bit more frightened yet paradoxically more at peace with himself. Freedom was just down the road, though it looked suspiciously like the walls of Leavenworth from here. He reentered the post without returning the MP's salute.

i Benjamin Tyson stepped off he train at Garden City Station.

hot, dry August after

noons when every

thing seemed to move

in slow motion, and

there was an odd

quietness in the still air.

Tyson loosened his tie

35 and slung his sport coat

over his shoulder. He

walked down from the platform and headed toward the taxi stand.

Three black Cadillacs sat empty in their spaces. Three black drivers sat under the shade of the station house overhang, reading newspapers and drinking canned soda. Tyson approached, and one of the men stood and smiled widely. "Mr. Tyson. You get off that train?"

"Hello, Mason. Just in for a few hours. Can you drive me around?"

"Sure can."

423

424 * NELSON DEMILLE

Tyson fell in step beside Mason, a heavyset man in late middle age, dressed in black chauffeur livery. "Hot today," observed Tyson.

"Sure is. Least it's dry." Mason opened the rear door of his Cadillac, and Tyson entered. Mason got in and started the engine. "Get that AC

workin'."

"How have you been?" inquired Tyson.

"Fine, Sir. Fine. How you been keepin' yourself?"

"Not bad."

"You lookin' good. Gettin' your exercise?"

Tyson smiled. "Doing five miles a day now."

"That's real good. When you gonna stop smokin'T'

"New Year's Day."

Mason laughed. "Where we headin'T'

"My house first."

Mason put on his billed cap and pulled out of the small parking field.

He drove slowly through the tree-shaded residential streets lined with imposing homes. The town seemed deserted. Tyson inquired, "Had a neutron bomb attack while I was gone?"

Mason laughed again. "August. Folks pulled out. I get a few runs a day.

Airports. Couple out east. Slow."

"Why don't you take the month off?"

"The bills don't stop in August."

"That's true." Tyson said, "How is Mrs. Williams?"

"Gettin' old. Just like me. Can't get up those stairs no more. I been lookin' at a place with an elevator. Air-conditionin' too. "

Tyson considered inviting the Williamses to house-sit at his place for the next few months. But his experiences in social engineering were limited, and he didn't know if it was a good idea. He suspected that Mason and his wife would rather be home, wherever that was. Tyson looked around the immaculate car interior. He said, "You remember that Lincoln you had?"

"Sure do. Sixty-four. Block and a half long, wide as my mama-in-law's butt. They gettin' smaller. Can't find nothin' big enough no more. What those turkeys in Detroit thinkin' about?"

"The world's getting smaller and tighter, Mason. Just do me a favor and don't buy a Japanese car."

WORD OF HONOR e 425

"Hell no! You seen them things? I got a Trigerator bigger than them."

They talked cars for the next few minutes. Mason pulled up to the curb in front of Tyson's house.

Tyson said, "Come on in." He opened his own door and stood on the sidewalk, staring at his house. The gardener had kept up with it, and no doubt the maid had too. The pest control men did their scheduled spraying, and the sevenzone sprinkler system was on timer, as were all the outside lights.

The burglar and fire alarms were hooked up to central station monitoring.

The house, in effect, was on automatic pilot. It didn't need the Tysons.

Tyson often envisioned a perfect upper-middle-class suburb, devoid of redundant residents, tended to by machines and service people.

He walked up the brick path, deactivated the alarm with a key, and stepped inside, followed by Mason.

The house smelled unfamiliar, not like his house. There was an odd mixture of odors, dominated by the smells of various cleaning products. The maid, Piedad, probably thought it was amusing to clean an empty house every week.

Anglos were loco.

Tyson hung his sport coat on the clothes tree and went to the parsons table in the foyer where the mail was stacked. He leafed through it. Phil Sloan had a key and took care of small details such as sorting the mail and sending the important items to Tyson at Fort Hamilton. There was a stack of junk mail, a bundle of letters that looked like fan mail, and some bills that Sloan hadn't gotten around to forwarding. There were also a few parcels on the floor that Sloan had probably picked up from the post office. Tyson lifted one of them, a shoebox-sized package marked "Fragile."

He opened it with his pocket knife, fished around in the Styrofoam packing, and drew out a particularly hideous Hummel of a boy and girl that looked as though it had been designed by Norman Rockwell for Hermann Goering. He placed it on the table and read the enclosed card: Dearest Baby Brother, I've treasured this since Aunt Millie gave it to mefive years ago, but remembering how much you always admired it, I'm thrilled to send it to you in your hour of need. Keep your nose up. Love to Marcy and David. Love, Laurie.

426 * NELSON DEMILLE

Tyson smiled as he placed the card on the table. He dug deeper into the packing foam and extracted his platoon logbook, which he slipped into his hip pocket.

Tyson turned to Mason. "Can you give me a hand with something in the basement?"

"Sure can. "

Tyson went down the basement stairs to the storage room and knelt in front of an old black steamer trunk. The padlock was still shut, but it was obvious by the disturbed dust in the area that someone had been there.

Bastards. They'd gotten through the burglar alarm and the supposedly un-pickable door locks. And they'd undoubtedly been through the entire house, every drawer, every closet, his desk, photo albums, diaries, checkbooks, address books, investment portfolios--every nook and cranny. They had penetrated into the very core of his privacy and had probably cataloged, photographed, and photocopied everything. "Bastards!"

"Sir?"

"Nothing." He was fairly certain they were opening his mail, too. But the heavily taped parcel from his sister had shown no sign of tampering. He felt somewhat good about beating them at their own asinine cloak-and-dagger game. Tyson said to Mason, "Let's get this trunk upstairs. "