Bayou Brigade (6 page)

“And how do you know?” countered Scott.

“Because I was there. At first the Brigade was a myth, an invention by the warmongers and gorillas who arrived in Nam in sixty-five,
when there was no real war and no one to kill. It was a war-hawk fantasy of epic proportions —mass executions, homicidal raids
on villages in the northern hills. To imagine they were
real,
that they might be around now, boggles the mind. We’d be dealing with militant radicals—”

“What sort of radicals?” Kennedy asked.

“Right-wingers,” affirmed Slayton, “completely bananas. If The Brigade slipped into China, as I believe they did, they could
be stockpiling weapons and training soldiers for swift terrorist aggression against the United States. The timing between
the Lincoln and Washington Memorial explosions demonstrated a love for spectacle. In one week, on April fourteenth, the President
has scheduled a televised address to the nation, to spell out the Administration’s stance toward terrorism. More than coincidentally,
one week fom now will also mark the anniversary of Lincoln’s death. The main part of the terrorists’ message read ’stop us
if you dare.’ I’d venture to say they’re planning to murder the President.”

Winship added his two cents’ worth: “A few headline-hunting senators have de-emphasized the importance of antiterrorist intelligence.
On my desk is a stack of memos from them claiming such activity on our part is wasting the taxpayers’ money.

“Slayton’s assignment is of the utmost urgency. In case he is correct, and the message from the terrorists is part of an assassination
plot, we must act without consulting the Senate. Slayton leaves today for Chicago, to trace a shipment of arms believed en
route to the terrorists. General, I assume that we can examine a few relevant Pentagon files before Slayton leaves this afternoon?”

“I have specific case numbers and names,” interjected Slayton, “so locating the information won’t take long.”

“Some of the information is top secret,” Scott said, lowering his bureaucratic veil.

Winship was growing tired of the old boy’s reluctance, and deposited both hands on the table, head looming over Scott’s, considering
his next move. “If you wish to play one department against the other, I can make a few phone calls and open those files without
your assistance, if that be necessary.”

The General was licked. Flustered, he retrieved his overcoat and gazed at Slayton. “I’ll give you full cooperation.” He walked
out the door, followed by the other men.

As they left, Winship returned to his desk, holding his authoritative stance for a moment. Then he relaxed and grinned. “Ben,
I think you should know that your mission has not been given any official authorization. You’re completely alone on this one.
We can’t risk another collision with the brass unless you bring in solid evidence to support your theory.”

“In other words,” said Slatyon, “you pulled a few strings to avoid the usual red tape?”

“General Scott countersigned your orders.”

Slayton was astonished. “The renegade conservative brass hat?”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Ben. He’s old Army, a career man. He wanted to make certain you knew what you were talking about.
He and I don’t always see eye-toeye on matters, so a certain amount of friction is inevitable. But we’re both after the common
enemy.”

Slayton nodded, shoveling computer data sheets and assorted paper work inside his briefcase. Winship didn’t want to send him
on this assignment—they both realized the chances of his not returning. Shaking hands, they acknowledged a sentimental trust,
a sincerity spanning many working years. Their hands held tighter and a moment longer than usual.

“I’ve worked this game before, isolated from the Department’s usual resources,” said Slayton.

“Yes, but I’ve also been able to send the rescue squad in a tight pinch. You’re flying solo now, son.”

Slayton smiled laconically. “I like doing business that way, Ham.”

The
Washington Post
ran its first double banner in thirty years. Tossing her purse on the floor under her desk, Wilma made a beeline for the
newsroom lavatory. Four hours on the road covering two front-page stories, following leads and having doors slammed in her
face—no wonder she looked like hell; hair tousled in disarray, bloodshot eyes that told her editor she’d been out carousing
all night he said,

The newsroom never saw peace. Papers shuffled, reporters scrambled after leads, phones rang constantly—a twenty-four-hour
Roman circus, Wilma thought. Editor Bernie Daughton, a coarse, unromantic, but endearing teddy bear, sat in his office staring
at Wilma. She had missed her deadline, but he usually overlooked it.

When her first story on the bombing drew parallels between it and the senators’ slayings, Daughton received an anonymous call
suggesting he look into Willard Parfrey’s financial ventures, which included some questionable transactions with a South American
sea freight business he co-owned.

Several of Parfrey’s business associates crawled out of the woodwork, pointing to other suspected wrongdoings.

Daughton had a lot of nerve to unload an assignment like this one on her just after promising time off and vacation pay. For
Wilma, writing about Parfrey’s double-dealings in Louisiana and South America was akin to working to spec—for nothing—and
this sort of coverage did not seem justified by the paucity of solid facts. Daughton, however, was known for his vendettas
against corrupt civil officers, and usually overplayed his angles and raked a bit of muck when it came to exposing or condemning
highlevel criminals.

“Quick business thinking,” he said, “relating Parfrey to the other murders. Even the
Herald
didn’t try to milk the story for
that
angle!”

“There’s more on Parfrey,” said Wilma, producing a steno pad of scribbled notes. “According to his secretary, about four hours
before he was killed he made two phone calls to a John Barker of Kentucky Avenue. The address was an empty warehouse. The
foreman there told me it had been used to store heavy shipping crates destined for New Orleans and was clearly labeled ’explosives.’
”

Daughton grinned and rubbed his hands together. “The bastard was sneaky, all right. Congress was already investigating him
and his transactions in South America, the ones involving his freight company. They couldn’t amass enough evidence to convince
the Federal prosecutor to suspend him.”

They decided Wilma should continue pressing Parfrey’s relatives and business associates by phone.

“Hallo?” The voice was faint and fading over the long-distance connection. The woman repeated, “Hallo?”

“Yes, yes,” Wilma said, searching her mind for the correct phrase.
“Buenos dias, se habla Ingles?”

“Si,
ah, yes,” came the reply.

“Is this Dartmouth Internationale?”

“Yes, for whom do you wish to speak?”

“I realize it’s Saturday, but are any of the corporate officers there, please?”

“For who do you wish to talk to, miss?”

“Willard Parfrey.”

The line fell silent. “Hold please,” she said.

A man came on the line. “This is Jaime Sanchez. May I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Wilma Christian from the
Washington Post
— I’d like to ask a few questions about Willard Parfrey?”

“What sort of questions?”

“I understand he was part owner of your company, and that he was authorizing shipments of explosives for delivery in New Orleans.”

“From where does this information come?” The Spanish accent was thick but intelligible.

“His name was connected with some explosives found in a Washington, D.C., warehouse,” she bluffed. “Would you care to comment?”

“I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Sanchez, the evidence is sitting in downtown Washington, waiting for the FBI to examine.”

“Okay, Miss… ah… Christian, did you say? We were aware that Willard handled a few personal accounts which did not pass through
the usual clearance channels.”

“What accounts were these?”

“I’m not sure I should be telling you all this, but now that he is dead, I suppose it will come out eventually. You understand
Dartmouth Internationale cannot be held responsible. Mr. Parfrey was a co-owner—you don’t tell him not to meddle in such dangerous
affairs.”

“What affairs are these, Mr. Sanchez?”

“We don’t exactly know what the shipments contained. He frequently sent through bills of lading which had been processed through
a subsidiary office in Hong Kong.”

“How many bills of lading were authorized?”

“We don’t know. There was no indication that Mr. Parfrey was sending these fakes through our accounting department until our
Hong Kong office found several other bills with identical numbers that didn’t match up to our copies.”

“Two
different copies of each bill?”

“For example, we have a bill of lading for nine cases of electronic equipment. We found the same bill number in Hong Kong
listing twenty-five cases of explosive detonators and fuses. When several other bills came through our accounting office in
a similar condition, we conducted an internal investigation and traced the authorization to Mr. Parfrey.”

“Why didn’t you notify the FBI in our country?”

“The investigation is not yet complete. Besides, the way these bills were forged, it is difficult to ascertain exactly what
he had shipped.”

“I’m working to find out what was shipped, but there’s very little to follow at this end.”

“Any assistance would be greatly appreciated.”

“I am grateful to you, Mr. Sanchez, for this information. Have you talked to any other American newspapers?”

“Yours is the first.”

“Can you withhold the story from other papers until we run this in tomorrow’s edition?”

“Yes. Our inquiries will be complete by Tuesday or Wednesday. After that, if there is reason to suspect Parfrey was shipping
arms illegally, we will notify the authorities, the
policia
here, and your Treasury Department.”

“Highly advisable.”

“Now I may ask for your help and information?”

“What can I do?”

Sanchez wanted a list of Parfrey’s investments in America, to determine if Dartmouth could be implicated in a scheme to move
weapons, using the services of a Chicago-based gun mail-order business.

He said, “This organization, ‘Chicago Gun Company,’ appears as a consignee on bills shipped from Hong Kong, paid by Parfrey.
There is no such company listed in the business directories for Chicago. I require a detailed summary of what was delivered,
and to whom. I cannot do that from here in Argentina.”

“I may not have the information until sometime next week,” Wilma replied.

“That would be soon enough. And if you’re ever in Buenos Aires, look me up.”

“Thank you, Sefior Sanchez.” They hung up.

When Wilma filled him in on the conversation, Daughton was certain the Chicago Gun Company was an illegal fence for the shipments.
“Everything points to most of the deliveries coming in at New Orleans. Get Eddie Crosby on the phone; maybe you can wrap up
this story down there. Ever been to New Orleans in March?”

Wilma didn’t want to go. It meant cancelling a visit to her relatives in Michigan. “But I was going to take a week off, starting
next Thursday.”

“Not if you’re going down South,” answered Daughton. “Call Crosby.” He returned to working on the dummy newspaper layout boards
for the afternoon edition. As she angrily walked away, he called out, “Anything else new on the Monument bombing?”

“Nothing,” she snapped. “You’ll have to run this morning’s copy again tonight.”

Daughton scowled. “Could ya rewrite the story and tie it to the explosives found in the warehouse?”

“There’s no connection, unless you want to invent one.”

“Naw,” he said, “just a thought. Go to work. Keep me informed, dear.” The office door was closed by a sharp kick.

Sonofabitch, Wilma thought. She hadn’t spent four years at Northwestern to write speculation pieces. Her desk was cluttered
beyond recognition, clippings, notepaper, unfiled news releases scattered across the blotter. It was a depressing sight. And
at two-thirty, she had another three hours of substantial research ahead.

Taking a break, she phoned Ben’s farm in Mount Vernon. Max picked up the line.

“Any word from our super-sleuth friend?” she said.

“He’s off for parts unknown,” he laughed. “Came in about an hour ago and packed his gear. Left fifteen minutes later, saying
somethin’ about visiting the Midwest.”

“We won’t see
him
for a while.”

“Two weeks… at least.”

Trim and sun-tanned, worried about the wrinkles showing on his forehead, Eddie Crosby was deskbound for the rest of his life.
A failed college athlete, the victim of a knee injury that football coaches mistreated with neural anesthetics, his weakened
leg forced him onto the bench permanently—he was no longer able to detect any feeling in his right kneecap.

Procuring his
Post
wire service manager’s job was a fluke; he’d worked in a similar capacity for a paper in Baton Rouge. The pay was decent,
and the newspaper union offered terrific insurance benefits (he was a sucker for “being prepared,” having three separate life
insurance policies worth $50,000 apiece).

Eddie took pride in his sexual prowess, having given pleasure to nearly all the secretaries in the four-person office-those
who didn’t agree with his hiring policy were out of a job. Elva June, a career typist Eddie had hired three weeks ago, was
a real ball-buster. Their morning meetings couch-side were filled with raw, hard-breathing sexual acrobatics; the energy release
kept him slugging, with a bright, cheery attitude, well into the night.

He and Elva June were going at it again, during lunch break, he on top, arching his back with each pulsating midriff jab.
The phone rang.

“I thought you took it off the hook,” moaned Elva June between gasps.