Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (39 page)

 
          
 
"Lashed to the mast. Bound and
gagged."

 
          
 
Burnham wondered if any of the information in
the NSC telex had been true. "They say you refused to talk to the
President."

 
          
 
"That I did do," Teresa said.
"I don't like him."

 
          
 
"You don't like him." Burnham
squeezed his eyebrows with his fingertips.

 
          
 
"No. I'm sorry if that upsets you, but I
don't."

 
          
 
"Teresa ... let me tell you what the
situation is."

 
          
 
"I just told you."

 
          
 
"Have you ever heard of Rashomon?”

 
          
 
"You think I'm illiterate?"

 
          
 
"You just told me your side of the story.
Now I'm going to tell you the other side of the story, and, unfortunately, that
other side is the current reality." He told her about the NSC telex, about
the threat to the Russian tanker, about the SEAL teams poised to strike under
cover of darkness, about the Cubans hoping for trouble, about the deadline.

 
          
 
"But I never said any of that!"
Teresa protested.

 
          
 
"Never mind. The message you sent doesn't
matter. The message received is all that counts."

 
          
 
"What can I do?"

 
          
 
Burnham closed his eyes. An idea that had been
ricocheting around the back of his mind lurched forward. He didn't know if it was
any good, but he had no alternative.

 
          
 
"Hold on a second."

 
          
 
He cupped the phone and said to Dyanna,
"I want you to call Evelyn. Tell her I want somebody from the State
Department to call the Cubans. Direct, not through the Swiss. Tell them that
the yacht is ere wed by sick people, diseased people, contagious people. Two of
them have AIDS. It is going to be leaving the harbor, and we will pick it up
outside and remove it from Cuban waters. Got that?"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir." Dyanna looked terrified.
She started to dial.

 
          
 
"And, Dyanna ..."

           
 
"Yes, sir?"

 
          
 
"You can be polite with Evelyn. You
should be. But don't ask her to do this. Tell her it's what we need. That's
what she'll expect, and it's what she'll respect."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
Burnham spoke into the phone. "Teresa,
can you start your engine?"

 
          
 
"I think I can get her going on two
cylinders, but I wouldn't trust her to—"

 
          
 
"That's good enough. I just need you to
go a couple of miles. Got a white flag?"

 
          
 
"A white flag? No."

 
          
 
"How about a white shirt?"

 
          
 
"/ don't, but . . . Yes. Ian's wearing a
Ralph Lauren that's white. Sort of. It has blood on it."

 
          
 
"Never mind. Run it up your mast."

 
          
 
"What am I doing, surrendering?"

 
          
 
"In a way. Now: I want you to do exactly
as I say. First, fly that shirt. Second, start your engine. Third, untie
yourself from that tanker. Fourth, head straight out of the harbor, nice and
easy, until you're a couple of miles offshore, then turn southwest and just putt
along. An American boat will come and take you in tow."

 
          
 
"But what'll they do to me?"

 
          
 
"Nothing. I promise. They'll tow you to
Guantanamo
. I'll take it from there."

 
          
 
"We're freaks, Timothy!" Teresa was
panicking. "Don't you know what Marines do to freaks?"

 
          
 
"Calm down, Teresa. Don't you know what
Marines hate worse than freaks?"

 
          
 
"Nothing! Except maybe Communists."

 
          
 
"They hate the brig. And bread and water.
And two years at hard labor. And dishonorable discharges. And if any one of
them does anything to you, that's what he's gonna get."

 
          
 
"You can do that?"

 
          
 
"You better believe it." Burnham
wasn't sure he believed it, but he had to offer the guarantee.

 
          
 
"My!" Teresa said. "You have
done well."

 
          
 
"Think you can do it?"

 
          
 
"Yes, if nobody shoots at me."

 
          
 
"They won't," Burnham said hopefully.
"And Toddy . . .

 
          
 
Teresa ... if this all . . . when this all
works out, and you're home safe and sound, I'll make sure you get your
operation."

 
          
 
"Who's going to pay for it?" Teresa
laughed. "The President?"

 
          
 
"Sure." Burnham laughed, too.
"That's what
America
's all about, right? We take care of the tired, the poor, the huddled
masses—"

 
          
 
"And the wretched refuse of your teeming
shores. That's me. Wretched refuse."

 
          
 
"Stop sniveling. Go rip the clothes off
that pansy."

 
          
 
"Timothy!"

 
          
 
"I've got to make a couple of calls to
your . . . welcoming committee. This line'll stay open. If anything goes wrong,
if you just want to talk . . . anything . . . give a holler and they'll get me.
Okay?"

 
          
 
"Okay."

 
          
 
Burnham looked at Dyanna as she hung up the
phone.

 
          
 
"It's done," she said, and she
exhaled visibly.

 
          
 
He smiled at her. "How do you feel?"

 
          
 
"Like the time I broke up with my first
steady. It was real hard at first, but then I got warmed up, and—"

 
          
 
"Good." Burnham asked Sergeant
Pingrey to connect him to General Starkweather.

 
          
 
"Starkweather."

 
          
 
"Timothy Bumham, General. The yacht is
about to leave the harbor. He'll—"

 
          
 
"He's surrendering. The Cuban's are gonna
take him. I've got to—"

 
          
 
"How do you know? You're to-hell-and-gone
down in
Guantanamo
."

 
          
 
"I know, that's all. My men are—"

 
          
 
"You're men are to stay right . . . where
. . . they . . . are. Is that clear?"

 
          
 
"But—"

 
          
 
"He is not surrendering. The Cubans know
all about it. They'll let him go. He'll go offshore and head down toward you. I
want you to dispatch a boat fast enough to get to him in a hurry and big enough
to give him a tow back to the base."

 
          
 
"What makes you so all-fired sure?"
Starkweather added, with blatant contempt, "Sir."

 
          
 
He's been sitting around fuming, Burnham
decided, bitching to all his junior officers about interference from the
goddamn egghead civilian know-nothings, and because they all value their lives
they've been kissing his ass and telling him he should take control of the
operation.

 
          
 
Time to put the general in his place again. He
was astonished to find himself grinning.

 
          
 
"Because, General, he is doing what I
told him to do."

 
          
 
Starkweather paused. "You talked to
him?"

 
          
 
"At length. General. And I instructed him
what to do. And I spoke to the Cubans"—what the hell, Burnham thought: In
for a penny, in for a pound "—and they have agreed to let him go. And you,
General, if you have any interest in keeping your star and taking a cushy job
with some weapons manufacturer when you retire and playing golf with the
members of the Armed Services Committee, instead of retiring as a colonel and
running a trailer park in Salt Lick, Florida, you, too. General, will do what I
tell you." Burnham took a breath. "Understood?"

 
          
 
Two seconds passed before the general said,
"Understood."

 
          
 
"You will take the yacht to
Guantanamo
, and there the crew will be treated
with—and I mean this with absolute insistence—the utmost courtesy and respect,
no matter what some of those bald goons who work for you may think of them.
Aboard are three women and a man. The man is disturbed. His hallucinations
started all this ruckus. He has been restrained, and I think he should be kept
restrained until he can be transferred to the States. The vessel is in need of
repair. You will have it repaired. When it is seaworthy, you will escort it out
to international waters. Until that time, the crew will be your guests, and
they will be treated as if they are the daughters of the President himself. Understood?"

 
          
 
"Understood."

 
          
 
"Believe me, General, I will hear about
it if there is a fuckup." Pleased with his exit line, Burnham started to
hang up. Then he remembered something, and he said, "General?"

 
          
 
"Sir?"

 
          
 
"I have here the telex you sent to the
NSC. Where did that information come from? About his asking for asylum and
threatening to blow up the Russian tanker."

 
          
 
Starkweather's reluctance to answer was
palpable. "Is this line secure?" he asked at last.

 
          
 
Burnham assumed it was, but he wasn't certain.
He chuckled derisively. “Is this line secure?”

 
          
 
Starkweather lowered his voice, as if to
ensure secrecy. "LP-ers," he said.

 
          
 
"What's an LP?"