Trevayne (46 page)

Again, just Bonner.

It was a subtle omission. But it was there.

“Walter, I know your position, and I won’t play dirty games. No threats—”

“I should hope not, Andy.” It was Madison’s turn to interrupt, and he recognized it. “We’ve been through too many productive years to see them buried by an Army officer who, I gather, hasn’t much use for you.”

“You’re right.” Trevayne momentarily lowered his eyes to the telephone. Madison’s statement confused him, but he didn’t have the time to go into it. “Think it over; talk to your partners. Let me know in a couple of hours. If the answer’s negative, I
will
want to be apprised of your reasons; I think I deserve that. If it’s yes, I’ll expect a whopping bill.”

“I’ll get back to you this afternoon or early evening. Will you be at your office?”

“If I’m not, Sam Vicarson will know where to reach me. I’ll be home later, Tawning Spring number. I’ll expect your call.”

Trevayne hung up and made a decision. Sam Vicarson had a new research project.

By early afternoon Sam had gathered together every column Roderick Bruce had written that had any mention of Paul Bonner, the “killer from Saigon.”

The writings revealed only that Bruce had latched onto a volatile story made more explosive by the government’s insistence on keeping it classified three years ago. It was difficult to tell whether the extraordinary invective used against Paul Bonner was directed at him or at those in command who were protecting the Special Forces Major. The columns were semibalanced in this respect. But sporadically this posture appeared as an excuse, a springboard, to remount an attack on one man—the symbol of monstrosity that was Paul Bonner.

The attacks were superbly written exercises in character assassination. Bonner was both the creator and product of a brutal system of armed exploitation. He was to be scorned and pitied; the pity very much an afterthought and only to be employed as one pities a barbarian who
impales the bodies of children because he believes they stem from evil ancestors. Pity the primitive motive, but first destroy the Hun.

And then—as Trevayne had accurately assessed—the current writings shifted. No longer was there any attempt to lock in Bonner with a system. No product now, only a creator.

An isolated monster who betrayed his uniform.

There
was
a difference.

“Man, he’s out for a firing squad!” Vicarson whistled before making the pronouncement.

“He certainly is, and I want to know why.”

“I think it’s there. Underneath the Savile Row clothes and expensive restaurants, Rod Bruce is the freaked-out new left.”

“Then why isn’t he asking for more than one execution?… Find out where they’ve got Bonner. I want to see him.”

Paul removed the irritating neck brace and leaned his back against the wall while sitting on the regulation Army bed. Andrew remained standing; the first few minutes of their meeting had been awkward. The BOQ room was small; there was an Army guard stationed in the corridor, and Trevayne had been startled at Bonner’s explanation that he was not permitted outside the room except for exercise periods.

“It’s better than a cell, I suppose,” said Andy.

“Not a hell of a lot.”

Trevayne began the questioning cautiously. “I know you can’t, or won’t, discuss these things, but I want to help. I hope I don’t have to convince you of that.”

“No. I’ll buy it. But I don’t think I’m going to need any.”

“You sound confident.”

“Cooper’s expected back in a few days. I’ve gone through this before, remember? There’s a lot of yelling, a lot of formalities; then somehow it all rides out and I’m quietly transferred somewhere else.”

“You
believe
that?”

Bonner looked reflective. “Yes, I do.… For a lot of
reasons. If I were in Cooper’s place—or in the shoes of the other guys up there in Brasswares—I’d do just what they’re doing. Let the flap settle.… I’ve thought about it.” Paul smiled and gave a short laugh. “The Army moves in mysterious ways.”

“Have you seen the newspapers?”

“Sure. I saw them three years ago, too. Back when I rated ten minutes on the seven-o’clock news. Now, it’s barely a couple of seconds.… But I appreciate your concern. Especially since I told you to go to hell the last time we talked.”

“I gather you won’t give me a return-trip ticket.”

“No, I won’t, Andy. You’re doing a lot of damage. I’m only a minor—and temporary—casualty.”

“I hope you haven’t lulled yourself into a false sense of security.”

“That’s civilian talk. We have a different meaning for security. What is it you want to discuss that I won’t, or can’t?”

“Why you’re the all-time pariah for Roderick Bruce.”

“I’ve often wondered. An Army psychiatrist told me that I’m sort of everything Bruce wishes he was but can’t be; that he takes
his
aggression out on a typewriter.… The simpler explanation is that I stand for large D.O.D. appropriations, and that’s grist for his mill.”

“I can’t accept either. You never met him?”

“Nope.”

“You never quashed any stories he might have written from Indochina? For security—your version of it.”

“How could I? I was never in that position. And I don’t think he was there when I was operating in the field.”

“That’s right.…” Trevayne walked to the single chair in the small room and sat down. “He went gunning for you after our embassy in Saigon demanded that charges be brought against you.… Paul, please answer this; I can get the information, take my word for it. Bruce’s articles said you were charged with killing three to five men; that the CIA denied having given you the license by using the term ‘extreme dispatch’ or ‘prejudice’ or whatever the hell it’s called. Bruce has friends in every section
of the government. By implicating CIA, could you have caused the Agency to dismiss anyone? Someone he might have known?”

Bonner stared at Trevayne without answering for several moments. He raised his hand to touch the tender skin around his neck and spoke slowly. “Okay.… I’ll tell you what happened.… If only to get you off the CIA’s butt; they’ve got enough trouble. There were five slants, double agents. I killed all five. Three because they surrounded my bivouac and let loose with enough firepower to blow up an airstrip. I wasn’t inside, thanks to the CIA boys who’d alerted me. I dropped the last two at the Thai border when I caught them with North Vietnamese pouches. They were using our contact sheets and buying off the tribe leaders I’d busted my ass cultivating.… To tell you the truth, the Agency quietly got me out of the whole mess. Any implications were the result of hotheaded Army lawyers; we told them all to go to hell.”

“Then why were charges brought in the first place?”

“You don’t know Saigon politics. There was never—in history—any corruption like Saigon corruption. Two of those double agents had brothers in the Cabinet.… At any rate, you can forget CIA.”

Trevayne had removed a thin notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages. “The charges against you were made public in February. By March twenty-first, Bruce was on your back. He traveled from Danang to the Mekong Delta interviewing anyone who had business with you.”

“He talked to the wrong people. I operated in Laos, Thailand, and northern Cambodia mostly. Usually with teams of six to eight, and they were almost exclusively Asian nonmilitary.”

Trevayne looked up from his notebook. “I thought Special Forces traveled in units; their own units.”

“Some do. Mostly I didn’t. I have a working knowledge of the Thai and Laotian languages—enough tonal understanding to get by—not Cambodian, though. Whenever I went into Cambodia I recruited, when we felt the security was tight enough. It usually wasn’t. Once or twice
we had to scour our own people to come up with someone we could train in a hurry.”

“Train for what?”

“To stay alive. We weren’t always successful. A case in point was Chung Kal.…”

They talked for fifteen minutes longer, and Trevayne knew he had found what he was looking for.

Sam Vicarson could put the pieces together.

Sam Vicarson rang the door chimes at Trevayne’s rented home in Tawning Spring. Phyllis answered and greeted Sam with a firm handshake.

“Glad you’re out of the hospital, Mrs. Trevayne.”

“If that’s meant to be funny, I won’t get you a drink.” Phyllis laughed. “Andy’s downstairs, he’s expecting you.”

“Thanks. I really am glad you’re out.”

“I never should have gone in. Hurry up; your chairman’s anxious.”

Downstairs in the recreation-room-turned-office, Trevayne was on the telephone, sitting in a chair, listening impatiently. At the sight of Vicarson, his impatience heightened. In words bordering on rudeness, he extricated himself from the conversation.

“That was Walter Madison. I wish I hadn’t promised to play fair. His partners don’t want the Bonner case, even if it means losing me as a client; which Walter told them, of course, it wouldn’t.”

“There’s such a thing as changing your mind.”

“I might do that. Their reasoning’s fatuous. They respect the prosecution’s case and have none for the defendant.”

“Why is that fatuous?”

“They haven’t heard, nor do they wish to hear, the defendant’s story. They don’t want to get involved; clients to protect, including me.”

“That’s fatuous.… However, I think we can turn the hysterical newshound into an enthusiastic character witness for the maligned Major; that is, if we want to. The least we can do is shut him up.”

“Bruce?”

“In lavender spades.”

Vicarson’s research had been accomplished with comparative ease. The man’s name was Alexander Coffey. The Asian Affairs Bureau at the Pentagon—that is, the officer in charge at A.A.B.—recalled that Roderick Bruce
had
brought to his attention Coffey’s background. And A.A.B. had been happy to catch the Ph.D. Far East scholars were hard to come by. The officer was, of course, saddened about the Chung Kal operation, but apparently some good had come out of it. At least, that’s what he’d been told. It was always dangerous to put a research analyst into a combat situation.… He gave Coffey’s file to Sam.

Vicarson had then gone to the Smithsonian Far East Archives. The head archivist there remembered Coffey clearly. The young man was a brilliant scholar but an obvious homosexual. It had surprised the archivist that Coffey hadn’t used his deviation to avoid being drafted, but since his future would be involved with foundations, and foundations were conservative organizations, by and large, the Smithsonian assumed Coffey didn’t want the proof on record. Also, the archivist had the suspicion that Coffey knew someone who could steer him into a pleasant military assignment. The man had heard that Coffey was stationed in Washington, and so presumed his suspicions were correct. He obviously didn’t know about Coffey’s death at Chung Kal, and Vicarson did not bother to tell him. The archivist showed him Coffey’s identification card. On it was an address on 21st Street, Northwest, and the name of a roommate.

As Vicarson learned, a former roommate.

The roommate still blamed the “rich-bitch” Coffey had moved in with for Alex’s death. Alex never told him who it was, but “he came around often enough—to get away from that awful glutton.” Alexander Coffey “came around” in new clothes, a new car, and new jewelry. He also came with news that his benefactor had arranged the perfect “situation” in the Army that wouldn’t require even one day of barracks, one day out of Washington. A simple exchange of clothes for the daytime, and the uniform would be custom-made in soft flannel. It was, according to Alex, the “perfect solution” for his career. Even an Army commission thrown into the bargain. What foundation could
refuse him? And then he was “hijacked,” probably “betrayed” by the “rich-bitch.”

Vicarson had heard enough. He drove out to Arlington and saw Paul Bonner.

Bonner remembered Coffey. He had respected him; liked him, actually. The young man had an extraordinary knowledge of the north Cambodian tribes and came up with ingenious suggestions as to how to implement religious symbols in initial contacts. A bold method of operation never considered before.

One aspect of Coffey’s joining the unit stood out in Bonner’s memory. The man was totally soft, completely alien to the demands that would be made upon him in the hills. Probably a faggot, too. As a result of this knowledge, Bonner drove him hard, relentlessly. Not that six weeks would make up for a lifetime, but perhaps enough could be instilled to help him in a pinch.

But it hadn’t been enough, and Coffey was captured in a “scramble.” Bonner blamed himself for not having been tougher with the scholar; but as a professional, he couldn’t dwell on it. He could only learn from it. If the situation ever arose again, where such a man was assigned to him, he’d be unmerciful. Then, perhaps the man might survive.

“There it is, Mr. Trevayne. Lover-didn’t-come-back-to-me.”

Trevayne winced. “Really, Sam. It’s very sad.”

“Sure as hell is. But it’s also enough to throw Bruce out of the box. I happen to
like
Paul Bonner; I don’t give a shit for that cocksucker. I use the word with legal expertise, sir.”

“I’m sure you do. Now, just hold it on a front burner and we’ll consider all our options.”

“Look, if you’re reluctant to get into this gutter, Mr. Trevayne, I’m
not
. I mean, it’s not very nice for someone like you, but I’m just a wandering legal genius who has no roots. Just influential employers who, I trust, will not forget my contributions.… Let me kick him in the balls; I’d love it.”

“You’re impossible, Sam.”

“Your wife once told me I reminded her of you. Best
compliment I ever had.… You shouldn’t do it. It’s my job.”

“My wife is an incurable romantic when it comes to energetic young men. And it’s not your job. It’s nobody’s at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“Because Roderick Bruce isn’t acting alone. He’s being fed. He’s not flying solo, Sam. He’s got confederates; right among the people Paul Bonner thinks are his enthusiastic supporters.”

Vicarson lifted his glass as Phyllis Trevayne walked down the stairs and entered the room. “Wow, that’s a wrinkle.”