Word of Honor (11 page)

She let out a shallow breath. "Ready for bed?"

"Not yet. I was thinking . . . it must have been the neighbors. I mean the Life magazine picture. The media didn't

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stumble on that by accident. You weren't even identified by name in the original caption."

Marcy swirled the orange liqueur around the glass. "Actually, Ben, I tipped them off. I was tired of you getting all the press."

Tyson smiled. "I thought a good PR person is supposed to stay out of the spotlight."

Marcy raised the glass to her lips. "Well, I have an ego, too." She drank.

"It had to be someone in town. But why would anyone do that? I mean, what is gained by dragging you into this mess?"

Marcy leaned back against the sink. "People are petty, envious, and nuts.

I thought everyone knew that."

"I thought you believed in the basic goodness of people. Brothers and sisters and all."

"I do believe in that. Sincerely and passionately. Nevertheless, an awful lot of people are flaming assholes." She finished her drink.

Tyson stared out the kitchen window. There was a light on in the bunroom of the Thompson house, and he could see their daughter Ginny, seventeen, parading around in her bra and panties. He saw a figure approach the sunroom. The French doors opened, and the figure entered. The lights went out.

Marcy glanced out the window. "Ginny?"

"Right. "

"Did you rendezvous like that when you were a horny little guy?"

"Damn right. I knew every backyard and fence in this town. "

Marcy laughed. "God, it was different in the city. We used to neck a little in the parks, and sometimes if it got serious we'd go to the roof of our building. The boiler room, in the winter. "

"Peasant." Tyson walked to the refrigerator and opened it. "This is all pussy food. Yogurt, lettuce, strawberries.

He closed the door.

Marcy spoke. "Two incidents. Hue and Griffith Park, occurring about the same time. What did the New York Post say? Something about the irony of Marcy making love while

82 * NELSON DEMILLE

Ben made war. Christ, give me a break. " She smiled. "You know you've arrived when the papers start calling you by your first name. And as a journalism major and a public relations lady, I can tell you, Mr. Tyson, you ain't seen nothin' yet." She finished her second Grand Marnier, and Tyson noticed her eyes had taken on a glazed duck A Forange look.

Tyson sat on his stool at the breakfast counter. "Funny, I haven't had that nightmare since this began."

"Why should you? You're living it. 'Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, a naked runner lost in a storm of spears.' Arthur Symons. "

She filled his half-empty coffee cup with Grand Marnier.

"Thanks," Tyson said to his wife. "We have got to get David out of here as soon as the school term is finished. The kid must be going through hell, but he hasn't said a word. "

Marcy nodded.

Tyson sipped on his coffee, laced with orange liqueur. David, he knew, had been aware of the infamous photograph long before this. In fact, about a year before, Tyson had found David sitting on the floor of the den with the original Life magazine spread out on his lap, staring at the picture of his mother.

Tyson had chosen not to let the incident pass without comment. Some days later, he'd sat David down and given him a brief sociological lecture on the Age of Aquarius. It was odd, he'd thought, that a middle-aged man had to defend his generation's looser morality to a teenager. But morality, like war and peace, was cyclical. Victorians did not approve of the morality, clothing, or literature of the Georgian age that preceded theirs.

David's gener-ation, while certainly not prigs, were nevertheless not quite as loose as their parents once were.

David had listened, nodded understanding, but something told Tyson that the boy did not approve, not only of the nude picture but of his parents'

life-style.

Tyson realized that he himself affected a certain sophistication regarding the photograph, Marcy's past in general, and the marital relationship.

Marcy had once observed to friends, "Ben has become more liberal and less inhibited,

WORD OF HONOR e 83

and I've become more conservative in my middle age. That's the story of the nineteen eighties." ,

Tyson understood, too, that he was titillated by Marcy's past, as well as by her present job, which brought her into close contact with successful men. There were the business trips, the breakfasts, lunches, late dinners, late office nights, and the publicity events. There were ample grounds for jealousy, and in fact there had been some rather intense discussions on occasions when Marcy had staggered home in the small hours of the morning.

The one thing this marriage did not suffer from was boredom. He said to her, "You're handling this well. And you're right. You don't need this."

She poured a third drink. Her voice was slightly slurred. "For better or for worse. That's what the hell it's all about. " She thought a moment, then added, "You're handling it quite well, too. I . . . I always respected you . . . but there were times . . . you know, when I felt you were wishy-washy. I guess I promoted that . . . I never wanted to emasculate you . .

. never. . . . And I'm glad to see you show real balls . . . I mean, adversity builds character, right? We all need a little stress to feel alive . . . it can strengthen us and our marriage . . . but too much stress and strain . . . " She tipped the glass back, drank, and suppressed a belch. "I don't know."

Tyson nodded. Marcy, he knew, was a self-assured woman. And she was alive, and where there was life there were problems.

He looked at her. "I just remembered that time I brought Kimura, Saito, and their wives here for dinner. And you served them take-out Chinese food from the containers."

Marcy said innocently, "Did I fuck up?"

Tyson smiled.

"You never said a word about it. " She grinned. "I served the shit with chopsticks, for Christ's sake." She added in an injured tone, "And I made up that neat drink out of sake and bourbon. The Hiroshima Bomber. Everybody liked it."

Tyson laughed.

"Don't laugh at me, you pompous, uptight twit."

Tyson stopped laughing and took a step toward her. "Who's uptight?"

84 0 NELSON DEMILLE

"You, you stuffy, anal-compulsive-"

He seized her by the shoulders, lifted her in the air, and laid her out on the breakfast bar, amid the coffee cups, sugar cubes, and newspaper.

"What the hell are you doing, Tyson?"

"I'm going to fuck you, lady."

"Here?"

"Here." He unzipped her skirt and pulled it with her panties down around her ankles, over her sandals, and threw the bunched clothing on the floor.

"Spread your legs."

She spread her legs, knocking cups and ashtrays off the counter. Tyson slipped his shorts off and lifted himself onto the counter between her thighs. Without any preliminaries, he mounted her, finding her wet and receptive.

Marcy extended her arms and clutched the edges of the counter.

Tyson's thrusts were short and rapid, but he found his knees had no traction on the smooth countertop. He rocked back on his haunches. "Turn over."

Marcy flipped herself onto her stomach, then rose to her hands and knees.

Tyson clutched her shoulders and entered her from behind, ramming hard a dozen times in quick succession. Marcy slid forward, and her head rested against the splashboard. The counter shook, and the sugar bowl vibrated over the edge and crashed to the floor, followed by the milk pitcher.

Marcy spread her knees farther apart and lowered her head, looking back between her hanging breasts at Tyson's sliding penis and dangling testicles.

Tyson came suddenly, withdrew, and hopped back off the counter. He slapped her buttocks and strode out of the kitchen, calling back, "Clean up that mess."

Marcy remained motionless for a full minute, feeling the wetness running over her thighs, dripping onto the breakfast counter. Slowly, she lowered herself to the floor and surveyed the debris. Still naked from the waist down, she swept the milk and sugar together with the smashed ceramic, then knelt and pushed the mess into a dustpan with a sponge. She stood and began wiping the breakfast bar, wet with milk and splattered sperm.

Marcy stopped suddenly and stared down at the glistening WORD OF HONOR * 85

streaks along the brown plastic counter. She felt humiliated and used. But tonight that was how she was supposed to feel. That was part of their sexual repertoire; Marcy taunts Ben, Ben treats Marcy like chattel. The acting out of a common sexual fantasy. And she enjoyed that submissive role about once a month. But this time there was something different . . . something was wrong. . . . Tears came to her eyes, and her hands shook as she continued wiping the counter.

Thomas Berg said, "Change of venue, gentlemen. I trust this

CHAPTER suits you." Berg mo-

tioned around the

small, tastefully dec

orated room in the

Victorian-styleOld

Executive Office

Building. Berg added,

"We are getting closer

to the White House,

physically as well as

metaphysically." He nodded toward the window at the Ex ecutive Mansion a few hundred yards to the east.

Berg lowered himself into a wingback chair. General Van Arken sat in a suede upholstered chair near the window. Peter Truscott, from the Attorney General's office, sat by himself on a leather couch. Absent were the representatives of the departments of Defense and of the Army. Berg explained, "We're limiting our options, so we're limiting our membership in this group to us three."

The air-conditioning in the hundred-year-old building was 86

WORD OF HONOR e 87

balky, and the east-facing room was warmed by the late morning sun. Truscott and Berg had slipped off their jackets and loosened their ties. Van Arken kept his green tunic on, and as per regulations, it was fully buttoned. Berg felt warm just looking at the man. He thought that the military had developed discomfort as a separate art form. A tray of carbonated mineral waters sat on the coffee table along with a bucket of ice and glasses.

Berg cleared his throat. "All right, at our first meeting, we discovered we had a potential problem. By our second meeting last week, General Van Arken's prophecy of media attention seemed to be coming true. General, any other prophecies?"

Van Arken sat forward. "I have no crystal ball, Mr. Berg. But I am in closer contact with the real world than the people over there are." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the White House.

Berg nodded. "Perhaps." He thought a moment, then said, "The President has a press conference scheduled in three weeks. This subject will come up unless it is ruled out beforehand. But the press doesn't like that. The President can, of course, take cover behind the fact that it would be improper to comment on a possible legal matter. But we'd like him to be able to say something more substantial than that." Berg looked at the two men. "We'll think about that. "

The room fell silent, and Truscott helped himself to a glass of sparkling water. Outside on the White House South Lawn, a helicopter was landing, and the muted sound of the rotor blades penetrated the stillness of the small sunlit room.

Berg addressed Van Arken. "Another of your prophecies has come true, General. To wit: The State Department has, this week, received inquiries from the ambassadors of France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and Australia, asking what is being done to investigate the alleged murders of their nationals by American forces in Vietnam, and so forth. " Berg paused, then continued, "I am happy to report, however, that the Swiss ambassador, who as you know unofficially handles the affairs of Hanoi here, has not received any such note from the People's Republic intended for us. But that 88 * NELSON DEMILLE

may be on the way. Also, no one in the U.N. has raised the issue as yet.

"

Van Arken intedected, "It would be hypocritical in the extreme for Hanoi to attempt any propaganda from this, considering what their own troops did at Hue."

Berg shrugged. "My theory is that Hanoi will let the countries involved and the Catholic Relief Agency make problems for us." Berg looked at Truscott. "Anyway, between our first and second meetings, General Van Arken contacted the Army Records Center at Fort Leonard Wood, and we believe now that no one who was in Tyson's platoon at the time of the alleged massacre is still in the military. So, based on that, we agreed that it would be best to offer the former enlisted men in that platoon immunity from prosecution in exchange for sworn testimony."

Peter Truscott responded, "As in the Calley trial, you have to let the small fish go, in order to land the big one." Truscott added, "Anyway, it's nearly impossible to recall enlisted men to duty. Tyson, as an ex-officer, is an easier catch. Correct?"

Van Arken said nothing, but Berg could see he was unhappy.

Truscott said, "Incidentally, I made some discreet inquiries at the Nassau County Clerk's office--4hat's the county where Tyson lives. It appears that Tyson has not initiated a libel suit against Picard or the book publisher."

Berg said, "What can we construe from that?"

Truscott shrugged. "Any one of a dozen things." He thought a moment, then said, "Sometimes I try to put myself in Tyson's place. . . . I wonder what I would do."

Berg smiled. "I'd think about it in Brazil."

Truscott smiled, too, then said seriously, "I believe that Tyson, like us, is playing a waiting-hoping game. And, like us, he doesn't know what he's waiting for or hoping for. And, like us, he's frightened."

Berg nodded slowly. After some time he said, "Well, that brings us to our next order of business-Mr. Tyson himself. How far can we delve into this case before it becomes necessary to recall Mr. Tyson to duty? Mr. TrusCott?"

Truscott replied, "The Attorney General's office feels WORD OF HONOR 0 89

that you can proceed as you are now with informal meetings and research, until you feel there is substance to these allegations. "