But his deferment was ended; Alex was taken into the Army, and Roderick Bruce dared not interfere—although the temptation nearly drove him insane. Instead, Alex was commissioned because Rod Bruce did point out to certain military personnel that Alex’s background could be put to good use in the Pentagon-based Asian Affairs Bureau. It seemed as though their life would go on—quietly, lovingly. Then, suddenly, without planning, without prior knowledge, without warning, Alex was told he had four hours to gather his belongings—no more than sixty-five pounds—straighten out whatever personal affairs he had, and report to Andrews Air Force Base.
He was being flown across the world to Saigon.
No one would tell him why. And Roderick Bruce, frightened for himself and his lover, overcame his fears and tried to find out what had happened.
It was too classified even for him.
And then Alex’s letters started to arrive. He was part of an intelligence team in training for some sort of trip into the northeastern areas. He had been told that they needed an American interpreter—they couldn’t trust the local agents and feared ARVN leaks—preferably a man with some knowledge of the religious habits and superstitions of the people. The computers had come up with his name; that’s the way the commander of the unit had put it. A major named Bonner, who was nothing short of a maniac. Alex knew this Bonner despised him. “He’s a repressed you-know-what.” The Major drove Alex incessantly, was unrelenting in his harassment, brutal in his insults.
Then the letters stopped. For weeks Roderick Bruce made the trips downtown to the post office, sometimes two and three times a day. Nothing.
And then he confirmed the horror, his horror.
The name was simply a name on the Pentagon casualty list. One of thirty-eight that week. Discreet inquiry, on the pretext of knowing the parents, uncovered the fact that Alex had been taken prisoner in Chung-Kal in northern Cambodia near the border of Thailand. It had been an intelligence operation under the command of Major Paul Bonner—one of the six men to survive the mission. Alex’s body had been found by Cambodian farmers.
He’d been executed.
And several months later the name Paul Bonner came up for another sort of scrutiny, a more public one, and Roderick Bruce knew he’d found the means to avenge his lover. His beautiful, studious, gentle lover who had opened a world of physical ecstasy to him. His lover, led to death by an arrogant major who now was being accused by his own colleagues of being a law unto himself.
The hunt began when Roderick Bruce informed his editors he was going to do a series of columns from Southeast Asia. A general covering, with, perhaps, concentration on the men in the field—a contemporary Ernie Pyle approach; no one had done that very well in Vietnam.
The editors were delighted. Roderick Bruce, reporting from Danang, or Son Toy, or the Mekong Delta, had a sound to it reminiscent of the best of vintage war reporting. It was bound to sell more papers and enhance the already superior reputation of the columnist.
It took Rod Bruce less than a month to file his first story about the Major being held incommunicado, awaiting a military court’s decision as to whether it had grounds for charges. Several other columns followed, each more damaging than its predecessor. Six weeks after he left Washington Roderick Bruce unearthed the phrase “killer from Saigon.”
He used it unmercifully.
But the military court wasn’t listening. It had orders from some other place, and Major Paul Bonner was quietly released and sent back to the States for obscure duty in the Pentagon.
The military would listen now. Three years and four months after the death of Alex, his Alex, they’d listen. And they’d comply with his demands.
36
Trevayne was annoyed that Walter Madison hesitated. He curled the telephone cord around his finger, his eyes on the folded newspaper in front of him. He kept looking at the three-column story in the lower-left corner of the front page. Its caption was simple, understated: “Army Officer Held in Slaying.”
The subheading was less restrained: “Ex-Special Forces Major Accused of Murders in Indochina Three Years Ago Charged with Brutal Killing in Connecticut.”
Madison was now muttering legalistic platitudes about caution.
“Walter, he’s being railroaded! Let’s not argue the merits; you’ll see I’m right. I just want you to say you’ll defend him, be his civilian attorney.”
“That’s a tall order, Andy. There are several preliminaries we might not overcome; have you thought of that?”
“What preliminaries?”
“To begin with, he might not want us to represent him. And, frankly, I’m not sure I’d care to. My partners would object strenuously.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Andrew found himself angry; Madison was going to refuse him. For convenience. “I haven’t noticed any strenuous objecting when I’ve brought you people a few hundred contract situations which were a damn sight more offensive than defending an innocent man. A man, incidentally, who saved my life, thus allowing me to continue to provide you with retainers. Do I make myself clear?”
“In your usual forthright manner.… Calm down, Andy. You were on the scene; you’re too close to it. I’m thinking of you. If we jump into the defense, we’re tying you to Bonner and—not incidentally—to De Spadante. I don’t think that’s wise. You do retain me to make such judgments. You may not always like them, but—”
“I don’t care about that,” interrupted Trevayne. “I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it; but it doesn’t matter. I want him to have the best.”
“Have you read Roderick Bruce’s stuff? It’s very unpleasant. So far he’s left you on the sidelines; that’s not going to be possible much longer. Even so, I’d like to keep him neutral where you’re concerned. We can’t accomplish that if we’re Bonner’s attorney.”
“For Christ’s sake, Walter. What words do I have to use? I don’t give a goddamn on that level. I really don’t; I wish you’d believe that. Bruce is a nasty little bastard with a lot of venom and a nose for blood. Bonner’s a perfect target. Nobody likes him.”
“Apparently with reason. He seems to have a capacity for implementing his own rather violent solutions. Andy, it’s not a question of likes and dislikes. It’s justified disapproval. The man’s a psychopath.”
“That’s not true. He’s been ordered into terribly violent situations. He didn’t create them.… Look, Walter, I don’t want to hire a military crusader. I want a solid firm who’s anxious to handle the job because it publicly thinks it can win an acquittal.”
“That could very well disqualify us.”
“I said ‘publicly’; I don’t give a damn what you think personally. You’ll change your mind when you’ve got the facts; I’m sure of that.”
There was a pause. Madison exhaled audibly into the telephone. “What facts, Andy? Are there really any supportable facts that disprove the charge that Bonner stabbed the man without so much as determining who he was or what he was doing there? I’ve read the newspaper accounts and Bruce’s columns. Bonner admits to the accusations. The only mitigating circumstance is his claim that he was protecting you. But from what?”
“He was shot at! There’s an Army car with bulletholes in the door and through the glass.”
“Then you haven’t read Bruce’s follow-ups. That car had one bullet mark in the windshield and three in the door pane. They very well could have been put there with a revolver owned by Bonner. The man denies he had a gun.”
“That’s a lie!”
“I’m not a fan of Bruce, but I’d be reluctant to call him a liar. His facts are too specific. You know, of course, he ridicules Bonner’s statement that the guards were removed.”
“Also a lie.… Wait a minute.… Walter, is all that stuff—Paul’s statements, the car, the patrols—is that public?”
“How do you mean?”
“Is it public information?”
“It’s easily pieced together from charges and defense statem
ents. Certainly no problem for an experienced reporter. Especially someone like Bruce.”
“But Paul’s Army counsel hasn’t held any press conferences.”
“He wouldn’t have to. Bruce wouldn’t need them.”
Trevayne forgot for a moment his argument with Walter Madison. He was suddenly concerned with Roderick Bruce. With an aspect of the diminutive columnist that he hadn’t thoroughly considered before. Trevayne had thought Bruce was after Paul Bonner for some mythical conspiratorial theory associated with right-wing politics, Paul being the symbol of the military fascist. But Bruce hadn’t pursued that line of attack. Instead, he’d isolated Bonner, concentrated on the specifics related to the Connecticut incident alone. There were allusions to Indochina, to the murders in the field; but that was all, just allusions. No conspiracy, no Pentagon guilt, no philosophical implications. Just Major Paul Bonner, the “killer from Saigon,” let loose in Connecticut.
It wasn’t logical, thought Trevayne as his mind raced, knowing Madison expected him to speak. Bruce had the ammunition to go after the Pentagon hard-liners, the men who ostensibly issued orders to someone like Paul Bonner. But he hadn’t; he hadn’t even speculated on Bonner’s superiors.
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.
Scruff Page 36
