Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Tyson stopped laughing and took a step toward her. “Who’s uptight?”

  “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 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.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Thomas Berg said, “Change of venue, gentlemen. I trust this suits you.” Berg motioned around the small, tastefully decorated room in the Victorian-style Old 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 Executive 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 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 may be on the way. Also, no one in the U.N. has raised the issue as yet.”

  Van Arken interjected, “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—that’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 that you can proceed as you are now with informal meetings and research, until you feel there is substance to these allegations.”

  Berg looked toward Van Arken. The General shook his head and offered, “We are right now in a tenuous legal position.”

  Neither Truscott nor Berg replied.

  Van Arken expanded on his opinion. “You must understand that a recall to duty would place Mr. Tyson not only under the jurisdiction of the Uniform Code of Military Justice but under its protection as w
ell. As you noted in our first meeting, Mr. Truscott, the Army cannot court-martial a civilian. So, by extension, the Army cannot investigate a civilian. Such an investigation by my office or the Army Criminal Investigation Division would certainly be a violation of the man’s civil rights.”

  Berg nodded to himself. Clearly, Van Arken had thought this out. Clearly, too, Van Arken was making a power play. Berg turned to Truscott.

  Peter Truscott was rubbing his chin. “Well, this is difficult. . . . Perhaps the White House could order my office or the FBI to begin an investigation, then we could pass the findings on to the JAG—”

  Van Arken interrupted, “I cannot accept the fruits of a civilian investigation in a case like this. Gentlemen, if you want this case killed or weakened because of procedural errors, then you are doing a fine job of it.”

  Berg glared at Van Arken for a few seconds but said nothing. Obviously, they’d reached an impasse.

  Van Arken said suddenly, “I suspect that the White House doesn’t want Mr. Tyson in uniform.”

  Berg stood and poured himself some mineral water. “Well, they see that as a point of no return.”

  “We’ve already reached and passed that point. Read the newspapers.”

  Berg ignored this and continued, “Also, from a legal point of view, wouldn’t it be prejudicial to Mr. Tyson if he was recalled to duty before we even assembled the facts? It seems to me that would be premature and ominous. Truscott?”

  Truscott answered, “Well . . . no more so than if a suspect were extradited from a foreign country. The government has to take certain steps in some cases to establish its jurisdiction. That shouldn’t be construed as a presumption of guilt.”

  Berg remained standing and sipped on his mineral water. His eyes unconsciously went to the window, and he stared at the White House. He looked away and said, “Well, if we do that—recall Tyson to duty—it will make every newspaper in the country. I’d still like to retain the option of keeping a lid on this.” He turned to Van Arken. “Let’s address the human element. What if Tyson spends six months or a year in the Army and it turns out he’s innocent? You can’t fool around with a man’s life like that because of unfounded suspicions. Why can’t we let this man go about his daily life until we are more certain there is reason to put him back in uniform?”

  Van Arken replied, “I told you why. And I don’t think Mr. Tyson is going about his daily life. A recall might be merciful. I’m human, too.”

  Berg snapped, “An Army induction notice in the mail is about as welcome and merciful as a public health notice regarding your last sexual partner.”

  Truscott chuckled.

  Van Arken’s normally florid face turned redder. He moved to the center of the room, as though he were on the verge of walking out. He seemed to be trying to control his voice as he spoke. “We have sufficient information to suspect that a crime has been committed. We have a suspect. We either take steps to bring the suspect under our jurisdiction, or we drop the case. But keep in mind that if we turn our backs on two hundred alleged victims, as Tyson apparently did at the time, then we are as guilty as he is.” Van Arken added ominously, “We can probably count on appearing before a congressional inquiry.”

  Berg exhaled a long breath and said, “I’ll speak to the President personally about what we’ve discussed.”

  Van Arken, still standing, said, “Why don’t you ask the President to sign an order as Commander in Chief recalling Tyson? It would be less subject to challenge than an Army-directed recall.”

  Berg’s tone was sharp. “General, you know damned well the President does not want to do that. This is purely an Army affair, as we all agree. So let’s leave the President out of it. This is a simple murder trial, not an international incident, all right? Now, how long do you think it will take the Army to get Tyson back in the saddle?”

  Van Arken drew a short breath, then replied curtly, “I can’t prophesy that. It depends on how hard Tyson fights the recall order.”

  Truscott added, “He can fight it all the way up to the Supreme Court.”

  Berg sat back in his chair. He wondered if a long legal battle over recall and jurisdiction would be such a bad thing. It would take the pressure off the executive branch and put it into the judiciary where it belonged.

  Truscott seemed to sense what Berg was thinking. He said, “We can contact Tyson’s attorneys or even Tyson directly.”

  Berg looked at him. “Why?”

  “Sometimes,” said Truscott, “the direct approach is best. If we inform him or his attorney that a recall was being considered in order for us to proceed with an investigation, we might get some indication of how he intends to . . . respond.”

  Berg glanced at Van Arken.

  Truscott added, “If I were Tyson’s attorney, I’d urge him to try to make a deal. In exchange for not challenging a recall order, I’d ask the Judge Advocate General’s office for . . . well, something.” He turned to Van Arken. “What would you offer?”

  “Nothing.”

  Berg said, “Well, you’d offer him a fair court-martial, wouldn’t you?” Berg wondered about Van Arken’s actual motivations in pursuing this so aggressively. Berg had researched the General’s psyche and philosophy, and on the surface the man appeared to be a staunch moralist and law-and-order advocate. Privately, he led a rather austere life, was unmarried, and lived in Army housing. It was rumored he owned two civilian suits: summer wool and winter wool. Both blue.

  Berg stood. “All right, gentlemen, before we adjourn, I’d like to make a personal comment, and it is this: To some degree, society feels a shared sense of guilt and culpability with their armed forces that they don’t feel with the common criminal. So, if we eventually court-martial, convict, and imprison Benjamin Tyson, we should not expect to be national heroes.”

  Van Arken’s jaw hardened. “I’m not concerned with my popularity in the Army. And I’m not running for public office.”

  Truscott stood. “Well, let’s not have a row over this.” He turned to Berg. “Basically, the General is correct, and you ought to tell that to the President. Cover-ups don’t work anymore. I’d rather do something unpopular than face a charge of conspiracy.”

  Berg nodded in agreement. “I’m not suggesting a cover-up. I’m suggesting we balance whatever good a court-martial would do against the harm it will cause the nation.”

  Van Arken replied, “If we don’t—or can’t—see this through, then the system will have failed. And I can’t think of a greater harm to a nation founded on law than that its justice system should fail—except perhaps that its public officials should have failed to try. I think, too, that if Mr. Tyson were in this room and he were objective, he’d agree.”

  Berg smiled without humor. “Benjamin Tyson is fighting for his life, and he is not going to be objective. He is going to cause his government and his country great embarrassment. And I don’t blame him.” Berg picked up his attaché case. “This is going to open old wounds, and those wounds will run with fresh blood. That fucking war is going to come home again. God help us.” Berg turned toward the door. “Meeting adjourned.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  At 7:30 on a Tuesday morning, Benjamin Tyson walked into the clubhouse of the Garden City Golf Club, known unofficially as the Men’s Club. The present building had been erected in 1899, the same year the women had been invited to leave, and the premises had developed, thought Tyson, that unique, ripe flavor peculiar to masculine establishments. Women, however, were invited to play the course once a year, though few availed themselves of this dubious honor.

  Tyson surveyed the lounge area and saw a few men playing poker dice around a coffee table. He walked on, passed down the length of the bar, and entered the cathedral-ceilinged dining room. He walked through the room, nodded to a few people at the breakfast tables, and exited onto the rear terrace.

  Phillip Sloan sat at a small round table under a blue-striped umbrella, reading a newspaper. Tyson took the chair opposi
te. Sloan looked up. “Good morning.” He poured Tyson a cup of coffee from a pewter pot.

  “Thanks.” Tyson drank the coffee black. He observed that Sloan’s golfing attire contained all three primary colors, plus orange. Tyson looked out across the fairway. Men in bright plumage performed the repetitive rituals of ball and club. A hundred years before, when these acres had been pristine glacial outwash, the Carteret Gun Club had set up pigeon shoots, massacring a thousand birds at a shoot. And the Meadow Brook Hunt Club had also galloped through from time to time, hounds barking, horn blaring: “the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.” Golf was tamer, but so were the times.

  Golf was not Tyson’s favorite sport, and neither was bird shooting or fox hunting. But he felt somehow that these Elysian fields had been sanctified by a century of hedonism; that regardless of what social changes enlightened the world and defined American democracy, there ought to be a few acres set aside for gentlemen to make asses of themselves. At least until the next glacier came through.

  Sloan looked up from his newspaper, apparently just noticing that his companion was wearing a suit. “I thought you were going to play a round with me?”

  “No, I’m catching the eight-forty-two. So let’s wrap it up by eight-thirty.”

  Sloan seemed disappointed, then regarded Tyson thoughtfully. He said, “What is your status there?”

  Tyson poured himself more coffee. “Where? On the eight-forty-two?”

  “Your job.”

  Tyson sipped on his coffee. Women, he noticed, alluded to the strains on his marriage. Men usually inquired about his job. Nearly no one was solicitous of his psyche. Tyson replied, “Hard to say, Phil. I mean, on the one hand you have the famous Japanese paternalism. On the other hand you have Japanese efficiency. I’m not very efficient these days. Added to that is the Nipponese obsession with appearances, face, and that sort of thing. I embarrass them.” He smiled and added, “As a former samurai who has been disgraced, I should take the honorable way out. But American managers haven’t yet embraced Japanese necrophilia.”