Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “Don’t rule out the sexual deviates.”

  She looked at him sternly. “Anyway, I’m not available. Yet.”

  Tyson sat up straighter. He said, “It’s best if you get used to not having me around . . . I mean, beyond the question of our recent problems is the possibility that I’ll be in some sort of . . . custody for some time . . . so it’s best if you get used to—”

  “I want you here for just that reason. I want you to be with your family until this is resolved.”

  Tyson didn’t respond.

  Marcy drew a deep breath, then said, “Look, Ben, I understand why you left. Your wife became an embarrassment, the locker-room talk got smutty, people were laughing behind your back. So you did what all self-centered males do. You said, ‘Look, guys, I left the slut.’ Is that about it?”

  Tyson said unconvincingly, “I told you your past is your business. My past is not. I left to save you embarrassment.”

  “Bullshit.” Still standing beside the bed, she leaned closer to him. “How do you feel about me? In your heart?”

  “I love you.”

  “Then fuck the world, and especially fuck the past. Let’s go away from here.”

  Tyson shook his head. “I have orders to report to Fort Hamilton day after tomorrow.”

  “Don’t. Do you still have your passport?”

  “Yes—”

  “Then go, for God’s sake. Go while you can. I’ll tie up all the financial ends here. Give Phil power of attorney. We can clear a nice sum on our house. David and I will join you in a few months.”

  “Where do you propose I go?”

  “Who cares? Anyplace where they’ll leave us alone.”

  “I’m an American. This is my country.”

  She snorted. “The last refuge of a patriot is somewhere without extradition.”

  Tyson smiled grimly. He stared at Marcy awhile, and their eyes met. He said, “Fight or flight? That is the question. I think I’d rather fight.”

  She sat again on the edge of the bed. “Let me ask you something. If I was the one who was facing a jail term, would you consider leaving the country with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m willing to go with you. You’re not dragging me. I’m suggesting it. I won’t ever hold it against you.”

  “Easy to say now.”

  “Ben, why are you staying?”

  “I’m optimistic. I think I can win.”

  “You once said to me, on the day this began, that this will be the Army’s game, with their rules. That was good insight. Don’t forget you said that.”

  “I’ve come to respect military justice now that I see it and remember it.”

  “You know what I think? I think the Army has already sent a memo to the commander of Leavenworth instructing him on the sort of accommodations they want for you.”

  Tyson cleared his throat. He replied, “Well, if that happens, when I get out I’ll have paid my debt to society. And I can live a normal life.”

  “What society? This society doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what you did or didn’t do in some benighted non-country over two decades ago. Half the nation doesn’t care if you’re guilty or not, and the other half is ecstatic that you bagged a hundred gooks in one day.”

  “No, that’s not my country you’re talking about.”

  She looked at him curiously, then replied, “I’m afraid it is. It’s poor Picard’s blood the country wants, not yours.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is it? You’re out of touch.”

  “You sound like me when I was a member of the silent majority twenty years ago.”

  “I’ve woken up a bit. In fact, a curious incident happened to me about a week ago. I was in the American Hotel bar with Gloria Jordan, Melinda’s mother. Now, this is not one of your blue-collar reactionary pubs. Not at four bucks a pop. There are city people and local gentry in there. And what do you think the subject of conversation was at the bar?”

  “The resurgence or decline of the Broadway stage.”

  “No, sir. The subject was you.”

  “No kidding?”

  “And the consensus was ‘guilty, but who cares?’ Also ‘guilty with loads of extenuation and mitigation.’ A few people suggested that you might be innocent as a result of temporary insanity.”

  “There’s nothing temporary about it. I’m still married to you.”

  “One gentleman suggested you be given a medal, though he didn’t specify which one he thought appropriate.”

  “I already got the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry for that action. Let’s not overdo it.”

  “One lady seriously doubted that such a good-looking man could do anything like that.”

  “Did you get her name and phone number?”

  “Point is, Tyson, the public, if that was an accurate sampling—and I think you’d find even more support at the Sandpiper—the public thinks you’re getting a raw deal whether or not you and your soldiers murdered a hundred men, women, and children. They think Picard is a shit.”

  “Poor Picard. What were you doing in a bar?”

  “Getting drunk.”

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘Looking for my dog.’ How did you vote?”

  “I was very tempted to deliver my standard lecture on the immorality of the Vietnam War, but I remembered I couldn’t testify against my husband. So I took Gloria’s arm, and we slipped out.”

  “Before they recognized you and carried you down Main Street on their shoulders.”

  “It was very embarrassing. With Gloria there, I mean.” She rubbed her chin contemplatively, then said, “But public opinion will not get you acquitted any more than it will get Picard indicted. It’s not that kind of democracy.”

  “I guess not.”

  She glanced at her husband, then said, “Someone told me that federal agents are watching Picard’s house—to protect him. Did you know that?”

  “No. How would I know that?” But he should have known, he realized. He should have suspected that Picard’s coolness in inviting him in was a result of having some heavy artillery on call. Interesting. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not a personal problem but a national one; that there were unseen players in the wings and people like Chet Brown who entered the stage for a moment, then faded back into the shadows, and their numbers were legion. He said, “Is anyone watching us?”

  She shrugged. “If they are, it is not to protect us from an angry lynch mob. We have not been harassed by anyone except the media, and we’ve been threatened by no one. What does that tell you about your country?”

  “It tells me I am innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Yet Picard is guilty. Guilty of smearing the name of a war hero. You, my friend, like your former boss, Westmoreland, are a sacred cow. You fought for your country, you were wounded in battle, and you are being persecuted by an ungrateful Army and a biased press. Well, that is the perception. The truth, as we both know, is that the government is actually doing its job in spite of the unpopularity of its course of action. The press, for all its faults, is seeing that the government doesn’t lose its nerve.”

  Tyson said, “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, damn it.” She thought a moment, then said softly, “The test of how we feel about our convictions is whether or not we stand up for them when we are personally involved. If your case was one that I was reading about, I’d be inclined toward wanting to see you tried and convicted. But you are my husband, and I love you. So I say you ought to run, to become a fugitive from justice, because . . . because I’m afraid you may be guilty. . . .” She turned away from him, and Tyson could see she was near tears.

  He waited, then said, “Somehow I don’t see Marcy Clure Tyson aiding and abetting a suspected war criminal. But you’re right: If the suspected criminal is the man you love, then you have to make a choice. Well, lady, I’m damned flattered. But I’m not running. I’ve run and run for nearly two decades, pursued by a hundred bloody gh
osts. And they would have let me run until the day I died. That was my punishment on earth. I don’t know what they have in store for me when I finally join them, but I hope to God they are merciful when we meet.”

  “Stop it. Stop that.”

  “Well, anyway, the least I can do now is face this imperfect system of justice we’ve created. As I said, I’ve already had my punishment, and anything the Army does to me now is inconsequential.”

  “To you. Not to me.” She put a cool tone in her voice and informed him, “I will not wait for you.”

  Tyson felt a tightening in his stomach but replied lightly, “That’s my girl.”

  She added, “I will not wait for a fool.”

  He said nothing.

  Marcy lowered her head in thought, then spoke. “You said fight or flight. But there are people who do neither. People who wait for the state apparatus to knock on their door in the middle of the night—”

  “Oh, spare me your Kafka nightmares. I have enough nightmares of my own. This is America. The only people who knock on your door here in the middle of the night are drunks. And I’m not waiting like a paralyzed rabbit. I’m fighting.”

  “In your mind perhaps. But no one else sees any sign of it. Phil Sloan—”

  “Fuck him.”

  She drew away from him and said, “Why are you optimistic? Has Major Harper said anything?”

  Harper’s name caught him by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. He said, “Well, no. But I have a feel for the Army’s case against me. It isn’t strong. I think she may recommend that no charges be forwarded.”

  “Do you?” Marcy stood, went to the dresser, and opened the top drawer. She moved some underclothes aside and took out a newspaper. “I didn’t want this lying around for David to see.” She held up a copy of the American Investigator. “Have you seen this one?”

  “Actually the supermarket was out of them. I bought toilet paper instead.”

  She laid the newspaper across his knees. “I know it’s a rag, but this stuff seems to find its way into more respectable publications. Worse, other publications dig deeper for any grains of truth.”

  Tyson looked at the inside page to which she had opened. The story was headlined: Splitsville for Tysons? A subline announced: Major Karen Harper Not the Cause, Say Friends. Very sly, thought Tyson.

  Tyson looked at the head-and-shoulders photo of himself and Marcy together. They were wearing evening clothes, and both had rather silly smiles. Tyson recognized it as the photo taken at the hospital charity ball. There was also a photograph of Karen in uniform, probably an Army PR handout.

  Marcy said, “Can I get you something?”

  Tyson looked up. “How about a glass of ice water?”

  Marcy left.

  Tyson scanned the article. He read a few lines at random: Marcy has taken up residence on the chic East End of Long Island, while Ben is living in a bachelor pad on Manhattan’s fashionable East Side. Friends say they are not legally separated but “just living apart.” He read another line farther down the column: He was seen having drinks with her in the cocktail lounge of Washington’s exclusive Four Seasons Hotel. A hotel spokesperson would not confirm that Tyson was registered there, but employees of the hotel said he was. We don’t know who picked up the bill for Tyson’s room or for the cocktails with Major Karen Harper, but we hope it wasn’t the taxpayer.

  “Me neither,” said Tyson aloud. “The nerve of those people flaunting their looks and money in exclusive cocktail lounges.” He read a few more lines, getting the subliminal message that the American Investigator was trying to get across, and it had less to do with the American taxpayer getting screwed than with the possibility that Tyson and Harper were getting it on. He threw the paper aside, then opened the night-table drawer and found the pack of cigarettes he’d left there. He lit one with a paper match.

  Marcy came into the room with a tray on which was a glass of ice water and a glass of white wine. She passed him the water and said, “I’m taking you to Southampton Hospital.”

  “Why? To get me neutered?”

  “That’s not a bad idea either.” She picked up the newspaper and dropped it back in the drawer. She sipped on her wine, then said, “Interesting piece.”

  Tyson shrugged.

  Marcy said, “I didn’t know that investigations for capital crimes were conducted in cocktail lounges.”

  Tyson replied, “Better than a holding cell.”

  Marcy said, “I suppose you’re trying to smooth-talk her. Turning on the charm.”

  Tyson knew there was no sarcasm or rebuke in that statement; only an appreciation of a possible explanation for his interest in Karen Harper. He said, “I’ll tell you something you’ll never read in that rag or anyplace else, and it is this: If by compromising that woman I could weaken or kill the government’s case, I still would not do it. Not to her, not to you, and not to myself.”

  Marcy nodded. “Still, the story, for what it’s worth, hints at some impropriety. You’ll see that suggestion again in the Washington Post in a more genteel form.” She added, “Anyway, if you wanted to try that route, I give you my conditional permission.” She smiled.

  “Conditional on what?”

  “Conditional on results.”

  Tyson drank most of the water.

  Marcy said in a carefully neutral tone, “Is she nice?”

  Tyson had heard that loaded question enough times to know the correct response. “From the standpoint of looks, you can see for yourself, though she’s certainly not my type. Her personality is abrasive, bitchy, and entirely too officious. Typical . . . of some people with newfound power.” He glanced at Marcy surreptitiously over the rim of his glass.

  Marcy seemed to be mulling this over, and if it had a ring of familiarity she didn’t say so. She said, “Well . . . anyway, as long as it’s only business, do what you have to do. I do in my business.” She smiled mischievously.

  Tyson put down his glass and finished his cigarette, throwing the butt in the glass. He said, “What prompted you to pay a visit to Andrew Picard?”

  Marcy shrugged. “Curiosity.” She added, “I could see his house across the cove, and one day while I was out alone in the skiff, I just came ashore in his backyard. He was cutting the grass. I introduced myself. We talked, then I left.”

  “I suppose if he lived inland that meeting never would have happened.”

  She looked across the bedroom at him. “Is that where you were tonight?”

  “Yes. And I felt damned silly finding out you’d been there. He probably thinks all the Tysons are going to drop by to check him out. Maybe I can get my mother to fly in from Florida. She’d rap him over the head with her cane.”

  “I’m allowed to call on whomever I please. This concerns me too, you know.”

  “I trust you didn’t ask him to do me any favors regarding testimony.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t.”

  “Good.” He adjusted the pillow behind his head. He didn’t like this feeling of physical disability. He could see why permanently disabled people were sometimes cantankerous. He said to her, “Picard’s testimony is not that important. So you don’t have to be nice to him if you see him downtown. You can snub him if you want.”

  “All right. But I doubt if I’ll run into him.”

  Tyson glanced at her. Her response was somewhat out of character, he thought. But perhaps his perceptions were getting cloudy with fatigue.

  Marcy sat in the dresser chair and kicked off her sandals. She regarded her toes awhile, her wineglass held in her lap.

  Tyson decided he wanted to be alone. He managed a convincing yawn. “I’m going to get some sleep. Could you shut off these lights for me?”

  Marcy remained seated. She said, “I want to speak to you about David. He’s involved with that girl.”

  “Good. She seemed nice. Great tits.”

  “I think he’s having sex with her.”

  “Terrific.”

  “That’s not
. . . I mean, how are we to react to that?”

  “Well, if we had a daughter, we’re supposed to get upset, angry, and frantic. With a son you say, ‘terrific.’”

  “You’re baiting me. And this is serious. The boy is just sixteen. Aside from any moral issues, there are practical issues here. Psychological issues.”

  “Right.” Tyson was aware that sometimes a call to perform some sort of parental duty was a spouse’s way of trying to get an errant partner back into the fold. He said, “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Well . . . no. It’s more a father-son thing.”

  Tyson said straight-faced, “What does that mean?”

  “You know. That’s something a father should discuss with his son. It would be awkward for him and me if I spoke to him about it.”

  “It might be awkward for me too if I had to ask him if he’s fucking the socks off his girlfriend. Why, by the way, do you think he is?”

  “Well . . . sometimes you can sense these things,” she said.

  “Really? How?”

  “Oh, stop being an ass, Ben. You can tell when people are doing it.”

  “Now you’re getting me nervous.”

  “Will you speak to him?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow. On the boat.”

  “We’ll see about the shark trip.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Why is this important to you?”

  “My grandmother was eaten by a shark. And on the subject of sex, close the door.”

  Marcy hesitated, then stood and moved to the door. “I thought you were tired.”

  “I was, but you were talking dirty.”

  She smiled. “Get Melinda Jordan off your mind, Tyson.” She closed the door and moved toward the bed. “Do you want to see really great tits?”

  Tyson pulled off the robe and threw it on the floor. “Do you want to see my war wound?”

  Marcy smiled slowly as she unzippered the jumpsuit and pulled it down to her waist. Her white breasts stood erect from her dark bronze torso.