Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  Tyson remained still. The distance between him and Brown was about ten feet, or about five feet too many according to his old hand-to-hand combat manual.

  Brown snapped, “Get up there.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Brown said coolly, “I want to help you do what you tried to in the bay. This is easier and faster than drowning, Ben. Just get up there, close your eyes, and roll back.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m talking about?”

  Tyson stared at Brown. “I didn’t try to commit suicide, you asshole.”

  Brown seemed confused. He snapped, “Well, too bad. They really hoped you’d be honorable about it.”

  “Don’t talk to me about honor. If you want me dead, do it yourself.”

  Brown shook his head and lowered the pistol. “At this point in time, I am authorized only to encourage you to terminate yourself. But please believe me when I tell you termination has been discussed. And if you do meet an untimely death, it will be a suicide or an accident, as happened to Mr. Harold Simcox. If you want to reach me, post a lost-and-found notice on the O Club bulletin board. ‘Found—Copy of Camus’s The Stranger—pick up at club office.’ I’ll contact you. In the meantime, keep alert, Lieutenant. You’re on patrol.”

  Tyson said, “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  Brown stuck the automatic back into the elastic band and opened the door. He looked back at Tyson. “You can call for a taxi at the main gate. Enjoy the day.”

  Tyson watched the door close, then went to it and listened to Brown’s footsteps echoing away in the damp corridor. He drew his hand from his pocket and saw it was covered with blood, and there were deep gashes in his fingers. He wrapped his handkerchief around his fingers and opened the door. The corridor was empty. He thought, With a guardian angel like that, who needs the grim reaper?

  As he walked slowly through the dark corridor, Tyson suppressed the feeling of gratitude that he was still alive, which was the feeling Brown had wanted to leave him with. He also fought back the feelings of anger and outrage; Chet Brown and company would have no effect on his emotions or decisions. Chet Brown did not exist.

  “Enjoy the day.” Oh, Christ, he thought, is that going to be the new variation of “Have a nice day”? He hoped not. Things were bad enough.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Benjamin Tyson sat across the desk from Vincent Corva.

  Corva said, “Coffee?”

  “Fine.”

  Corva spoke to his secretary over the intercom.

  Tyson regarded the small man in the morning light of the east-facing window. Corva was perhaps a few years younger than Tyson, very thin, with pale sunken cheeks and bulging eyes, giving an appearance of malnutrition. His black hair was swept back from his forehead, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, moving the knot on his tie. The suit was very much Brooks Brothers, though Tyson suspected it had needed much alteration to fit so slight a frame.

  Tyson lit a cigarette and held it clumsily with his bandaged fingers. Corva looked at the wrapped bandages but said nothing. He leaned forward, his arms on the desk, then inquired, “Who did you say referred you to me?”

  Corva’s voice, Tyson noticed, seemed much stronger and deeper than he’d expected from a man who couldn’t have weighed a hundred and forty pounds. Tyson replied, “I didn’t.”

  “Well, who did?”

  “I called the bar association, and they gave me a list.”

  “So you picked Vincent Corva because the name sounded good.”

  “Something like that.” Tyson looked around the office. It was an off-white room with acoustical ceiling tiles, gray carpet, and furniture that looked like it had been carried out of Conran’s that morning. The wall decorations were a series of sepia prints that might have been named “Great Moments in Law,” and Tyson was surprised there were more than two of them. On the windowsill sat a single plant that looked suspiciously like marijuana.

  “Basil.”

  Tyson looked at Corva. “Excuse me?”

  “Sweet basil. Smell it? Can’t get fresh basil, even in New York. Do you like pasta al pesto?”

  “Love it.”

  “You have to pick it fresh and make the sauce within fifteen minutes. Captures the essence of the basil. Makes all the difference.”

  “I’m sure of it.” Tyson was briefly nostalgic for Phillip Sloan and his woody, leathery office.

  “My father used to put a sprig behind his ear—some kind of superstition. Never got it clear though.” Corva straightened up and drew a yellow legal pad toward him. He made a notation, and Tyson wondered if it had to do with sweet basil or murder. Corva said, “The press has reported that you are on restriction. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Tyson gave him the terms of his restriction.

  Corva nodded thoughtfully. “That’s odd, because that began the ticking clock. The Army may not have time to perfect a murder case in ninety days. But someone—higher up—has ordered restriction as a means to move the Army along. I suspect the government theorizes that the longer this is unresolved, the more harm it will cause.”

  “That’s my theory, too. Can you perfect a defense within the time remaining?”

  “Well, they’ve had a few months’ jump on me, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tyson drew on his cigarette and looked over Corva’s head at the framed diplomas and various professional accreditations on the wall behind the desk. He noticed a framed color photograph of soldiers in jungle fatigues standing on a desolate plain with black smoke rising in the distance. Tyson said, “You were in Nam?”

  “Yes. Here’s my background, Mr. Tyson: I was admitted to the New York State bar in 1967 and was shortly thereafter drafted directly into the Judge Advocate General’s Corps and went to the branch school at Charlottesville. I was with the Staff Judge Advocate at Fort Benning. I used to watch the infantry OCS guys training sometimes. I never saw men pushed so hard. Then one day as I was walking past one of those full-length mirrors in the lobby of the JAG building, I saw this pale, skinny nerd with a briefcase that was pulling him over like a listing ship. So in a moment of pure lunacy, I decided I wanted to be an infantry officer.” He looked at Tyson.

  Tyson smiled and said, “Perhaps it was a moment of crystalline sanity.”

  “No one else thought so. Anyway, after months of red tape and bureaucracy, I got out of the JAG Corps and got assigned to the infantry school at Benning. I died six times during the first month of training. But I never let them know. I graduated, and shortly thereafter I shipped out for Nam and was assigned to the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division, down near Cu Chi.”

  Tyson nodded.

  “I was a platoon leader like you and saw action, and went through the Tet Offensive like you. Unlike you, I wasn’t wounded. Any questions?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “All right, on my return I was assigned to the Pentagon and performed various legal duties. Actually I was sort of a JAG mascot, and they liked to show me off—a JAG lawyer with a Combat Infantry Badge, living proof that even lawyers have balls.”

  Tyson smiled.

  Vincent Corva added, “When you’re five-six and scrawny, the infantry has a certain appeal that a man like yourself might not appreciate. I would not have been much of a warrior before gunpowder, but God gave us little squirts M-16 rifles and lightweight field gear and made us all equally deadly. But up here”—he tapped his forehead—“there are still vast differences among men. And up here is where this fight is going to take place.” He rose. “I’m going to take a piss, Mr. Tyson.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you’re not here when I come back, that’s okay, too.” Vincent Corva left his office.

  Tyson stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray. He stood and went to the framed photograph behind Corva’s desk. It was a posed shot, like a sports team, front row kneeling, back row standing. There were about forty men, armed wit
h the basic ordnance of the rifle platoon. The background appeared to be a flat, endless expanse of black ash or soot, running out to the horizon of black smoke. It was a color photograph, but there was little color in it.

  Standing in the middle of the back row was Lieutenant Vincent Corva. He looked almost comical sandwiched between two huge black men. But Tyson looked closer and saw something in Corva’s features, in his eyes, that he understood. It was not the Thousand Yard Stare, but the look of a hungry predator, a man who knows he is dangerous.

  Tyson went to the window and plucked a dark green leaf from the basil plant. He crushed the leaf between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed its unique fragrance.

  The door opened behind him, and he heard Corva say, “Smells jog the memory in a surprising way. Sweet basil always brings back my parents’ house in early fall, canning tomatoes on the sun porch.” He handed Tyson a mug of coffee. “They make coffee, but they won’t bring it anymore.”

  Tyson said, “Well, why should they?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “More reason not to.”

  Corva sat in his chair. Tyson remained standing. Corva said, “After I was released from active duty, I forgot about military law. But then came the Calley case, and I followed it closely. There is something uniquely fascinating about a court-martial. Don’t you think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You were involved with special courts-martial I assume.”

  “About a dozen.”

  “Well, I missed that—I do mostly real estate law—so I boned up on military law and got certified. I’ve done about fifteen general courts-martial in the last fifteen years.”

  “I heard of one at Fort Jackson. Army captain. Shot his wife’s lover.”

  Corva smiled.

  Tyson looked at him, wondering what sort of impression he made on a court-martial board of officers. At least, Tyson thought, Corva didn’t have shifty eyes like Phillip Sloan.

  Corva leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Tyson, we could waltz around all morning, me pretending I’m sort of interested in taking your case and you pretending you might take your business elsewhere. I don’t have time for that, and neither do you. I know every detail of this case that’s been reported and some things that haven’t been reported. Also I’ve read Picard’s book. Twice. And I want the case. And there are only two certified military lawyers as good as me on the East Coast, and I don’t remember their names. So you’re fortunate you picked me from the list the bar association gave you.”

  Tyson said, “Okay, you’re hired.”

  “Fine. I get two hundred dollars an hour. Double for courtroom time. This will cost you a small fortune.”

  “I’m broke.”

  “Who isn’t these days? Do you have a rich aunt?”

  “Lots of them. But I also have some defense fund groups here and there.”

  “I know,” replied Corva. “I’ll contact them. Or more likely they’ll contact me. Don’t worry about money. If there’s not enough of it, I’ll make up the difference. Pro bono publico. That’s Latin, not Italian. Means for the public good.” Corva stood. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” They shook hands.

  Corva said, “I don’t have time to go into any details, but the first piece of advice I’m giving you is not to speak to Major Karen Harper again. Not under any circumstances. Understood?”

  Tyson nodded.

  “I’d like to contact your personal attorney. Sloan. Garden City.”

  “Right.”

  Corva seemed deep in thought, then said, “I knew Van Arken, by the way. At the Pentagon. Not personally, but I knew of him. After My Lai hit the fan, I saw his name mentioned a few times. He’s an uncompromising son of a bitch.”

  “The whole Army, Mr. Corva, is made up of uncompromising sons of bitches. I wouldn’t want any other type of Army.”

  “Me neither. And the JAG is not much different than the infantry in that respect. There is no plea bargaining as we know it in civilian law.”

  “I’m not interested in plea bargaining.”

  “Nor am I, Mr. Tyson. But sometimes the government jumps over the Army’s head and approaches you with a deal. Has that happened to you?”

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  Corva opened the door. “Well, go meet my wife, Linda. She’s the brunette with the pink dress in the outer office. She thinks you are handsome. She’ll work hard for you, too. Sometime down the line, you and your wife will come over for dinner. In the early fall, when the sweet basil is at its best.”

  “If I’m available, I’ll be there.”

  “You’ll be available, Mr. Tyson.”

  Tyson stopped at the door and turned back to Vincent Corva. “You understand, don’t you, that a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice did take place on 15 February 1968? A violation for which there is no statute of limitations?”

  “Is that so?”

  “You understand that most of what Andrew Picard wrote in his book is true.”

  “Is what?”

  “True.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there.”

  “Were you?” He stepped closer to Tyson and lowered his voice. “Let me tell you something—let me reveal to you the one great truth about war, Mr. Tyson, and it is this: Ultimately all war stories are bullshit. From a general’s memoirs to an ex-Pfc’s boasting in a saloon, it is all bullshit. From the Iliad to the Grenada invasion, it is all bullshit. I have never heard a true war story, and I never told one, and neither have you. And if we do enter a courtroom, we will shovel the bullshit faster and higher than the Army, and by the time we are ready to walk out of there, we will all be up to our eyebrows in spent shell casings and bullshit. Don’t burden me with the truth, Mr. Tyson. I am not interested.”

  Tyson looked into Corva’s eyes. “You mean you don’t want to know what—”

  “No. What the hell do I care what happened there? When you have heard one war story, you have heard them all. Keep the details to yourself. And if I should have to ask you for a detail or two in order to form a strategy for the defense, do me a favor and bullshit me.” Corva pointed his finger at Tyson. “The only story I want from you is the cover story, my friend. The one Mr. Anthony Scorello and Mr. Paul Sadowski are putting out. You see, Mr. Tyson, I am not much of a courtroom actor, and when Brandt and Farley get on the stand and start their version of the bullshit, I want to look appropriately incredulous. You know the Japanese play Rashomon? Read it. See you tomorrow. Fort Hamilton. Buy me dinner, seven P.M. Coffee at your place. I want to meet your wife.”

  Tyson remained standing in the doorway. At length he said, “I once heard a true war story. A Confederate officer’s account of Gettysburg. He wrote, ‘We all went up to Gettysburg, the summer of sixty-three, and some of us came back from there; and that’s all except for the details.’”

  Corva smiled appreciatively. “Yes, except for the details. Good-bye, Mr. Tyson.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Corva.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Benjamin Tyson said, “Pass the cucumbers, please.”

  David passed the cucumbers.

  Marcy said to Vincent Corva, “More iced tea, Vincent?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Tyson sat in his rolled-up shirt sleeves and loosened his black uniform tie. “Hot.”

  Marcy rose and closed the blinds, blocking out the noon sun from the small dining room.

  Tyson surveyed the room, a ten-foot-square area, opening onto the living room. Marcy had purchased a dinette table from the post thrift shop and carried it home in the Jeep along with some framed pictures, including a scene of Mount Fuji painted in iridescent colors on black velvet. Tyson regarded the picture as he picked at his cucumbers. On the opposite wall of the dining room hung his commission.

  Marcy said to Vincent Corva, “More chicken salad?”

  “No, thank you, Marcy. Th
at was a good lunch.”

  Tyson snorted, “Bullshit.”

  “No, really—”

  “Protestant food, Vincent. You are what you eat. Today you’re cool cucumbers and chicken salad made with Miracle Whip on white bread. By tonight you’ll be speaking in aphorisms and lose your sex drive.”

  Corva smiled embarrassedly.

  Marcy gave Tyson a look of mock scorn. “Ethnic slurs are not welcome at my table.” She turned to Corva. “Wasn’t that a good lunch for a hot day?”

  “Yes.”

  David said, “Dad, I’m taking the bus and subway to Sheepshead Bay this afternoon. I’m going to hang around the boats and help out. Okay?”

  Tyson said, “Why not?”

  Marcy said, “Because I don’t think I want him taking a bus and subway.”

  “How are we ever going to live on West Seventy-something Street if he can’t take buses and subways?”

  “Well . . . he has no experience with public transportation, and—”

  “I had no experience with combat until a machine gun opened up on me one day. You talk about suburban turkeys—” He turned to Corva. “What do you think, Vincent?”

  “Well . . . how old is—”

  Tyson interrupted, “What’s the kid going to do around here all day?”

  Marcy snapped, “What do I do around here all day?”

  Tyson snapped back, “What do I do all day? I have a two-minute commute to work, I give guided tours to geriatrics and stare at the damned cannon the rest of the day. Don’t I take you to the club for dinner and lunch?”

  “I know the damned menu by heart, including the printer’s name and address.”

  David cleared his throat. “Well, can I go or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Tyson slammed his hand on the table. “Yes!” He turned to Corva. “Italian wives aren’t like this.”

  “Well—”

  Marcy addressed Corva. “Would you let your fifteen-year-old son—”