Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  She stayed silent for some time, then announced, “I don’t like this.” She raised her voice. “I do not like being watched, being—”

  “Sh-h-h! You’ll damage the microphones.”

  She stood, took a heavy glass ashtray from the coffee table, and flung it at the front window. It went through the blinds, smashed a windowpane, and ripped the screen. “Fuck the Army!”

  “Calm down.” He stood and surveyed the damage, then looked at her and said seriously, “We are being watched, you know. I do not want them to see us cracking up. Okay? Steady on, soldier.”

  She put her arms around him and laid her cheek on his shoulder. “Okay.”

  Tyson’s eyes moved around the small room as he held her. It cost him a good deal of money each week to satisfy himself that the place didn’t have electronic plumbing, but still he wondered. He said, “Did you get David enrolled at the local stiletto high?”

  “It’s actually supposed to be a good school according to the mothers I spoke to on post. The bus will pick him up on Lee Avenue. I spoke to the principal, and she’s aware of the special problems involved.”

  “All right. How is David reacting?”

  “Ask him.”

  “He always gives me the macho line. Takes after his old man. What did he say to you?”

  “He’s nervous.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Also he misses his friends.”

  “So do we all. But they’re probably not his friends anymore.”

  “He says the school looks junky. Actually it is old but well kept.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t compare a city high school with that suburban country club he got used to.”

  “It’s good for his character. That’s what you said.”

  Ben Tyson smiled. “Right.” He held her tighter. “You know, without sounding too macho, a man likes to give his family the best. And when he can’t he doesn’t always feel like a man. Is that too patriarchal?”

  “Yes, but I know how you feel.”

  “The private schools were just too expensive, Marcy—”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll all make do.”

  “This might hurt his chances for a good college.”

  She shook him gently by the shoulders. “Stop that. You went to a lousy college, why shouldn’t he?”

  “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Auburn. Columbia was a pigpen.”

  She laughed, and they held on to each other.

  Tyson cleared his throat. “Have you considered what you will do if I go up the river for a few years?”

  “Sing Sing is up the river. Leavenworth is in Kansas. Across the river.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t think about it. I won’t think about it. So I can’t answer your question.”

  “Okay . . . no use worrying about that now.”

  “Are you worried about the hearing?”

  “No. Corva said not to waste energy worrying. I’ll be indicted for sure.”

  “Oh. . . . Are you worried about Corva?”

  “A little. Yes, a little. He’s erratic. Sometimes I think he’s a genius. Other times I think he’s a dolt. He’s fatalistic too. Well, maybe realistic is a better word.”

  She moved away from him and poured coffee for both of them. “He seems to really care about you, Ben. That’s a good thing.”

  Tyson took his mug of coffee. “Corva and I were both infantry commanders, and our tours of duty coincided. I don’t even have to say to him, ‘Look, Vince, Nam sucked, the leeches sucked, the homecoming sucked, so don’t let them make the peace suck, too.’ He knows that, and I think if I went to jail, he knows that a little bit of him and all the rest of us would go to jail, too.”

  She stared into the blackness of her coffee, then looked up. “I think I understand that. I can see it when you’re both together. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When this is over, don’t invite him and his wife over so you can bore us with war stories.” She smiled.

  He smiled in return. “Mercifully, he doesn’t tell or listen to war stories.”

  Tyson thought a moment, hesitated, then asked, “So what’s happening Tuesday? Are you going back to work?” He glanced at her, and she turned away.

  Marcy sat on the arm of the upholstered chair. “Well . . . if I don’t, I think I’m fired.”

  “I thought you were irreplaceable there. I thought Jim liked you.”

  “Don’t let’s get into an ugly scene, Ben. Jim has to fill the job.”

  “He could hold it another week until we see if I’m indicted or not.”

  “He’s been very patient. A lot more patient than your employers were. And you were supposed to be irreplaceable.”

  “No salary slave is irreplaceable. That’s what I learned. I wouldn’t work for anyone again if my life depended on it. I’d rather be a self-employed handyman. I learned how the bosses treat you even if you didn’t. I was a boss, and I let people go who had personal problems. There’s no room in corporate America for personal problems. If this guy can’t give you a little more time, the hell with him.”

  “We need the money, Ben. Get off your high horse. You are so damned hubristic about everything. You have to kiss some ass once in a while.”

  “No, I do not. But I do need you . . . I need your companionship. And your support. And David needs you more than ever.”

  “I realize all of that,” she said in measured tones. “But quite frankly, Ben, I am going out of my fucking mind here. You may have noticed.”

  “No. I see no change.”

  “And I’ll be a better companion to you and David at night and on weekends if I can get out of here for a few hours a day.”

  Tyson slammed the coffee mug on the end table. “Oh, bullshit. It was never a few hours. It was, and will be, long hours and paperwork at home and business trips and your mind on the job at dinner and phone calls in the evening—do you realize, lady, that I’m facing murder charges? How much more time do you think we might have together?”

  She stared down at the floor and said softly, “I told him I’d be there Tuesday.” She added, “We have new clients in Atlanta, and I have to fly down with him Thursday. I’ll be back Friday night.”

  “Good. You can read in the paper whether or not I was indicted Friday afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  Tyson went to the door. “I’ll be at the gym.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Look, I understand. Try to understand what it’s like for me to be confined here by law. Maybe I’m just envious of free people.” He waited for a reply to his conciliatory statement, but there was none, so he left.

  CHAPTER

  37

  At 7:30 P.M. there was a knock on the door, and Tyson opened it. Vincent Corva said, “Traffic was awful.”

  Tyson showed him in. “Thanks for coming on a holiday night.”

  Corva walked into the living room carrying a briefcase. He wore jeans and a polo shirt and looked, Tyson thought, more diminutive than he did in a suit. He wondered how Corva had carried the basic seventy pounds of field gear, food, water, and ammunition in hundred-degree heat.

  Corva said, “I dropped my wife and kids off in Montclair.”

  “Oh, is that where you live? That’s Jersey, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And we spent the weekend at our summer place in Ocean City.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The Jersey shore.”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t know people went there.”

  Corva smiled. “Maybe not your people.” He placed his briefcase on the floor near the sofa.

  Marcy came into the living room. “Hello, Vince.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. Tyson watched her. She had an easy way with men and put men at ease. He could see Corva was taken with her. Apparently Picard had been, too.

  Corva said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get Ben released for this weekend. They are being real hardnoses. Usually an offi
cer can give his word as his bond that he won’t skip out.”

  Marcy observed, “This officer-and-gentleman routine is only for when it suits them. When it doesn’t suit them, an officer’s word is not enough.”

  Corva said, “Well, I think this has to do with keeping Ben clear of the media.”

  Tyson had the impression he was some sort of invalid whom relatives talked about as though he weren’t there.

  Corva continued, “Which reminds me. I’ve got a six-figure offer from a publisher. Christ, I’ve had to hire extra staff to keep up with these phone calls. Anyway, this is a respectable publisher. You want to tell your story for about a quarter million?”

  Tyson looked at Marcy, and she looked back at him. Marcy spoke to Corva. “No, he does not. We both decided long ago that we will not make one penny from this mess. All we want at the end is to cover your legal expenses.”

  Corva nodded. “Okay. I’ll never mention these offers again.” He smiled. “Even saints can be tempted.”

  Marcy said, “Sit down. I bought a bottle of that awful stuff you said you drink. Strelger?”

  “Strega. Significato witch.”

  She shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Corva sat at the far end of the sofa. He said softly to Tyson, “I want to speak to you alone.”

  Tyson nodded. “She and David are going to the post movie.”

  Marcy came back with a tray on which were three fluted glasses and a long, slender bottle filled with a yellow liquid. She set the tray down and poured. They each took a glass, and Corva said, “Careful. They don’t call this ‘witch’ for nothing.” He poured the drink down his throat, followed by Tyson and Marcy. They all gasped, looked at one another, and wiped their eyes. Tyson cleared his throat. “Mamma mia. This is paint remover.”

  Corva explained, “It takes getting used to.” He lifted a mason jar from his briefcase and put it on the coffee table. “I promised you pesto sauce.” He spoke to Marcy. “Don’t open the jar until you’re ready to use it. Don’t heat it, or you’ll lose the bouquet. Spoon it at room temperature on hot pasta. Okay?”

  She examined the jar suspiciously. “Looks like the paint the strega took off.” She stared at Corva. “Is all this Italian stuff an affectation? I mean, you don’t do this as a shtick, do you?”

  “Certainly not. It’s my heritage.” He winked at her.

  She smiled in return. “You could use a good PR lady when this is all over. I’ll make you into an Italian F. Lee Bailey. What’s your middle name?”

  “Marcantonio.”

  “Oh, I love it! V. Marcantonio Corva. Or Vincent Mark Anthony Corva. Or—”

  Tyson said, “Won’t you be late for the movie?”

  Marcy looked at her watch. “Oh!” She stood and said to Corva, “They’re showing Creator, with Peter O’Toole.” She went to the stairs and called up, “David! Show time!” She turned back to Corva. “Image is important, but unlike a lot of PR people, I believe in substance too. That comes across with you.”

  Tyson said to Corva, “Lift your feet; the stuff is getting deeper.”

  Marcy looked at him icily.

  Tyson added, “She’s getting into practice. She’s going back to work tomorrow.”

  Corva sipped on his drink. He’d noticed that the Tysons weren’t speaking directly to each other, and there was something in Tyson’s voice that sounded strained.

  David came downstairs. “Hello, Mr. Corva.”

  “Hi, David. All ready for school tomorrow?”

  “I guess.”

  “Just remember, kids are the same all over, even if they have Brooklyn accents.”

  David forced a laugh.

  Marcy and David went to the door. Corva said, “Enjoy the movie. If I don’t see you later, good luck to both of you tomorrow.”

  Marcy and David left, and Corva noted that no one offered any good-byes. Corva looked at Tyson awhile before speaking. “This is not a personal question, it is a professional concern. Are you having domestic difficulties?”

  Tyson nodded as he lit a cigarette. “I’ve had them for seventeen years of marriage. So don’t let it concern you. It doesn’t concern me.”

  “What is the nature of these domestic difficulties?”

  “Are you a divorce lawyer?” He poured himself another strega. “Well, since you won’t drop it—it’s Marcy’s decision to return to work.”

  “You don’t like that?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You’ll be home all day with the housework and trying to defend yourself against a murder charge, and she’ll be having lunch with interesting people.”

  “You got it, Vinny. Boy, you are quick.”

  “Now, don’t take it out on me.”

  “And I doubt if her clients are interesting. And I don’t intend to do any housework. Fuck it, I’m getting a maid.”

  Corva stroked the bridge of his thin nose with his index finger. He said, “You may be right. I mean, to feel hurt and angry and abandoned. However, that is not going to help your defense of the murder charge.” Corva leaned across the coffee table toward Tyson. “Let me tell you something that I think you will agree with: This murder case against you is more important than your marriage. Get some perspective, my friend, and stop being so fucking self-indulgent.”

  “Don’t swear at me.”

  “I’d like to beat the shit out of you.”

  “You’re all talk.”

  Corva stood and pointed at Tyson. “Look, you don’t have the luxury to brood over your marriage or your lifestyle. If you don’t keep your mind on this case, I’m walking out on it.”

  Tyson stood too. His voice became loud. “I’m not a goddamned robot. I’m angry. I feel betrayed.”

  “So what? You can’t do a thing about it. Before this is over, everyone will betray you in some way. Your duty is to yourself now. And that duty is to keep out of jail. And when you are free of all this, then you can settle up the scores. Capice?” He stared at Tyson.

  Tyson nodded slowly. “Yeah, I capice.”

  Corva stuck his hand out. “Friends?”

  Tyson took his hand. “You’re one of the scores I’m going to settle, you little wop.”

  Corva laughed.

  They sat and drank in silence awhile. Tyson commented, “This stuff grows on you.”

  Corva poured another round. “The old men where I grew up made a home-brewed version of this. The government bought the recipe, and that’s what Agent Orange is.” He let loose a slightly alcoholic laugh, followed by a belch.

  Tyson asked, “Did you hear or read that thing that Colonel Horton said?”

  Corva nodded. “I know of Horton. Everyone respects him. Like they respect God. He has about that much actual influence on Army justice too. But he did pull the philosophical rug out from under Van Arken. What this all means to you as a practical matter is minimal. But at least there are people out there—not just your VFW fans but intellectuals—who are saying you are being shafted. None of this will stop the Army juggernaut, but you can take some comfort in knowing your case has raised some important constitutional issues.”

  “That’s what martyrs are for, Vince. To suffer so mankind can progress into a more perfect society.”

  Corva said, “You may think you are being sarcastic. But I’ll tell you, there will be millions of words written about the United States versus Benjamin Tyson. You will become case history. Did you know that the present French code of military justice was instituted as a direct result of the French Army’s gross mishandling of the Dreyfus court-martial?”

  Tyson lit another cigarette and sank back onto the sofa. “Ask me if I care.”

  “Someday,” continued Corva, warming to his subject, “when you pass on to that great courtroom in the sky, your obit is a sure thing for the Times. Mine too.”

  “Really?” Tyson blew smoke rings. “What will they say about you? Never won a case?”

  Corva was looking at the window. “What happened there?” />
  Tyson explained, “She went screwy a few days ago. You see, she’s opposed to violence and is not completely understanding of how those poor bastards in my platoon cracked up and went on a rampage. But, out of ennui, she blasts an ashtray through the window. But I’m not being judgmental. I’m only pointing out that people who live in small houses shouldn’t throw glass ashtrays.”

  Corva nodded. “Speaking of screwy, the Army intends to give you a battery of psychological tests. Any objections?”

  “Yes. We can’t offer an insanity defense two decades after the fact, and we’re not going to claim that I’m incompetent to stand trial at this time. So, I’m not going to be a guinea pig for a bunch of crackpot shrinks.”

  “All right. I’ll do what’s necessary to block the testing.” Corva inquired, “Have you ever seen a psychoanalyst?”

  Tyson stubbed out his cigarette. “Briefly.”

  “Would his notes help us?”

  “I don’t know. How?”

  “Will his notes indicate that you felt remorse and guilt for covering up the hospital incident?”

  “I don’t think so. I never told him.”

  “How can you go to a shrink and not tell him what is bothering you?”

  Tyson smiled. “That’s what he wanted to know.”

  “Would you have any objections if I contacted him?”

  “Not at all, but you’ll need a Ouija board.”

  “Oh. . . .”

  “Suicide. If you contact him, tell him I didn’t forget the last bill.”

  “You’re drinking too much.” Corva considered a moment. “What happened to his files?”

  “Don’t know. They’re privileged information, aren’t they?”

  “While the therapist is alive. Afterward . . . well, I’ll look into it.” He took out a pen and yellow pad, and Tyson gave him Dr. Stahl’s name and last address.

  Corva extracted a folded page of the New York Times and held it up. “Did you see this?”