The Majors

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Your britches are wet,” she said. “If you don’t get out of them, you’ll catch your death.”

  “This conversation is getting dangerous,” he said.

  “Isn’t it interesting?” she said.

  “Neither one of us could afford anything like that,” he said.

  “What you couldn’t afford, darling, is me going to my aging, impotent, but nevertheless insanely jealous husband and telling him you made improper and unwanted advances.”

  She moved her hand around to the front of his trunks, grabbed him, and chuckled deep in her throat.

  “Take off your britches, darling,” she said. “Like a nice boy.”

  (Three)

  Alexandria, Virginia

  7 November 1958

  The Cadillac Eldorado, which bore a District of Columbia license plate, a bumper-mounted decal authorizing the vehicle to be parked in Lot C-5-11 of the Pentagon parking area, drove slowly down Kildar Street while the driver swore aloud.

  “These fucking rabbit hutches look all alike,” he said.

  And then he spotted a battered Volkswagen parked beside a Buick estate wagon. He turned off Kildar Street and pulled into the driveway and stopped behind the huge Buick and had a nasty thought: Little Men Like Big Cars. He had no idea why that thought had popped into his mind, and was immediately ashamed of himself.

  The Deputy Chief, Plans and Requirements Section (Fiscal), Aviation Maintenance Sections, Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Logistics, was in uniform, the new olive-green shade 51 uniform. On his shoulder was the insignia of the Military District of Washington. There was a major’s gold oak leaf on each epaulet. He wore the lapel insignia, a silver star on which was superimposed the national eagle, of the General Staff Corps, and on his tunic pocket was the insignia awarded to officers who have served a year on the Army General Staff. He wore no ribbons or qualification badges. Pinned to his tunic, above the left pocket was a name tag with white letters on a black background. It read LOWELL.

  He got out of the Eldorado, let the heavy door swing closed of its own weight, and walked up to the door of 2301 Kildar Street.

  The chimes played “Be it ever so humble” when he pushed the door bell, and as always, he winced.

  Sharon Felter, a slight, feminine, black-haired woman wearing a full apron, opened the inner door. She squealed with pleasure when she saw him, and pushed open the screen door. She pulled him to her and kissed him, not quite on the mouth.

  “Things never change,” he said.

  “What things?”

  “The first time you ever kissed me, you smelled of freshly baked bread,” Lowell said.

  “Don’t knock it, I could open a business.”

  “I would speak at that man you’re married to,” he said.

  “He’s not home yet, Craig,” Sharon Felter said.

  “I saw the pile of rust,” Lowell said. “I thought he was here.”

  “Somebody from the office picked him up,” Sharon said. “I think he had to go into Washington.”

  “But he is coming home?”

  “He should be here any minute,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Will you have one with me?”

  She thought that over a moment, and then nodded her head. “To celebrate,” she said.

  “I suppose I’m expected to ask what you’re celebrating.”

  “The visit of an old and dear friend, who, although he lives in Washington, might as well live in Anchorage, Alaska, or someplace, how often he comes to see us.”

  “I stand before you suitably shamed,” he said. “But you know what would happen, if I did this very often? I would ply you with booze and carry you off into a life of sin.”

  “Would there be room for me?” Sharon replied. “You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”

  “Touché, Madame,” Lowell said.

  “What will you have to drink?” Sharon asked.

  “Scotch, straight up,” Lowell said. He was surprised when Sharon made herself a scotch on the rocks, a stiff one, not measuring the liquor.

  “Has that man you live with been teaching you evil ways?” he asked, nodding at her drink.

  “Doctor’s orders,” Sharon said. When she saw his eyebrows raise, she added: “Cross my heart.”

  “Is there something wrong with you?” Major Lowell asked, and the concern in his voice was intense and evident.

  “Nothing, according to the doctor, that a little scotch and water won’t cure.”

  “I’m not very good at games,” he said. “And neither are you. What’s wrong?”

  “Tension. High blood pressure. Nerves. Lady’s complaints,” Sharon said.

  “Because of what he’s doing?” Lowell asked, almost angrily.

  “All he does is work very hard,” she said.

  “Has he been up to his disappearing-act spy games again? Is that it? And don’t tell Uncle Craig you’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Just hard work,” she said.

  “Why he doesn’t get the hell out of that business, I’ll never know,” Lowell said.

  There was the sound of a car door slamming, and then of the front door opening.

  “Hello, Craig,” Sandy Felter said, coming into the kitchen. He was in a baggy, gray business suit. He did not seem either surprised or especially pleased to see Lowell.

  “Let me guess,” Lowell said. “This week, you’re disguised as a bureaucrat.”

  “What brings you over here?”

  “I heard you were out of town and thought it would be a splendid time to seduce your wife.”

  “Well, this was your chance,” Felter said. “The kids are in Newark. You could have had her all to yourself if you’d come over earlier.”

  “I don’t think either of you are funny!” Sharon said.

  “From what I hear,” Lowell said, “wife swapping is all the rage among up and coming D.C. bureaucrats.”

  “If anybody could check that out, you’re the man,” Felter said. “From what I hear, there have been so many women going into and out of a certain Georgetown town house the cops thought somebody had opened a store.”

  “Sandy!” Sharon said.

  “He’s just jealous, Sharon, that’s all,” Lowell said. “Some of us have animal magnetism, and some of us don’t.”

  “And some of us are too smart to get involved with senator’s wives,” Felter said. He took off his jacket and opened the hall closet. The butt of a Colt .45 pistol was visible in the small of his back.

  “That cannon makes your wife nervous, you know,” Lowell said, as Felter took the pistol from its skeleton holster and laid it on the closet shelf. “From the time you leave until the time you walk back in, she has visions of you being ambushed by the NKVD in front of the Falls Church A&P. It’s driving her to drink.”

  “I don’t think that’s particularly funny,” Sanford Felter said.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny. Before you sneaked through the door just now, in your inimitable imitation of Humphrey Bogart, I was saying to your wife that it was high time you stopped playing spy and went back to being a soldier.”

  “Just for the record, Craig,” Felter said, coldly, “I am a soldier.”

  “In that bureacrat suit, you sure could fool me,” Lowell said.

  “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” Felter asked, coldly.

  “Enough!” Sharon said. “I don’t know what it is with you two. You’re closer than brothers, and you act like…I don’t know what.”

  “How about brothers?” Lowell asked, innocently. There was a moment’s pause and then Felter laughed.

  “How about giving my little brother a belt?” Lowell asked. “He looks as if he can use one.”

  “Sandy?” Sharon asked.

  “Why not?” he said. Sharon jumped up and walked quickly into the kitchen to make her husband a drink.

  “Mud in your eye,” Felter said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Mazeltov!”
Lowell replied. Felter looked at him and shook his head.

  “You’re amazing,” he said. “Amazing. That came out anti-Semitic.”

  “Well, screw you,” Lowell said. “I was simply trying to be charming.”

  “If you’re trying to be charming, you want something,” Felter said.

  “Right,” Lowell said.

  “That figures, that figures,” Felter said. “What?”

  “I was dealing with one of your pals today,” Lowell said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He came into my office, looked under the desk and in the wastebaskets to see if any Russians were lurking about, and flashed his badge on me.”

  “What kind of a badge?” Felter asked.

  “CIC.”

  “Craig, I have nothing to do with the CIC. You know that.”

  “Creepy little bastard, drunk with authority,” Lowell said. “He was asking questions about a friend of mine.”

  “What friend?” Felter asked.

  “I want to know why he was asking the questions,” Lowell said. He reached in his pocket and handed over a slip of memo paper. “That’s the name.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Find out what kind of trouble my friend is in, and what I can do to help,” Lowell said.

  “You know I can’t do anything like that!”

  “Yes, you can. You may not want to, but you know you can.”

  “You can’t believe I would even think about doing something like that,” Felter said.

  “Get on the goddamned phone and call somebody up,” Lowell said.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Felter said. “I’m going to go upstairs and take a shower. And I’m going to even forget that you asked me what you did.”

  “Kiss my ass, Sandy,” Craig Lowell said. He stood up, and put his drink down.

  “You’re not leaving!” Sharon Felter said. There was an awkward silence. Sandy saw that Sharon was close to tears.

  “No, of course not,” Lowell said, after a moment.

  “I’ll make us another drink,” Sharon said. Lowell saw that Sharon’s glass was empty.

  Sanford Felter walked up the stairs to his bedroom. The sonofabitch had no right to ask him things like that; he had no right to upset Sharon. God only knows what the human stud had been saying to her before he got home. Felter had noticed how quickly his wife had drained her glass.

  Goddamn him!

  Felter walked to the chest of drawers and unloaded his pockets. There were a couple of bills crumpled into a ball; a dollar or so in coins; a sweat-stained wallet; a leather folder containing a badge and a plastic identification card identifying him as a Deputy United States Marshal (which served, in case some zealous cop got curious, to justify the .45) and a plastic card, riveted to an alligator clip, containing his photograph, his name, and three diagonal red stripes. This granted him access at any time to any area of the Pentagon, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the State Department, and the CIA, as well as access to any information he might ask for.

  In the classified files of DCSINTEL, where his service records were kept, was a copy of the Department of Army general order which had placed Major Sanford T. Felter, Infantry (Detail: Military Intelligence) of the Defense Intelligence Agency, on temporary duty with the White House. In the Eyes Only safes of the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State, the Director of the FBI, and the Director of the CIA, was a short note on White House notepaper:

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON

  Effective immediately, and until further notice, Major Sanford T. Felter, USA, is relieved of all other duties, and will serve as my personal liaison officer with the intelligence community with the rank of Counselor to the President. This appointment will not be made known publicly. Major Felter will be presumed to have the Need To Know when this question arises.

  DDE

  There was a photograph on the dresser. It had been taken in Greece, near the Albanian border. It showed two very young officers. They were wearing American khaki shirts. The rest of their uniforms were British. The smaller of them, First Lieutenant Sanford T. Felter, twenty-two years old, cradled a Thompson .45 caliber submachine gun in his arms, like some bootleg era gangster. The taller of them, Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell, aged nineteen, had an M1 Garand slung over his shoulder like a hunter. There were two 8-round cartridge clips pinned to the Garand’s leather strap.

  Felter remembered, very clearly, other photographs that had been on that roll of 35 mm film. In an act of incredible stupidity, he had sent it home to Sharon to have it developed and printed. And when it came back from the Rexall drugstore on the corner of Aldine Street and Lyons Avenue, one block down from the Felters’ bakery, Sharon, his wife of eight months, had seen what his room in Greece looked like and what the dog they had acquired somewhere looked like, and what his new friend Craig Lowell looked like. Two of the photographs had told Sharon much more about what he was doing in Greece than he wanted her to know. The two photographs showed Craig Lowell in the traditional pose of the successful big game hunter, smiling broadly, cradling his rifle proudly in his arms, kneeling on the fruits of the hunt. What he was kneeling on was a pile of three bodies. One of the bodies was looking at the camera with a look of surprise on his mustached face. There was a neat little .30 caliber hole in the middle of his forehead. The back of his head had been blown away.

  Sharon had kept the print and the negatives until he came home, and then wordlessly given them to him. He had wordlessly burned them. Felter looked at the photograph of them together, way back then, and then he forced his eyes away and went into the bathroom and took a shower.

  There was such a thing as pushing a friendship too far, he told himself. Craig expected too much.

  As he soaped his balding head with Sharon’s woman’s shampoo (if he used soap, or regular shampoo, his skin flaked), he remembered how Craig W. Lowell had solved the problem of what he was going to tell Sharon and his mother and father and her mother and father about what he was doing in the hospital in Hawaii. While they were airlifting him from the hospital ship in Pusan Harbor to Hawaii, Craig, Porter, Kenyon and Dawes, investment bankers, had sent a nice young man around to Felter’s Warsaw Bakery. The nice young man had a limousine, and the nice young man had traveled with them to Hawaii, just in case someone in the airlines hadn’t gotten the word that the Felters and the Lavinskys were personal friends of the man who owned half of the firm that had just loaned the airline however many millions of dollars it took to make a down payment on a fleet of intercontinental transport aircraft.

  And when they carried him into his room on the stretcher, they had all been there, and Sharon was hugging him and crying, and nobody could talk, except his mother.

  “So, Sanford,” his mother said, “you wouldn’t believe our hotel. Would you believe we got two whole apartments? On the beach. You can look out from the porch and see these Hawaiian schwartzes riding on those boards. The Royal Hawaiian, yet.”

  And he remembered what Sharon had told him, after he’d come back from Dien Bien Phu. That Craig W. Lowell had sat in the chair where he was now sitting, swilling down booze and crying like a baby.

  “In a way, Sandy, it was funny,” Sharon said later. “Here we were, the widow and the orphans, and what we were doing was trying to make Uncle Craig stop crying.”

  “Shit!” Sanford Felter said. He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went to his bed and sat on it. He opened the door of the bedside table and took out a black telephone with several buttons on it.

  He dialed a number.

  “Liberty 7–1936,” a male voice said.

  “Scramble Four Victor Twenty-Three,” Felter said.

  “Confirm Four Victor Two Three,” the voice said, after a moment. “Go ahead.”

  Felter pushed the appropriate buttons on the special telephone.

  “This is Felter,” he said. “Get onto somebody in G-2 or the Def
ense Intelligence Agency and find out (a) why the CIC is investigating a man named Franklin, William B., and (b) what the investigation has come up with so far.”

  “Yes, sir,” the male voice said. “Will you spell, sir?”

  “Franklin, as in Poor Richard’s Almanac,” Felter said. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. There were so many names.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m at my home,” Felter said. “Get back to me here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Felter replaced the handset in the receiver without saying anything else. He put the phone back in the space under the bedside table. Then he stood up and walked back into the bathroom and put the towel in the hamper.

  What he had done was absolutely a breach of the authority with which he had been entrusted. There was no other way to look at it. On the other hand, it was equally clear that he would get away with it. He reported to the President—and nobody else. Even if the directors of the FBI or CIA somehow heard about this, there would be no questions asked. For a long time now, he had been one of the very few who were given the benefit of any doubt.

  He put on a sports shirt and a pair of slacks and went downstairs.

  Craig was in the kitchen with Sharon. Sharon was making a salad. Craig was pressing roughly ground peppercorns into a steak with his thumb.

  “So how were things in Germany?” Felter asked. “Is there any more whiskey, or did you two drink it all up?”

  “How’d you know I was in Germany?” Lowell asked.

  “I spoke to your father-in-law yesterday,” Felter said. He found the bottle of scotch and made himself a drink. That killed the bottle. He was sure there had been four inches of whiskey in it when he’d gone upstairs. He saw that both his wife and Lowell had full, dark glasses.

  “We took Peter hunting for his first time,” Lowell said.

  “Craig, you didn’t!” Sharon said. “My God, he’s only nine years old.”

  “He’s a real kraut,” Lowell said. “He loved it.”

  “He’s half-American, Craig,” Sharon said.