by Greg Dinallo
She nods knowingly, achingly, then reacts to the tinkle of ice cubes as the waitress brings our drinks.
“Here’s to you,” Kate says, raising her glass and tapping it against mine.
“Here’s to tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” She takes a long sip of the martini and looks off reflectively for a moment. “You know, when I was a kid, I had a dog. A big, old, dumb, clumsy mutt. Well, one day—”
“Me too. Called him Fenway.”
She looks puzzled.
“I was a baseball nut.”
She still looks puzzled.
“Fenway Park? Where the Red Sox play?”
She fishes the olive from her glass, pops it into her mouth, and shrugs.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You had a deprived childhood.”
“Hey, all those years of 4-H competitions count for something.”
“Four-H? Where’d you grow up?”
“Nebraska. Little town called Broken Bow.”
“Broken Bow.”
“Uh-huh. It’s about twenty miles south of Victoria Springs. Anyway, getting back to my dog, we named him Hoover.”
“As in President?”
“As in vacuum cleaner. I’d put down this huge bowl of food? Gone like that. Kibble, nuts and bolts—you name it he’d eat it.” She pauses, and frowns sadly. “That was his undoing. Somebody poisoned him.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Found him lying out behind the corn silo. I was devastated.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“I just couldn’t understand why anyone would do that to this sweet animal. I kept bugging my parents for answers. My dad kept telling me ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ Well, I didn’t get another dog, let alone a better one, assuming that’s what he meant.” She splays her hands and breaks into a girlish giggle. “I mean, I didn’t even get a date with Mick Jagger.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
“Right. You tell fortunes.”
“Well, this was before that. When I was growing up in Boston. People used to say the Lodges speak only to the Cabots and the Cabots speak only to God. Big family. God was a very busy guy. Didn’t have time for people in Broken Bow.”
She laughs. “Well, I didn’t have time for Him either, until John didn’t come back from Vietnam. I mean, I didn’t suddenly get religious or anything, but I caught myself saying it to my friends, to myself, even to my father—God works in mysterious ways. God works in mysterious ways.”
“Does He?”
She shrugs with uncertainty. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, one day it dawned on me that even if my dad meant things’d get better, he didn’t say when.”
“You’re still waiting.”
“Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”
“Maybe your time’s finally come.”
“You bet,” she says with an enthused smile. “Tomorrow.”
22
Colonel Webster sits at his desk, his shoulders sagging in profound disappointment.
I’m the cause of it.
I walked into his office on this bright, crystal clear morning and ruined it by reporting the address on Sullivan’s driver’s license turned out to be Golden Gate Mortuary Services. “Who’s your contact there?” I ask, after he settles.
“I deal directly with the owner. A fellow named Jim Messina.”
“That’s who the police talked to. They’re pretty sure he lied.”
“Chrissakes,” the colonel groans. “You can’t trust your own mother any more. I mean, Jim and his wife have been guests in my home. We . . .” He groans again and lets it trail off in disgust.
“Maybe Messina isn’t the owner.” This isn’t a new idea. It’s the one that occurred to me during my call to Detective Daniels last night and has been simmering on the back burner since.
The colonel shrugs. He has a faraway look. This is really getting to him.
“You have any correspondence from Golden Gate handy?”
He nods thoughtfully.
“May I see it?”
“Oh, sure, sorry,” he replies, coming out of it. He scoops up the phone and asks Mrs. Oldham to fetch the Golden Gate file. He’s barely hung up when she comes in with it.
“What do you need?” he asks, flopping it open.
“Anything with their letterhead.”
He removes several documents and hands them to me.
I sort through them and zero in on a sheet of stationery. A graphic of the Golden Gate Bridge is centered above the company name at the top, but my attention is drawn to the bottom, to a single line of very small type that proclaims: Golden Gate Mortuary Services, A Subsidiary of Franco-Asian Enterprises.
“Find something?” the colonel asks, seeing my expression change.
“Maybe. Who’s Franco-Asian Enterprises?”
“Never heard of them.”
I hand him the letter and point it out.
He frowns, sheepishly. “I never really noticed that. Our contract is with Golden Gate.”
“Not surprising.”
“You think they’re involved in this?”
“Just a feeling. It shouldn’t take very long to see if I’m right.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
“What those of us in the trade call a corporate shell game. You have a fax machine?”
“Mrs. O,” he replies, gesturing outside.
Now I make the call to my office that I couldn’t make last night. “Grace, it’s me. Making some headway. Listen, check the IRL and fax me whatever you find on a Franco-Asian Enterprises. I’m at the CIL. No, the Colonel’s secretary’ll give it to you.”
“IRL?” Webster drawls after I hang up.
“Information Research Library. It’s a corporate data base my staff’s put together from 10-Ks, D-and-Bs, journals, foreign registries. It’s sort of an ongoing project.”
The colonel nods and drifts off in thought. “Did a lot of thinking last night . . .”
“And?”
“There’s a DEA guy we’ve been working with. He’s smart, discrete—I think I’m going to run this mess past him. See what he thinks.”
“You’re already working with the DEA?” I ask, taken by surprise.
“Not how you think. A lot of MIAs were lost in opium-growing provinces in Laos. Luang Prabang and Houa Phan mostly.”
“Pathet Lao country,” I say, picturing the two adjoining provinces in the northeastern sector.
“Uh-huh. The farmers up there grow tons of opium every year at the expense of feeding their people. As part of their antinarcotics activities, the DEA’s been working with the Lao Government to get them to switch to edible crops instead.”
“In exchange for cooperation on repatriations.”
“Among the other more obvious reasons. It’s a subtle linkage, but it seems to be working. The entire area’s of prime interest from a POW/MIA standpoint.”
I’m digesting all this when Mrs. Oldham enters with the faxes from my office. As I suspected, they reveal that Franco-Asian Enterprises is a privately held corporation, and that the major stockholder, the guy at the helm, is named—Phillipe Ajacier.
“Then he does own Golden Gate Mortuaries,” the colonel says.
“Since ’62, when he bought it from the original owners. About fifteen years ago he sold it to Messina, immediately set-up Franco-Asian, and bought it back.”
“He sold it to himself.”
I nod and take a moment to study the faxes. “Along with Golden Gate and the Theater Arts Complex here, he has interests in a company called Oak Creek Springs—that’s a California winery, Thonburi Film Studios in Bangkok, Trans-Asian Shipping in Manila, a Montreal-based motel chain, and a French ski wear manufacturer.”
“I thought privately held companies didn’t have to make that kind of stuff public.”
“If they’re owned by Americans. The rules for foreigners are different.”
“Foreigners? Where
’s Ajacier from?”
“Corsica.”
“As in the Island of?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You realize what that means?”
“Sure as hell do.”
Anyone who spent time in-country knew that all the bars and whorehouses in Saigon were run by Corsicans. And to most of us, it was no secret they also ran the drug trade. The colonel and I are absorbing the impact in silence when the intercom buzzes.
“Yes, Mrs. O?” the colonel answers. “Good. Show her into the conference room, will you? Yes, I’ll just be a few minutes.” He hangs up and takes a moment to collect his thoughts before softly announcing, “Mrs. Ackerman’s here.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“By the way,” he says casually, as he fetches an expandable manila folder from a file drawer, “she manage to reach you yesterday?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we had dinner. I meant to thank you.”
“Good. Good, I like Kate.”
“So do I. Please, I know how important this is to her. I don’t want to keep you.”
“Frankly, Mr. Morgan, I was hoping you’d join us.”
I didn’t expect that. I’m caught completely off guard. “Gee, I—I mean, you sure it’d be okay?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t. Besides, I could use a hand.” He takes a box used to store files from the side-board behind his desk and hands it to me. Then he tucks the manila folder under his arm, heads out the door and down the corridor at a brisk pace toward the conference room.
“Good to see you, Kate,” Webster enthuses as we enter. He sets the folder on the long table and hugs her. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
She’s glowing with expectation. “What’s a couple of minutes after twenty-one years?”
“I thought you might like the idea of having Mr. Morgan here.” The colonel pauses, setting up the punch line. “I mean, I may be mistaken but I’m pretty sure I remember you mentioning he’s an old friend?”
“Did I say that?” Kate replies, good-naturedly. Then, the light in her eyes fades as she senses the true tenor of the moment and stiffens with uncertainty. “Why? Am I going to need one?”
“I’m afraid so,” Webster confesses softly, getting down to business. “We don’t have John’s remains. I’m sorry.”
She pales, her posture slackening. The colonel directs her to the table and pulls out a chair. She literally sits on the edge, legs entwined, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
I set the file box on the table next to the folder and squeeze her shoulder reassuringly.
“How could this happen?” she finally asks in a fragile whisper, her fingers toying nervously with her MIA bracelet.
“It’s a strange one, Kate,” Webster replies. He opens the manila folder and begins removing the contents. “As you know, a number of weeks ago, the Lao Government released the names of nine men whose remains had been retrieved from crash sites. John’s name was one of them and per policy you were notified. When the repatriations were made, we received identification for all nine. Again you were notified.”
She nods numbly, her eyes riveted to the plastic bags the colonel has placed on the table. They contain a single dog tag, a military identification card, some family snapshots, and a piece of flight suit material that includes part of the breast pocket and name tag above it. I can make out the letters ACKE—the remainder have been burned and are illegible.
The colonel opens the cardboard box and lifts out a pilot’s flight helmet, which he places on the table. The shell is blistered and charred, the plastic visor warped, the chin strap a blackened cinder.
Kate shudders at the sight of it.
“Unfortunately,” Webster goes on, “we only received seven sets of remains.” His eyes shift to mine briefly, as if alerting me to the impact of what he’s about to say, then return to Kate’s. “Frankly, we knew John’s wouldn’t be among them.”
Her head jerks up toward Webster in reaction.
So does mine.
“What do you mean by that?” she asks, her voice cracking from the tension.
“As you know, his Phantom was hit by a surface-to-air missile.”
Kate nods with impatience.
“Despite reports to the contrary, both crewmen ejected and survived.”
“What?” she exclaims astonished.
Webster nods. “Lieutenant Fuchs, your husband’s radar officer, was among the POWs released during Operation Homecoming in ’73. That’s how we know what happened.”
Kate is rocked. It takes her a moment to recover, then her eyes flare with anger. “You’ve known for nineteen years that John survived? Why wasn’t I told?! What the hell ever happened to full and immediate disclosure?!”
Webster knew this was coming. He absorbs the blows without taking offense, patiently waiting until she’s finished and settled before explaining, “The mission was classified.”
“Aw, for Godsakes,” Kate groans, disgusted, burying her head in her hands momentarily before glaring at him. “And now all of a sudden, it isn’t?!”
“That’s right,” the colonel replies evenly. “In keeping with policies designed to induce the Laos to cooperate on repatriations, more and more of these things are being acknowledged.”
“I’ve been hanging around here for a week, getting my hopes up, thinking it was all finally coming to an—” Her voice breaks. She pauses, her lower lip quivering. “You knew all this, dammit. Why’d you make me wait?”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I couldn’t say anything until all the other identifications were verified. You know the rules.”
Her lips tighten, then she nods grudgingly.
The colonel’s face is ashen and drawn. He looks at me uncomfortably, clearly feeling her pain.
“If I may, Colonel?” I interject gently.
“Please.”
“I’m a little confused. I mean, how could Captain Ackerman’s flight helmet and ID be found at a crash site if he ejected?”
“According to Lieutenant Fuchs’ statement, it was a night mission—pitch black, no moon. After they bailed out and regrouped, it occurred to Captain Ackerman there was a pretty good chance their chutes hadn’t been spotted. He knew the enemy would search the crash site in the morning and figured it’d be smart to make it look like the crew had perished.”
“Less chance of being hunted down.”
“Precisely. He and Fuchs made their way to the wreckage, tossed their flight helmets and chute harnesses into the flames, then left some pieces of clothing and ID strewn about the area.”
Kate straightens with pride and smiles, then her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “They released Lieutenant Fuchs. Why not John?”
“We don’t know for a fact that he was ever taken prisoner, Kate. Fuchs said they were spotted by an enemy patrol and became separated. Fuchs was captured. We don’t know what happened to John.”
“All these years,” Kate finally whispers to no one in particular. Her fingers tremble as she takes one of the envelopes from the table and removes her husband’s military identification card.
The heat-sealed plastic is partially blistered, but looking over her shoulder I can see the photo clearly. It’s of a handsome young man with a thatch of dark, wavy hair, a confident smile, and sense of adventure in his eyes.
Kate studies it for a long moment. Tears roll down her cheeks as she presses it to her bosom and goes to the window, sobbing softly. After a moment, she bolts and hurries from the conference room.
Webster and I are frozen in place. Finally he nods to me and gestures to the door. “I think she’s going to need a friend.”
It takes a moment for it to sink in, but as I go after Kate, I suddenly understand what the colonel’s been up to. I’m the safeguard, the emotional insulation, the way he’s chosen to protect himself from this one. Despite the distractions, despite Carla’s disappointing betrayal and the Surigao-Ajacier-Messina conspiracy, despite the threat of his reputation—as well as the C
IL’s—being tarnished by a drug smuggling scandal not of his doing, the colonel never lost sight of his primary mission, of the fact that he would have to deal with Kate, and that, being friends, she would expect him to comfort her. He’d be going after her if I wasn’t here. But I am. And he has made a match, just not for the traditional purpose.
I come out of the main building and hurry through the gate, scanning the acres of macadam that stretch to the seawall. I spot a lone figure in the distance, silhouetted against the sky, walking with a determined stride between the piers, head thrown back in anger. There’s no doubt it’s Kate, and I start jogging to catch up with her. When I finally do, she glances over at me without breaking stride, then keeps walking in silence. We continue along the waterfront like this for several minutes before her pace slows.
“You sure hang in there,” she finally says. “I give you that.”
“That’s what the A stands for.”
“What?”
“Adamant.”
She scowls in mock disapproval. “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re okay.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Thanks. I’m fine.”
“Didn’t look that way back there.”
“Hey, it’s my own fault, okay? The Colonel warned me. I knew better. I jumped the gun and did my thing anyway. I mean, you have any idea how many people I’ve counseled against doing exactly, I mean exactly, what I did? I’m disgusted with myself.”
“Not always easy to practice what we—”
“Sure, and next I suppose you’ll be telling me God works in mysterious ways.”
“Well, things do have a way of—”
“Don’t. Please don’t say it, Morgan. You’re starting to sound just like my father. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We continue walking along the seawall. The air is ripe with the smell of salt and creosote. Kate seems deep in thought. My mind drifts to her husband’s picture. The confident smile is a frightened stare now. He’s trapped, desperate, being hunted in the jungle like an animal. I’m imagining an enemy patrol closing in on him . . . when a boat whistle pierces the silence, pulling me out of it.
