Tin Soldier: The Seven Sequels

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Webb was driving a Dodge Charger that Lee had rented at the Richmond airport before finding a nearby motel. Webb loved the responsiveness of the throttle, and the way the vehicle shifted at the slightest nudge of the steering wheel. Hard to choose which he’d take—Camaro or Charger—but that was only in a fantasy world, because his only real option was a bus pass. He tried telling himself that a diesel bus had plenty more horsepower than the Charger, but that didn’t cheer him up.

  “Blizzard? Don’t go sarcastic Canadian on me here,” Lee said. “With luck, Laura Andrews is going to meet us at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Washington’s a lot colder than Charleston was. You’ll be standing around in a T-shirt.”

  That was the plan. Lee had called Ali and Roy the day before from New Orleans, with instructions for Ali to go to the Veterans Affairs office and give Laura Andrews a note requesting a meeting this morning. Lee wanted it to look like they were trying to set up the meeting outdoors, where they couldn’t get trapped or have someone electronically spy on their conversation. If she insisted on meeting inside somewhere, that would tell them the bait had been taken.

  “I’m okay,” Webb said. “I’ve shivered before.”

  “Not worried about how you’re going to feel. Worried about how it will draw attention to you if you’re the only one there not wearing a coat. How about we make a quick stop in the next town to get you some winter clothing?”

  “Let’s find a Goodwill store or a Salvation Army. You’re paying for gas and hotels and meals and—”

  “Maybe I didn’t make this clear earlier, and I apologize. If I can nail whoever burned down my house, my insurance company is not going to have to pay out on my home policy because they’ll make the person responsible for it cover the cost. Everything I spend on the road is a business expense, and I’ll get it back, including a winter coat for you. We do this right, and the insurance company might even cut you a check for acting as my private investigator.”

  “Winter coat sounds good,” Webb told him with a grin.

  Three hours later, with Lee driving, they crossed the Potomac River, a sharp wind riffling the surface of the water. A United Airlines jet swooped past above them, on a flight path to the airport runways on the west side of the river.

  Ahead, stark and beautiful, was the obelisk of the Washington Monument, and then, minutes later, the rotunda.

  Webb was waiting for Lee to bring up the famous peace march that had sent a hundred thousand people into the open area in 1963. He’d been googling famous civil-rights events to try to be one step ahead of Lee.

  Instead, when they reached the Vietnam War Memorial, Webb understood why Lee had been silent since crossing the river, silent while parking the car, silent while walking toward the memorial. Webb had been grateful for the down jacket that protected him from a cutting wind during that walk.

  The Vietnam Veterans Memorial was near the Lincoln Memorial. It consisted of two long walls, each about ninety steps long, sunk into the ground, with earth built up behind them. One wall pointed at the Washington Monument, and the other at the Lincoln Memorial. Where they connected at a right angle, they were over ten feet tall, tapering from there so that the ends of each wall were only eight inches high.

  The granite was polished, and Webb saw his and Lee’s reflection as they looked at the names. More than fifty-eight thousand names. Soldiers killed in action or missing in action.

  More than fifty-eight thousand.

  Webb looked at the granite. The reflective aspect had been deliberate. So that people would see themselves and think about their role as survivors? So they would see themselves and wonder if humanity would always be like this? Maybe Lee was right. Change needed to happen, but it could only be done one person at a time. Words from the song drifted through his thoughts.

  There won’t be any trumpets blowing

  Come the judgment day

  On the bloody morning after

  One tin soldier rides away.

  “We need to stay together,” Lee said as he stared at a row of engraved names. “In the note, there were instructions for Laura to look for a kid with long hair with a black guy. We gave her a one-hour window to find us here.”

  They’d already discussed whether she might be followed. What was more crucial, Lee argued, was whether she would show up at all and whether she would feel like helping them.

  Webb stayed close to Lee as he walked slowly along the wall, looking at names but with an expression on his face that said he was seeing soldiers torn by bullets and fragmentation grenades.

  Webb kept his silence too.

  He thought Lee was looking for names of men in his platoon, so was surprised when Lee reached out and pointed at a name: Jesse Lockewood.

  Lee kept going along the wall. Slowly. It staggered Webb how many names were up there. It was one thing to hear about the deaths of thousands of soldiers and think of it as a statistic. More than fifty-eight thousand. It was another thing to see name after name and feel the impact of understanding how much of a tragedy each death was for the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and husbands and wives and sons and daughters and friends who had to bury the soldier.

  About ten minutes after they’d found Jesse Lockewood’s name on the memorial, Webb saw a small woman approaching furtively, bundled up and with a scarf over her head. There weren’t many people at the memorial because of the weather, and she was easy to spot.

  Wisps of reddish hair blew out from under the scarf. She was wearing a long coat and had flat-heeled boots that nodded to sensibility instead of fashion.

  She and Webb locked eyes.

  She knew he was looking for her. He knew she was looking for them.

  “Lee,” Webb said, tapping Lee on the shoulder. “Laura’s here.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Warmth. Cinnamon latte.

  At the Memorial Wall, those had been Laura Andrews’ two conditions for a continued conversation. She’d wanted them to go indoors.

  She was cupping her hands around a mug, blowing steam off the top of the latte. She’d taken off her jacket and hung it from a coatrack. She was wearing a brown polyester business suit. The polish on her fingernails was chipped, and the forefinger of her right hand was stained with nicotine.

  “I don’t get all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Laura started. Her voice was longtime-smoker raspy. “You could have called me at the office instead of sending a note that said secrets would be released to the Washington Post if I didn’t go to the memorial on my lunch break and look for the two of you.”

  Lee had an untouched coffee in front of him. Webb was drinking orange juice. He’d already had too many coffees since the alarm went off at 6:00 AM.

  “By the way,” she said, “the request on the note to bring the file on Jesse Lockewood? Not a chance. I don’t break rules. I need my job.”

  That, Webb guessed, was why she’d come to the memorial in the first place. Afraid that secrets sent to the Washington Post would cost her that job. It meant she was a very close link to the Bogeyman.

  Lee must have realized it too.

  Lee said, “We don’t aim to to get you into trouble.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said. “If this is about Jesse Lockewood, I was responding to an official request from authorized military personnel. On the other hand, I have no idea who you are, so don’t expect I’m going to share any information with you. I just came here to find out why you thought there was some kind of secret the newspaper would be interested in.”

  “I’m the one who initially wanted information about Jesse Lockewood,” Lee said. “I asked a friend, who asked a friend, who asked another friend. And the third friend turned out to have the authority to make the call to you.”

  Laura straightened in her seat. “I’m not responsible for any leaks from the person who had the authorization.”

  “Let’s just say his name, okay?” Lee said. “General Sutton. Out of the air base in Atlanta. He’s the one who call
ed you to ask about Jesse Lockewood’s file.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said.

  “Fair enough,” Lee said. “What you should know is that within hours of someone reaching out to you to ask about Jesse Lockewood, my house was burned to the ground. I doubt that was coincidence. I think whoever started the fire wanted to destroy a military identification card with Jesse Lockewood’s photo on it.”

  “I doubt anyone could make that connection with certainty,” she said. “Houses catch on fire. You have my sympathy.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Lee said. “But I only share it on a need-to-know basis. I’m sure you can respect that.”

  “I can tell you that it doesn’t matter to me,” Laura said. “I have a desk job and that’s all I worry about. What is in front of me on my desk. At the end of the day, I don’t even worry about that anymore until I get back to my desk the next morning. In fifteen years, I will retire with benefits—that’s what matters to me.”

  “All I want to know,” Lee said, “is if there was anything out of the ordinary in Jesse Lockewood’s file. If there were any notes or flags on it. If Lockewood was involved with an intelligence agency of any kind or was under investigation by the military police.”

  She looked away, obviously wanting to avoid eye contact with Lee. Then she looked back. “Nothing.”

  She wasn’t a good liar.

  “No worries,” Lee said. “We’ll be on our way.”

  That was the signal for Webb. The phrase no worries.

  Webb said to Andrews, “So it would be okay with you if we gave the reporter your name and position to verify all the other facts we are going to pass along?”

  “No! I’ve done nothing wrong or out of the ordinary.”

  It seemed like the protest of someone guilty. She’d done more than just pass along information to the general who asked. Otherwise, Webb figured, she wouldn’t have met them in the first place. And she was a poor actor.

  “Then you’ll have nothing to worry about,” Lee said. “I’m sure your supervisor will see it that way too. Thanks for your time.”

  Lee stood. Webb stood.

  Laura didn’t. “Hang on. Supervisor?”

  Lee remained standing, so Webb did the same. Lee had gone over this ahead of time, with Webb agreeing to follow Lee’s lead.

  “I’m a Vietnam vet,” Lee said. “Purple Heart. Information that was leaked from your office—whether you are responsible or not—endangered my life and destroyed my property. I wanted to make this a discreet conversation to save as much trouble as possible, but apparently I’m going to have to bring in lawyers and my insurance company. They’ll contact your supervisor, and I suppose fault will be determined. Along the way, it’s going to make for an interesting news story.”

  “Sit,” she said. “Sit.”

  She leaned forward. “I was worried about something like this. There is some information in the file that you will find interesting. If I make a copy and give it to you, what is my guarantee that you will keep my name out of this?”

  “This information,” Lee said. “You didn’t pass it along to General Sutton, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “He only asked for general information and Jesse Lockewood’s current address. I didn’t volunteer what had been flagged. That’s policy.”

  “If you call him back and tell him you found additional information and then give it to him, he will pass that along to the friend of a friend, and it will reach me that route and you won’t be responsible for what was done with the information.”

  In other words, Webb thought, if she had given the information out immediately, it might have saved a trip to Washington to talk to her.

  Lee eased back into his chair. As did Webb.

  “That protects me,” she said. “I’ll have to meet you later in the day and hand you the information. Somewhere safe.”

  “Fair enough,” Lee said. “What we also need to know is if you told anyone else besides the general about the inquiry into the files.”

  “No,” she said. Too quickly, Webb thought. If her answer was a lie, she’d told one other person at least. The Bogeyman. Or someone who reported to the Bogeyman.

  “I’m going to walk out of here without you, okay?” Laura said. “Wait at least ten minutes before you leave, so no one thinks we were together.”

  “One last question,” Lee said. “When General Sutton made his inquiry, did he mention my name to you? Lee Knox.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Lee said. “Here’s my number to call me when you’ve got the file ready.”

  He handed her the business card. She took it and slipped her coat on. As she left, she stopped to pay for a newspaper. Then she walked out without looking back.

  “Give it a few minutes,” Lee said to Webb. “Either she’s legit or the Bogeyman gave her instructions to get out of here for her safety, in case we tried to use her as a hostage when he comes in. Wouldn’t surprise me if she was wired for sound.”

  “Sure,” Webb answered. He wanted to feel as calm as Lee looked.

  “Trust me,” Lee said. “I am as curious as you are. My bet is that someone’s going to show up. Soon.”

  As Lee sipped on his coffee, a black Suburban with tinted windows pulled up outside the big front window of the coffee shop and parked on the sidewalk. All four doors opened, and four men in dark suits quickly stepped out.

  “Finally,” Lee said to Webb. “After all this time, we’re about to get badged.”

  The four men entered the coffee shop.

  “Now let’s see how good your acting is,” Lee whispered to Webb as the men approached and began to pull badges out of their pockets.

  Lee wanted Webb to look scared.

  That part was easy.

  Thirty seconds later, Webb and Lee were in the Suburban. Officially in custody of the CIA.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  This was surreal for Webb. Only four days earlier, he’d been knocking on the door of a clapboard house outside Eagleville, Tennessee, a place with only one stoplight and two restaurants. Now he was sitting in the middle row of a large government SUV, two CIA men in the front, two in the back row of the eight-passenger vehicle, pulling up to the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  None of the men had spoken during the trip. Neither Webb nor Lee had asked questions.

  Two men escorted them out of the Suburban and into the building between the large square pillars of a wide arch. There was beeping and scanning as the men used badges to get through the first phase of security, taking them into what looked like a semipublic concourse. Webb and Lee were searched for weapons and their devices put into lockers for safekeeping.

  Deeper inside, somber men and women in dark clothing walked in determined lines across the marbled floor, their heels emitting muted clicks and thuds.

  Webb and Lee crossed over the iconic seal of the CIA—a compass star imbedded in a shield with the head of an eagle, the seal itself more than three paces across.

  To Webb’s left was a gleaming white marble wall with five horizontal rows of stars. Webb was trying to memorize every detail of the CIA building—the CIA!—and had time to read the inscription above the stars: IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY.

  They passed beneath a large skylight and entered an atrium that looked like it connected a new building to an old one. Hanging above them were replicas of spy planes, painted flat black.

  The CIA! Webb thought. Come on, really? The CIA!

  He couldn’t think of the letters without adding an exclamation point.

  It gave him a sudden insight into his grandfather. This kind of thing was an adrenaline rush for Webb. The travel. The intrigue. How much more would it have been for David McLean, juggling passports and identities, flitting from country to country, all expenses paid?

  The excitement of going deeper and deeper into the hea
rt of CIA headquarters drove away most of Webb’s fear, but not all of it. If they had finally been badged, they were safe, he told himself. It was the mysterious Bogeyman who was the danger. That’s what he told himself.

  Either way, Lee’s gamble had paid off. Setting up a meeting with Laura Andrews had knocked something loose, and they were about to find out what it was.

  The first of their two escorts knocked on a door, and a voice came from inside. “Come in. The door is open.”

  The second man opened the door and gestured for Lee and Webb to go inside. He made it clear he would be standing just outside the door with his partner. Bodyguards for whoever was inside.

  Webb followed Lee.

  A woman sat behind a large desk of burnished wood. The desk was bare except for some sheets of paper and a pen. She wore the obligatory serious suit. Her skin was darker than Lee’s, and she was probably ten years younger. Traces of wrinkles around her eyes. A steady smile.

  She stood, walked around the desk and greeted both of them with a handshake, saying, “I’m Agent Tracy Pollet. Normally, I’d start by suggesting you might be wondering why you’re here, but I was able to listen in on your conversation with the woman in Veterans Affairs, so let’s cut to the chase, okay? I’m interested in resolving the situation. Seriously interested.”

  She pointed at three comfortable leather chairs in the corner of her large office, beneath a huge framed photograph of the president. The luxury of the office and the way the chairs were set up indicated to Webb that this woman held a high position in the organization.

  As they settled in the chairs, Webb said, “Hard to believe I’m here. This is the CIA. You know how many movies and TV shows I’ve seen with the CIA in them?”