The Henderson Equation

by Warren Adler

  11

  As he worked he could sense the ebb of energy in the city room, the phased disappearance of the reporters, deskmen, news aides, secretaries; the lowered din as the telephones rang only sporadically. Looking out, he saw the room strewn with debris, Styrofoam coffee containers, potato chip wrappers, wastebaskets overflowing with cast-off soggy copy paper, ashtrays choked with crushed butts, the residue of a frenetic life. And so, he thought, staring into the emptying room, remembering the old daytime radio soap operas, we leave the Chronicle now, having created another day in the life of the world, another fantasy on which souls might masticate, another moment in time, frozen, cast into a preconceived shape, mostly of his vision. He could not understand why his mind was suddenly thrashing about in this groping way. Perhaps he was trying to think through what seemed to be happening, as if it were essential to his future movement through an untracked trail on a now frozen pond. Where lay the thin ice?

  If he were to believe the writers who polluted the “with-it” parasitic rags with their voluminous outpourings, he, and all the hierarchy of the Chronicle, stood at the pinnacle of a kind of “mediacracy,” a new elite of mythmakers. They had replaced the creators of the other fantasy arts, the authors of books, plays, and movies. Perhaps conscious of that, he had carefully avoided the company of these so-called peers, avoiding at all costs the little “in” parties, the private entertainments held mostly by the frantic group of sages who wrote syndicated columns, many of which appeared in the Chronicle, and the stars of the new personal television. Intermingled with the mythmakers were their creations, the power seekers who knew themselves to be media happenings, like Henderson. Handsome Burton Henderson, master of both hard and soft news. Here he was today, for example, galloping into print in the news section and already on deck for a picture in Lifestyle. All this happening right under Nick’s nose. What kind of monsters had they made? If he was only vaguely sure before, he was now becoming more and more convinced that something was radically wrong with the system that he had helped create. Upstairs, sitting in her manicured office, holding court for the high and the mighty, Myra was actually beginning to believe her own invulnerability, the ultimate power trap. Her father’s whole thesis of objectivity was crumbling under the weight of the new media power. It had long passed objectivity. Personality had won and he, Nick Gold, had smoothed the way for its final victory. Was it possible that the Chronicle, in whose maw so many lives had been chewed up, was wrong? Wrong in the way it showed people their world, wrong in the way it brought the fantasy into focus? Wrong in the expectations it offered? Wrong because they had been so sure they were right? Wrong because somehow they were the only eye left on the top of the mountain?

  He could not tell how long he had sensed that this was happening, or even understand why he had pulled away from the self-serving cluster of mediacrats, who saw themselves as the keepers of the holy grail or, at the very least, enjoyed the idea that other people thought so. Perhaps this was why he determined to keep his affair with Jennie secret. He could rationalize his breaking away, turning down invitations to the little soirées, the private pool parties, the silly tennis tournaments, the dinners for eight in Myra’s town house, the “oh-so-with-it chic-talk,” the behind-the-scenes revelations of the secretaries of State and Treasury and, of course, the power handlers at the White House. It dawned on him now why Myra had asked him to bring Jennie “out” to the Redskin games, have her be part of the gang, a regular attendant at the royal box. He’d no longer have an excuse to hide. Myra would draw him back to their orbit, immerse him, smoother him.

  The vibrations of the big presses began to be felt and he waited expectantly for the first copy of the street edition, which always arrived in tandem with a sinking heart, the terrible possibility that the stories would all be different from those that had been sent down to the composing room. It was a recurrent expectation, always frightening, and it was with a sense of deep relief that he viewed the familiar front page, exactly as it had appeared in proof.

  When he had given it a final going over, he left the city room with a wave at the “lobster” crew who had settled into their own special ambience, waiting for morning, some hoping that the night might be eventful, others content with inactivity, using the time for activities like writing books, now the Chronicle’s major occupational disease.

  The November chill signaled the first stirrings of a Washington winter, as erratic as its political environment. Nick walked swiftly, his ears alert, listening for footfalls at his rear, a habit he had developed but felt was reprehensible, in the light of the Chronicle’s avowed position that crime was an aberration resulting from a deprived environment—a noble thought which offered little comfort for a mugged victim. He had felt it politically important to maintain that stance, as if to breach it would open a huge cleavage for the law-and-order superconservatives to pour through, destroying the Chronicle’s credibility in the liberal community, its carefully nurtured constituency.

  In front of the Mayflower he hailed a cab and watched Connecticut Avenue recede. Swinging around Dupont Circle, the cab rolled swiftly down Massachusetts Avenue, past Embassy Row into the land of the powerful, the magic ZIP code 20016 where lived the movers and makers, the privileged sanctuary of the elite that bridged the gap between Georgetown and Chevy Chase, through to Potomac, the last stronghold of the close-to-town landed gentry.

  The cab dropped him in front of 4000 Massachusetts Avenue where he walked through the security maze. He could actually feel the television cameras watching him. Despite the fact that the Chronicle had one of the most sophisticated security systems in town, the act of surveillance, especially in what could be described as a social context, was repugnant to him. He wondered if any such devices had, as yet, found their way to Warren, Ohio. Properly announced through the switchboard, he went up the elevator, through the corridor smelling faintly of cabbage, the eternal symbol of apartment living, to the waiting pimpled face of Harold Gunderstein standing in the doorway of his apartment.

  Gunderstein, his tie awry, his shirt puffed out of his belt, two sizes too big, the pants stained and creased, seemed to be the embodiment of the cabbage smell, the source of its emanation. But inside the apartment, other odors assailed Nick. Books and papers were piled everywhere, in little mounds Stonehenge-like, on every available surface. Remnants of food were everywhere, stale sandwich bits, dried pickles, milk-crusted glasses, empty beer cans. Considering the high rent, a sop to his newfound riches, Gunderstein’s apartment interior seemed incongruous, a nest of poverty. It was a fitting complement to his image. Where else could a rich slob live?

  “God, what a shithouse!” Nick said, as if it were the expected social grace.

  “The maid comes tomorrow.” Gunderstein shrugged apologetically. He was wearing glasses now, the cosmetic of the office discarded, and he looked as Nick remembered him years ago. Nick followed him into the living room where a paunchy man sat on a brightly colored couch, holding a tumbler of whiskey.

  “This is Carter Allison,” Gunderstein said. The paunchy man held out his hand, showing brown teeth and dimpled cheeks. He had once been boyish, now gone to seed.

  “Sounds like a stage name,” Nick said, conscious of ingratiation.

  “I can assure you that it’s my legitimate baptismal name. The middle name is Blandish. There was once a Lord Blandish, I’m told, but I spring from Maine potato farmers.”

  “I’ve filled Mr. Gold in on all you’ve told me, Carter.” They had obviously reached some plateau of relationship. It was odd how Gunderstein would evolve so quickly into a first-name basis with a news source; as if he had merged into the information.

  “You don’t believe me,” Allison said, glaring at Nick. One couldn’t tell whether it was a question or an answer.

  “I didn’t say that,” Nick answered, assuming it a question, watching Allison’s growing anxiety. Gunderstein poured another drink into his glass from a nearby opened Johnny Walker Black.

  �
��Well then, why don’t you run the story? It’s the truth. I know it’s the truth.”

  “It’s just that we haven’t been able to confirm it to Mr. Gold’s satisfaction,” Gunderstein said. “The Chronicle has a two-source policy.”

  “You’ll never confirm it. They’re too clever. Besides, the men who gave the order are dead.”

  “He means the Kennedy brothers,” Gunderstein interrupted.

  “That’s pretty heavy stuff.”

  “It didn’t seem so at the time,” Allison continued. “Just a routine action. It was almost fun. I was actually just a garden-variety CIA analyst posing as an embassy clerk, low on the totem pole at that. But I did know the language and in those days there were few of us around. My mother’s”—he paused, perhaps recalling some rare sentiment—“second husband was a French businessman. I grew up in Saigon and could speak fluent Vietnamese and French, a perfect mark for the CIA recruiter who found me at Berkeley.” Gunderstein poured more whiskey into the man’s glass. “I met him only twice. Both times in the public lavatory of a broken-down Saigon hotel.”

  “Real cloak and dagger,” Nick said sarcastically.

  “It didn’t help my career one way or the other,” Allison said sadly, the stink of his bitterness like a hot gust in the room. “I was simply told by my superior to provide information. It was hardly intelligence. Most of the stuff could be found in the newspapers and on the street. Any pimp or bar girl could supply it.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Diem’s enemies. Believe it or not, all I did in my two years of official duty in Viet Nam was to keep track of the enemies of the Ngu brothers. It was quite simple, really. They had so many. They were horrible people, turds, both of them. I could have given it to him over the telephone, but they thought that was too dangerous. What was the name he used? Mr. Marshall. These military types have absolutely no imagination. I might have suggested Smith. That at least has some authenticity to it. Or Jones.” He laughed, showing his bad teeth.

  It was easy to define the man’s motivation, Nick concluded: frustration, empty dreams, a life unfulfilled, translated now into jealousy and hatred—a classic case.

  “It was dark in the lavatory,” Allison continued. “We sat in separate stalls whispering. I can still smell the place. All I could think of was getting out of there.”

  “You didn’t see his face?” Nick looked at Gunderstein.

  “Not the first time, although his voice made a special imprint.”

  “Go on.”

  “He was quite clever and I didn’t really know what he was looking for until a few days later. By then, of course, it was over.”

  “You mean the assassination?”

  “Of course. You see, he was searching for someone who could pull the trigger, probing possibilities. Apparently he had some preconceived profile. He wanted someone who had enough motive, hatred, to pull the trigger. Someone who could be tipped off to the Ngu brothers’ exact whereabouts at a preset time, with enough balls to do the job.”

  “And you found the man?”

  “I said it was easy. I found many. You could have thrown darts at a wall of names. It was almost an honor. I found him a good prospect. A commander of an armored unit, not very high up. No paper passed between us, just words. He was a persistent cuss.”

  “But you never saw him?”

  “Let me finish. I said I met with him twice.” There was a well of belligerency in the man, as if he had withdrawn into himself, within some mental fortress. Perhaps he saw the challenge to his credibility as further humiliation, new evidence of his manipulation by unseen forces. “It was during the night of the actual coup. There was fighting still going on in the Palace. This time he used the telephone. He knew spook talk and I understood him. It was quite clear: same station. Off I went to the fleabag hotel, directly to the shithouse, sitting down in the foul place. I could hear him breathing beside me and could see his shoes from under the partition. Apparently the first name I had given him had fallen through and he probed for another, a similar profile. I tell you it was easy. I came up with another name quickly. He made me spell it again and again until it sunk in. I knew by then that it had something to do with the Diem thing. It’s funny how silly this sounds in retrospect. Grown men sitting on the crapper plotting a killing. It’s hilarious when you think about it.”

  “I’m sure it’s given you great moments of nostalgia,” Nick said. There was something grating, offensive, unclean, about the man.

  “I was sitting in the stall nearest the sink,” Allison continued, “and someone had come in and was waiting, which made it impossible to continue talking. The man told me to stay where I was and he got out instead. I heard the water in the sink begin to run and splashing noises. There was a crack in the thin wood of the stall and, in the dull light of the small electric bulb over the sink, I could see the outline of his profile quite clearly. His collar was open and he was washing his neck. I was so close to him I could almost touch him and somehow his dog tag got loose and, by the glint of that light, I could actually see his name, Burton Henderson, as clearly as I can see your face. He turned toward me only once and I could also see his eyes, incredibly blue. He was a handsome bugger. When the man who was using the other crapper left, he got in the stall again, and I had to repeat the prospect’s name. It was getting unbearable in there. I remember pleading with him to let me get the hell out of there. Finally, I left. As far as I know he was stiff sitting there in that Oriental stink.”

  “Are you sure this Senator Henderson is the same man?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then why can’t we confirm it?” Nick said, turning to Gunderstein.

  “I’ve tried. I’ve badgered the CIA and as many old Viet Nam hands as I could find.”

  “They couldn’t confirm it,” Allison said. “This operation was strictly outside the chain of command. There wouldn’t be a single document on the subject, not a breath. I’m the only connection.”

  “And the Viet Nam commander who led the assassination team?”

  “Long dead. They saw to that early in the game.”

  “That’s the trouble with you spooks. You see some sordid conspiracy everywhere.”

  “Monkey sees as monkey does,” Allison said, his tongue heavy now.

  “So it can’t be confirmed. All we have is your word,” Nick said, wanting to add: And that’s not very much. But Allison was alert to the implication. He was drunk but apparently his mind was still clear.

  “And I suppose you don’t put a high premium on that.”

  “Now that you mention it.” Nick shrugged.

  “It wouldn’t matter, anyway, Mr. Gold,” Gunderstein said, “he won’t be quoted.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a lousy life, but the only one I’ve got. They’ll stop at nothing.”

  “They?”

  “Powerful men stop at nothing. And what could be sweeter, more tantalizing than revenge? The Kennedy brothers for the Ngu brothers. Old boozy Carter Allison for handsome Burt Henderson. I know my equations, Mr. Gold.”

  “Kennedy was shot exactly three weeks after the Ngu brothers,” Gunderstein said. “He’s frightened. And I can’t confirm it. If only you’d let me write the story without using the man’s name . . . I think I’d be able to flush out another source.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Allison said, finishing the tumbler full of whiskey, quickly replaced by Gunderstein. “Henderson was an NSA man, a retread, called in just for this purpose. He also had some knowledge of the language. And he was in Viet Nam during that period. All that is a cinch to confirm.”

  Gunderstein nodded.

  “Purely circumstantial,” Nick said. “You’re accusing the man of engineering an assassination.”

  “I’m more than accusing. I’m insisting,” Allison said, his face flushing, his eyes narrowing.

  “I think this story is like cotton candy. It melts in the mouth,” Nick said. He stood up and began to pac
e the room, making detours to avoid knocking down piles of books. “There’s simply not enough to go on. We’ve no moral right to accept this . . . this hearsay. It would destroy Henderson’s career.”

  “Moral right,” Allison sputtered. “You’ll make me ill. If I thought I was getting into the area of moral right, I’d never have opened my yap. You guys are newspapermen, aren’t you? Since when do you guys deal in moral right? I’m giving you a story. I’m telling you that your hero Burton Henderson is full of shit, a fraud. All you pinko bleeding hearts. You think Henderson is all nigger lover, all heart, and you plant kisses on both his cheeks. It makes me want to vomit.”

  “We’re certainly not a conduit for revenge,” Nick said, sitting down again. He was conscious of having a strong desire to bait the man, to push him into some vague admission of dark motives. Allison emptied his glass and looked helplessly at Gunderstein, who turned away in obvious embarrassment.

  “There isn’t a shred of hard evidence, Allison,” Gunderstein said sadly. “I’ve tracked it everywhere, the CIA, the NSA, old Nam hands, even Madam Nhu who I reached in Paris. Oh, there’s a general undercurrent of agreement on the CIA’s role, but Henderson is not in it. And that’s the story, Allison. You’ve got to see Mr. Gold’s point. He wants another source of confirmation. You can’t really blame him.”

  The man’s bloodshot eyes sought Nick’s. Why had he come? Nick wondered. Was he really hoping that the information would be more conclusive? Of course he was, he assured himself, dismissing, as Allison had done, the moral niceties of the situation. He was looking for dirt and he knew it.