Word of Honor

  “The military has a certain masculine appeal.”

  “Don’t get carried away.” She looked at him. “Would you . . . would you ever go back in—I mean, under other circumstances—if they called you in a national emergency? Another war?”

  Tyson replied, “Yes, I would serve my country again.”

  “Even after what the Army has done to you?”

  “They’ve done nothing to me. They think I’ve done something to them.”

  “Would you go back in for an unpopular, Vietnam-type, undeclared war?”

  “Mine is not to reason why. I didn’t even fight this recall as hard as I could have.”

  “Boy, once they’ve got you, they’ve got you forever, don’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so. Military service exerts a lasting influence on a man far beyond the short number of years he was on duty. Just like jail time. Ask anyone who was in—jail or the Army.”

  “I believe you. I just don’t understand. I never understood how millions of men could clash on the battlefield, leaving piles of corpses, then do it again and again.”

  “Men love war. They love fucking the enemy, and when they withdraw, there is a postcoital depression that lingers for the rest of their lives.”

  “Scary, Ben. Scary.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Marcy looked out over the nearly empty dining room and saw a couple turn their faces away. She said, “Why do you suppose people are staring at us?”

  “They are absolutely dazzled by the dashing new officer and his lady.”

  She smiled grimly. “As long as they’re not saying, ‘There’s that war criminal and his whore.’”

  “My dear, in the officer corps all the brothers are courageous and all the sisters virtuous.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She sipped on her gin and tonic as she looked out the window. The night sky had cleared as suddenly as it had darkened earlier, and a stiff wind from the south fluttered the illuminated Stars and Stripes on the lawn. On the patio a barbecue was in progress, and she heard the sound of a steel band and saw the flames of the charcoal pit and the Tonga torches. She said, “There’s something vaguely anachronistic about this place.”

  “That’s what you say about Garden City. In truth, you are the anachronism, a time-traveler from the sixties.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Still, this is a very closed society, isn’t it?”

  “It’s supposed to be. It has its own internal reality, which is based in part on its own history, exclusive of the society outside the gates.”

  “Now that I’m here in this environment, I’m beginning to understand you better.”

  “I’m beginning to understand me better too.”

  She asked, “Were you invited to that party out there?”

  He glanced out the window. “All members are invited to all club functions. But I’m supposed to send my regrets.”

  “I see.”

  The waitress came, and they ordered their food and a bottle of Mouton Cadet. They chatted pleasantly, just like old times, they agreed. They held hands across the table, and the waitress smiled at them as she brought the food. Marcy and Ben ate in companionable silence.

  Tyson finished his steak and poured himself and Marcy more wine. He looked across the dining room and said, “We’re about to have company.”

  Marcy turned and saw a large ruddy-faced man with sandy hair, about fifty years old, making his way toward them from the direction of the patio. The man wore casual slacks and a rather silly flowered shirt. She said, “Who is that?”

  “That is the Reverend Major Kennard Oakes, a Baptist chaplain. He has befriended me.”

  “Well, you need all the friends you can get.”

  The Reverend Oakes drew up to their table and smiled widely. He drawled in a deep southern accent, “Ben, are you drinking the devil’s brew again?”

  Tyson shook hands with the minister. “I’m Episcopalian. Drunkenness is a sacrament.”

  “Blasphemy. Is this Mrs. Tyson?”

  Tyson made the introductions. Reverend Oakes sat without an invitation and took Marcy’s hand across the table, patting it. “You are a very beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tyson said, “I’d offer you a glass of wine, but I don’t want to tempt you.”

  The minister smiled. “Why aren’t you two outside?”

  Tyson replied, “Marcy and I just made wild passionate love, and we wanted to be alone.”

  Marcy’s eyebrows rose, and there was a silence at the table. Finally the Reverend Oakes smiled and said lightly, “So, Ben, how was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you free tomorrow morning? I have to drive down to Fort Dix, and I’d like the company.”

  Tyson lit a cigarette. “I have a group tomorrow morning.”

  “Then perhaps tomorrow afternoon. I can reschedule my appointment at Dix.”

  Tyson exhaled a stream of smoke. He said to Marcy, “Major Oakes is on temporary duty here like I am. But unlike me, he’s not awaiting court-martial.” He addressed the minister. “What did you say you were doing here?”

  He turned to Marcy. “I’m here on special orders from the Army Chaplain School to evaluate the Bible classes given to young people at the various posts and installations in the New York metropolitan area.”

  Marcy said, “How interesting.”

  Tyson said, “You won’t be conducting any services at the post chapel then?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. The Reverend Perry is an excellent preacher if you want to see a good Baptist service.”

  Tyson nodded. “I’m glad you’re here.” He put his hand firmly on the minister’s arm. “I had an argument with a fellow in the lounge last night, padre. He insisted it was John who said, ‘The Pharisees also came unto him, tempting him, and saying unto him, “Is it lawful for a man to put away his wife for every cause?” ’ I say it was Luke. So who was it?” He stared at Reverend Oakes.

  “John.”

  “No, it was Mark.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No, that’s wrong,” said Tyson. “It was Matthew. You fail Bible class.”

  The Reverend Oakes smiled and replied, “Who gives a shit, Tyson?”

  Marcy’s eyes widened.

  The man pulled his arm away from Tyson, and they both stood. Tyson said, “Beat it, bozo.”

  The man glared at Tyson for a second, then nodded. “Chaplains are hard to do. I told them that. You’re good though.” He turned and left.

  Tyson sat.

  Marcy said, “What in the name of God . . . ?”

  “In the name of God indeed. What swine!”

  “Who?”

  “That is the question,” said Tyson.

  “That man was spying on you?”

  “I suppose you’d call it that.” Tyson finished his glass of wine. “Well, there’s a lesson for you. Be careful who you speak to.”

  Marcy drew a deep breath. “This is bizarre.”

  “Amen.” Tyson looked at his watch. “I have to make a phone call. This new lawyer, Corva.” He stood. “Be about ten minutes. Order coffee and dessert.”

  She said, “I want a telephone installed.”

  “Call about it tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have a telephone.”

  He smiled and walked out of the dining room. Tyson passed the pay phones and headed toward the exit. He’d made his phone call earlier in the day, and it wasn’t his lawyer he’d called but the American Investigator.

  Tyson walked across the cobbled drive, still wet with the earlier rain, and opened the heavy oak door of the museum with his key. He entered, leaving the door partly ajar. Dim security lights illuminated uniformed mannequins with sabers and rifles, giving the impression of an evil place. Tyson glanced at his watch again. He heard a sound at the door, then a weak rap, and the door swung in. Tyson said, “Come in.”

  A figure stood on the cobble dr
ive, then stepped up into the lobby area. “Mr. Tyson?”

  “Right. Mr. Jones?”

  “Yeah.” Wally Jones stayed near the door and peered into the shadowy room.

  Tyson looked at him in the doorway, silhouetted against the lights of the Officers’ Club on the far side of the drive. He was heavyset and wore an ill-fitting bush jacket with matching light trousers. He had a leather bag slung over his shoulder. Tyson couldn’t see his face clearly, but he appeared to be a man in his early fifties. Tyson said, “Come on in and shut the door.”

  Jones took another step into the museum’s lobby but did not close the door. “Is this where you want to talk?”

  “Yes. I have an office in the rear.”

  “You want to give me your side of the story?”

  “That’s what I told your editor.”

  “Okay. That’s good. That’s what we always wanted. Your side of the story. We never want to be unfair. Nobody wanted to do a hatchet job on you. Least of all me. I was in Korea. Most of our readers are the patriotic type. You know? So this is good.”

  “I want to tell you how the Army shafted me. But if your readers are the patriotic type, maybe you won’t print that.”

  “Oh, we’ll print it! We’ll print anything you say.”

  “Okay. Follow me.” Tyson turned and took a few steps. He looked back over his shoulder. “This way.”

  Jones chuckled nervously and said, “Hey, are you alone?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Yeah. Look, why don’t we step outside? Someplace sort of public but private. Like take a walk down to the water.”

  Tyson replied, “I can’t be seen talking to you. But . . . okay. Let me get my notes.” Tyson walked off into the dark recesses of the museum, slipped off his loafers, and, carrying them, circled back and stood at the doorway behind Wally Jones. “Ready?”

  Jones gave a start and spun around. “Oh . . . Christ, you scared—”

  Tyson delivered a powerful blow to Jones’s solar plexus. Jones doubled over, and Tyson brought his knee up into Jones’s face, hearing and feeling the man’s nose break. Jones stumbled around, bent over, one hand on his midsection and the other over his face. Tyson slipped his shoes on and planted a savage kick to his rear, and Jones sprawled across the stone floor, moaning in pain.

  Tyson heard a sound behind him and turned. A flash blinded him, followed by another. He charged out of the museum toward the photographer, who got off another shot before he turned and ran. Tyson followed.

  Suddenly two men in jogging suits appeared from around the side of the museum. One grabbed the photographer around the arms, and the other pulled the camera from his hands, smashed it on the pavement, then came at Tyson. Tyson crouched in a defensive stance and waited.

  The man drew abreast of the open museum door and shined a flashlight on Wally Jones lying inside on the floor. The light revealed a small puddle of blood forming around Jones’s face. The man swung the flashlight toward Tyson and shined it in his eyes. He said, “Just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The man with the forty-five automatic pointed at you.”

  Tyson heard the metallic double click of the hammer being cocked.

  The headlights of an approaching vehicle rounded the side of the museum, and the vehicle drew up beside Tyson. A man poked his head out of the rear window. “You are a violent man.”

  Tyson clearly recognized the voice of Chet Brown. Brown said, “Get in the car, killer.”

  * * *

  The car sped over the Verrazano Bridge. Tyson lit a cigarette. The driver, a young man with a hard look, called back, “Would you mind not smoking?”

  Tyson exhaled a stream of smoke toward the front. Brown laughed softly. Tyson looked at Brown at the far end of the rear seat. He was wearing a white tennis outfit. Brown said, “How’s your new job?”

  Tyson drew on his cigarette and looked out the side window at the Statue of Liberty standing tall in its eerie green splendor.

  Chet Brown said, “By the way, someone will escort your lady back to your quarters with an explanation.”

  Tyson inquired, “Was Oakes yours?”

  “Maybe. Chaplains are hard to do.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll have to set up a special class for that now.”

  “Who? Who are you?”

  Brown replied, “You wouldn’t recognize the name. We’re so shadowy, even the CIA doesn’t quite believe we exist.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  Brown changed the subject. “As for Wally Jones, I don’t blame you, Ben. That bastard had it coming. If he’d written things about my wife like that, I’d have done the same thing. Anyway, that one was free—on us. But if you do anything like that again, you can deal with the police yourself. I can’t obstruct justice more than once a month or so.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “Well, that’s my job, Ben. I’m your assigned guardian angel. That’s why I’m wearing white.”

  Tyson retreated into a moody silence.

  The car went through the far right lane of the toll plaza without paying, swung around to the right, and approached the main gate of Fort Wadsworth. The MP waved them on, and the car wound its way through the dark, deserted streets of the mostly unused fort. They drove down an incline toward the Narrows, passed a dock, and pulled up to the foreboding granite walls of Battery Weed.

  Brown got out of the car and motioned for Tyson to follow. They walked to a set of huge double doors on the landward side of the three-tiered artillery battery. Brown pulled a door open and entered a cavernous chamber partially lit by small hanging light bulbs. Iron staircases ran off in different directions, and Tyson followed Brown to one of them, their footsteps echoing in the damp, still air. Brown led the way through a wide arched corridor that was lined on one side with wooden doorways. He said, “Pick any door.”

  Tyson indicated one, and Brown opened it. Tyson followed him into a room illuminated only by the light coming from two open gun ports.

  Brown stood at one of the openings and looked out across the Narrows. “Some view. Hamilton, the Shore Parkway, Coney Island, Kennedy Airport, the bridge, and the harbor. Smell that salt air.”

  Tyson’s eyes adjusted to the weak light, and he noticed that the stone walls were covered with grotesque depictions of animallike creatures painted in fluorescent colors.

  Brown followed his gaze. “Cult stuff. The CID says they’re Satanists. They find slaughtered dogs, cats, and chickens in these rooms.”

  Tyson didn’t respond but moved to the far right gun port and stared out across the Narrows. Brown, he admitted, had a flair for choosing interesting places to chat. “How long have you been snooping on me?”

  “Long enough to deduce that you and Harper are on the verge of something wonderful.”

  Tyson leaned out over the three-foot-thick sill of the gun port. It was about thirty feet to the embankment below.

  “You came close tonight, lover. But you didn’t count on your wife showing up. I literally held my breath when you and Karen ran into your digs. You must have done some fancy footwork because an hour later there you were holding hands with the missus over dinner. What a man!”

  Tyson lifted himself onto the sill and sat lengthways in the big gun port, his back to the stone wall and his knees drawn up. He lit a cigarette and looked out over the far horizon. He noticed that Brown’s manner was somewhat less cultured than it had been at the Athletic Club. Brown seemed more the tough guy here, and Tyson suspected the man had the chameleonlike ability to blend into his surroundings. He wondered which one was the real Chet Brown. Probably neither.

  “You’ve had a hell of a day.” Brown moved closer to Tyson. “Hey, are you practicing? I mean, sitting in a stone room and staring forlornly out the window.”

  Tyson flipped his cigarette toward Brown. “Keep your distance.”

  Brown retreated
a step. “I’m just so thrilled to see you again. Anyway, as a guardian angel I can do certain things or not do them to alter the fate of mortals. But you control your own destiny on my days off. So watch the fucking and the fighting and don’t call journalists unless you intend to beat them up. Okay?”

  Tyson yawned. “Are you finished?”

  “No. Does the name Colonel Eric Willets mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, your name means something to him. He’s Karen’s lover, and he’d like a piece of your ass.”

  “Tell him not to believe everything he reads in the papers. That’s what I tell my wife.”

  Brown laughed. “I’ll pass that on.” He said, “You know, Ben, I like you. But you are the cause of much unhappiness. There is a black cloud following you, and everyone near you gets rained on. And on a national level, you have caused unhappiness in Washington. Did you read this morning’s Times?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re the subject of a congressional inquiry. Also the U.N. Commission on Genocide has expressed interest in the case. They’re talking about sending a fact-finding mission to Hue, and Hanoi says they’re quite welcome to do that. I mean, who needs this shit, Ben?”

  “Not me.”

  “Not your country either.”

  Tyson stared at Brown in the pale light. Things were becoming more clear. He felt his mouth going dry. He swung his legs around and slid down from the gun opening.

  “Now you keep your distance.” Brown continued, “We could get mad at Brandt too, I guess. He had the big mouth. If he weren’t around, the case would collapse.”

  Tyson slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and found his Swiss Army knife.

  Brown went on ruminatively, “I voted for Brandt to go, but . . .” He shrugged. “There are those who think justice would be better served if it were you.”

  His hand still in his pocket, Tyson worked the clasp blade out of the handle, slicing his fingers as he levered it open.

  “We offered you a deal.”

  “Offer it to me again.”

  “Okay. Will you take it?”

  “Shove it up your ass.”

  Brown smiled tightly. “You are a cool one. I’ll give you that.” Brown glanced around the room, then his eyes focused again on Tyson. He drew a small automatic from an elastic band on his waist, and Tyson saw the black dull silencer in sharp contrast to the silvery nickel plating of the pistol. Brown said, “Climb out on the sill.”