50
It was immediately evident that neither Tom Bishop nor Frank Gale were strangers to those gathered in the tent.
Behind them came Executive Assistant Director Bradley Warren, a man Travis had met on no more than three or four occasions, and as soon as he stepped from the rear of one of the sedans on the road beside the field, Travis heard Doyle say, “Oh, they have indeed sent the big guns.”
Behind Bishop, Gale, and Warren were Raymond Carvahlo, Paul Erickson, and two or three others whom Travis did not recognize. Travis could only assume that they were Warren’s escort unit. To be here so quickly, Warren must already have been in Kansas.
Gale approached Doyle, and on his face was an expression of condescension.
“So, what are you calling yourself now, you spineless son of a bitch?”
Doyle laughed softly. “You know very well, Frank.”
“Ironic choice of name, don’t you think? Edgar?”
“I thought it was fitting.”
Gale paused for a moment, looking Doyle up and down. “You’re looking well, I must say.”
“Sad to say I cannot return the compliment, Frank. You don’t look too good at all. You’ve put on a good few years and more than a good few pounds. Perhaps the constant diet of lies and bullshit is finally catching up with you.”
Gale smiled sarcastically and then turned to the assembled gathering. He scanned the faces before him, and then he went back to Doyle.
“Time for you to take responsibility for your past,” Gale said. He glanced back at Warren, and Warren nodded.
“He came,” Doyle said matter-of-factly. “I am impressed. What did he do? Fly from D.C.?”
“Neither here nor there, Doyle,” Gale said. “You go on back and deal with him. Personally, I am hoping that I never have to see your face again.”
“Reciprocated,” Doyle said, and started toward the Lincoln.
Travis stood there watching, and though Doyle had intimated that Hoover himself might come, he found it almost impossible to believe.
“Special Agent Travis,” Gale said. “I hear word you’ve been causing a little flurry of excitement down here.”
Travis continued to watch Doyle until Doyle had climbed into the rear of the car. The door slammed with authority, and he looked back at Gale.
“I have questions, sir, and I have not been able to obtain any satisfactory answers,” Travis said. He felt uneasy. Now he felt the sense of urgency and fear that he’d anticipated when speaking to Bishop on the phone. A delayed reaction, perhaps.
Warren and Bishop stood back a little way behind Gale, their expressions somewhere between dismay and superiority.
“Is that what you believe you’re here for, son?” Gale said. “To obtain satisfactory answers?”
“I believe I am here for the reason I was assigned to this case,” Travis said.
“Which was?”
“To determine who was responsible for the death of Andris Varga.”
Gale smiled, glanced back at Warren.
“You are not denying that the dead man was Andris Varga?” Travis asked.
Gale frowned. “Deny? What do you mean, deny? You are interrogating me now, Agent Travis?”
“I am asking a question, sir, that is all. As a result of my investigation, I learned the identity of the dead man. I am asking whether or not his identity was known to the Bureau before I was even sent here.”
“Bishop told me about this allegation… this thing you had somehow managed to convince yourself of.”
“So you’re telling me that you did not know that this man’s name was Andris Varga, that you were unaware of the fact that he belonged to this Fekete Kutya organization?”
“This what organization? Fek-what?” Gale asked.
“He is lying,” Chester Greene said. He stepped forward and stood to Travis’s right.
“Chester Greene,” Gale said. “The one and only.”
“You are lying, Gale,” Oscar Haynes added. “It is obvious you are lying.”
“Haynes,” Gale said. “How are you, Oscar? Still telling bullshit stories about John Dillinger?” Gale turned to look at Mr. Slate. “And you,” he added. “The one and only Harold Lamb, the whore’s son.”
“You know them all,” Travis said, and in that moment he realized that what he had most feared, and yet what he had known for so long, was true.
Warren stepped forward. “I am Executive Assistant Director Bradley Warren.”
“I know who you are, sir.”
“I am issuing you a direct order now, Special Agent Travis. I am ordering you to step away from these people, to walk to the car over there, to sit in the back and wait for me.”
“I cannot do that, sir.”
“And why can’t you do that, Agent Travis?”
“Because I believe that there is going to be a further attempt to fabricate evidence, to perpetrate a miscarriage of justice—”
Warren looked back at Gale, and for a moment it seemed as though they were sharing some private joke at everyone else’s expense.
“Listen to yourself,” Warren said. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? I am the executive assistant director, you are a special agent—”
“Senior special agent,” Travis interjected.
There was a flash of irritation in Warren’s expression.
“Do as you’re ordered, Travis,” Gale said, stepping forward to stand beside Warren.
“Stay right where you are,” Slate said, taking a step forward to stand beside Travis.
Haynes and Greene moved forward also, the two of them behind Slate and Travis.
In echo, Carvahlo, Erickson, and Bishop came up behind Warren and Gale.
Travis indicated Carvahlo with a nod of his head. “You took the body out of here on Wednesday, you and someone else. Were you with him, Erickson?”
Neither Carvahlo nor Erickson responded.
“Some people know when to keep their mouths shut,” Bishop said.
Gale glanced back at Bishop. “Enough from you,” he said. “Had you run this as closely as you were instructed, we would not be in this farcical situation right now. I have a great deal more important things to be doing than—”
“Than housework?” Travis asked. “Isn’t that what this is? A little extracurricular housework?”
“You have no idea—” Gale started.
“Andris Varga,” Travis replied. “Fekete Kutya, arrested in New York City in June of 1954. What he’s been doing since then is anybody’s guess. Maybe just taking care of those odd bits of housework that you are too superior to dirty your hands with, eh?”
Gale glared at Travis.
Travis felt a sense of vindicated indignation rising in his chest. He was waiting for a denial, and that was all. A clear, uncomplicated, unequivocal statement of denial regarding any aspect of this, and—as of that moment—no such denial had been forthcoming.
“And what about Frank Olson?” Travis asked. “And Harold Blauer—”
“Enough!” Warren said. “You say one more word and I will—”
“What, sir? What will you do?”
“You, my poor, misguided, deluded friend,” Gale said, “have ended what could have been a very illustrious and rewarding career. You listened to what Doyle told you? You believed what he told you? The bullshit, the conspiracy, the lunatic ravings of a paranoid madman? Oh come on. Seriously, I cannot believe that you have been taken in by these sideshow freaks.”
“What about Joseph Pruitt?” Slate interjected. “He was another sideshow freak, wasn’t he? Or was he different? What about Kathleen Caldwell, Timothy Reynolds, Otto—”
“I said that’s enough!” Warren barked. His face had reddened considerably, and he stared at Slate with an expression of such intense hatred that Travis believed he might
actually have backed him off.
But Slate merely smiled knowingly and said, “The roll call goes on, my friend, and you know it does.”
“Whatever names you mentioned are nothing to do with me,” Warren said.
“Still lying,” Chester Greene said. “And not too good at it, either.”
Warren turned on Greene. “You shut your fucking mouth, you fucking abomination!”
Slate raised his right hand, and he started to count off the names on his seven fingers. “Joseph Pruitt, Kathleen Caldwell, Timothy Reynolds, Otto den Braber, Lawrence Carson, Linda Glatt—”
Gale stepped past Warren, and before Warren could even say a word, there was a gun pointed directly at Slate’s head. The muzzle was mere inches from his eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Warren shouted. “Jesus Christ, Frank. Put the fucking gun away!”
“Just give me the word, sir,” Gale said. “Just give me the word and I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
“Gale! Put the gun away!” Warren commanded. “Put the goddamned gun away right fucking now!”
“He can’t,” Slate said. “He is demonstrating his authority, just exactly as he does with… what’s his name now, Frank? That young and handsome university lecturer you are sleeping with? The secret little life that you so desperately hide from your wife, your children, your fellow agents—”
“You… you…” Gale started, his eyes wide, his face a seething mask of absolute disgust. He raised his hand and brought the gun down across Slate’s nose. There was an audible crack as the bone gave, and Slate dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his face, blood pouring from between his fingers.
Warren grabbed Gale’s arm and twisted it hard behind Gale’s back. Gale dropped the gun and Warren kicked it to Bishop. Bishop picked up the gun and put it in the pocket of his overcoat.
“Carvahlo, Erickson, take Gale to the car. Lock him in. Get an agent to stay with him and come directly back.”
Carvahlo and Erickson did as they were ordered, and Gale was hurried away to one of the sedans.
Travis helped Slate to his feet, and then Haynes and Greene walked him to a bench where they sat him down.
“Fetch Valeria and Akiko,” Travis said. “Have them come and take care of Mr. Slate.”
“Oh, Valeria is still here, is she?” Warren asked. “I always wondered what it was she saw in Doyle. But then, perhaps gypsy whores are not renowned for their taste in men.”
“If you are looking to provoke me into some sort of violence, Mr. Warren, then think again. I am not going to give you the slightest justification for shooting me.”
“Oh, I don’t need to shoot you, Agent Travis. I have every single one of you sewn up in a neat conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, withholding evidence, accomplice to murder, and I am sure we can throw in a couple of extradition warrants for that Romanian bitch and that Japanese—”
Warren stopped talking as Valeria and Akiko appeared through the doorway of the marquee. They hurried to where Mr. Slate sat nursing his shattered nose, and without a word they escorted him out of the marquee and away toward the caravans.
Carvahlo and Erickson returned, and they stood with Warren and Bishop.
Travis took a step forward, Greene and Haynes to his left. Travis’s hand was in his jacket pocket, his fingers around the grip of his .38. He felt things he had never felt before, so far beyond even the mental and emotional disorientation that had assaulted his senses during the previous days. He was certain now. Neither Gale nor Warren had denied a thing. The people surrounding him were known to the Bureau—by name, by immediate history—and the tone and attitude with which Warren and Gale had confronted Travis said all that needed to be said. They wanted him to step down, to color inside the lines, to be a good company man and help them make this disappear. But this was not why he was here, not now, and he was more than willing to do whatever was required to ensure the safety and survival of Doyle and the others. His loyalties lay with Doyle and Greene, with Haynes and Valeria, and somehow, some way, these loyalties seemed now constant with his own. What had been discovered in Seneca Falls was not what he had expected.
“You are finished, Agent Travis,” Warren said. “You do understand that, don’t you?”
Travis looked back at the man, the arrogant expression, the self-satisfied smugness of everything he believed he was, and he shook his head. “I understand that I have been deceived, Mr. Warren.”
“What do you want me to say, Travis? You want me to tell you the truth, the real truth? You want me to explain every decision, every action, every considered consequence and implication of all that we do? We are responsible for the safety of a nation. We are responsible for the well-being and security of every man, woman and child in the United States of America. That is our charge, Agent Travis. That is the burden we carry, and there are very few people whose shoulders are broad enough and strong enough to bear such a burden.”
“You believe your own propaganda, don’t you?” Haynes said.
“You can shut your fucking mouth, Haynes,” Warren said. “This is between me and Agent Travis. This has nothing to do with you. You are nothing but a distraction.”
“This has everything to do with these people,” Travis said. “You wanted them charged and convicted of crimes that not only did they know nothing about, but crimes that you sanctioned—”
“You think you can stop us, Travis? You honestly believe that you can stop us? One man?”
“I am not one man,” Travis said.
“Oh, you think these lunatics will stand by you when we put them in jail, when we send that Romanian bitch back where she came from, when we put Benedek on a boat and send him home to Budapest?”
“You know them all, don’t you?” Travis said. “You know more about these people than I do. This is all some kind of bullshit game to you, isn’t it? These aren’t real people, and these aren’t real lives, are they?”
“They are not American lives, Travis! You made an oath, remember? I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God. You remember that, Travis, or is your memory as compromised as your loyalties?”
“There is nothing wrong with my memory, Mr. Warren, nor my loyalties. There is a great deal wrong with your loyalties, however—”
“I am fulfilling my duty, Agent Travis—”
“By killing people, by planting evidence to incriminate others, by perverting every single basic—”
“I am doing what I have been ordered to do! I am following orders, and those orders have been issued from the highest offices and for the greatest good. This is not a personal issue, Travis. This is an issue for all of us, for the nation, for the American people!”
“It was personal for Andris Varga,” Travis said.
“Enough about Varga!” Warren said. “You think anyone really gives a single solitary damn about Varga? He was nothing. He was nobody. He did what he was asked to do, and that was that.”
“Did he kill for you, Mr. Warren?” Travis asked. “Is that what you had him do? Did he murder people for you, people who got in the way of the greater good?”
Warren turned suddenly to Bishop and Erickson. “Take him. Arrest him. Do it now!”
Bishop stepped forward.
Travis withdrew his hand from his pocket and pointed his .38 directly at Warren. He expected then to feel the spirit of his father within him, as he intended to unleash violence, as he intended to shoot Bradley Warren right where he stood.
Travis waited for the rush of blood, the way it would fill his mind with fears of what he
could be capable of… but there was nothing. He felt merely distant and calculating, unafraid of what would now happen.
Warren’s expression relaxed, as if he now had Travis precisely where he wanted.
“He is threatening me with a firearm,” Warren said. “I will count to three, and if he has not lowered his gun, then you shoot him dead right where he stands.”
“I don’t reckon anyone’s gonna be shootin’ anyone.”
Travis turned at the sound of a familiar voice. It was Sheriff Rourke, in his hands a rifle, beside him Lester McCaffrey, also armed, and behind them came Larry Youngman, Jack Farley, Laura McCaffrey, and her brother Danny.
“Sheriff, stand down,” Warren said. “This is federal business. This is no longer your jurisdiction.”
“Oh, I think it is my jurisdiction, especially when it comes to the law, Mr. Warren. I heard pretty much everything you’ve said, and I have to say that I am on Mr. Travis’s side of the fight, and that side suits me just fine.” Rourke raised his rifle at waist height and aimed it toward Bishop and Erickson. “If you fine gentlemen would just back away a step or two, that would be very much appreciated.”
“You will do no such thing!” Warren said to Bishop and Erickson.
The agents near the cars started forward, now uncertain as to what was expected of them.
“Oh, we can have ourselves a Mexican standoff right here and now,” Rourke said, “but I got a rifle here, and my deputy is a damned fine shot with his sidearm, and then we got Larry with a thirty-ought and he can take the wing off of a bird at three hundred feet. Jack Farley’s got himself a pump action, and though I am sure he doesn’t even have a license for it, that won’t stop him using it. You wanna dance, then we’ll dance with you, sir, but I reckon you’ve got about zero chance of getting out of here without some holes in you.”
“You are dealing with the Federal Bureau of Investigation—”
“Sounds to me like I’m dealing with a handful of crooks and liars, whether they be federal or otherwise. All I know is that there was a dead body here, and then all of a sudden there was no dead body anymore. Maybe you had every right to take it away. I’m not questioning those rights, but I sure as hell know that there was no warrant, there was no court order, and unless you are prepared to give us our dead body back, then it seems to me you got yourselves quite a problem.”