by Mark Arundel
‘What would you have me do?’ he said resignedly.
Rafferty didn’t reply. McGrath offered him a toffee. He took it.
‘They need a reason that will persuade Congress to grant authority for US military involvement to support the anti-communist government,’ Rafferty said coldly. ‘Do we have a spare ship? Something big, like a destroyer.’
‘We have destroyers,’ McGrath said.
‘Send one to the South China Sea on peacekeeping patrol or something,’ Rafferty said.
McGrath chewed his toffee.
‘What will the dispatch of a destroyer do?’ he asked.
‘They went in two boats at night and attacked at dawn, hitting both targets successfully. On the way out, the second boat picked up a tail. There was a skirmish with an exchange of fire. They got away and returned to Da Nang.’
McGrath nodded. He had read the report. He didn’t respond.
‘What would happen if a USS destroyer patrolling peacefully in the South China Sea were to be attacked by North Vietnam?’ Rafferty asked.
McGrath considered the question.
‘There would be congressional outrage,’ he said. ‘But the North Vietnamese aren’t going to attack a US destroyer.’
‘You’re right,’ Rafferty said, ‘they’re not. Did you know that the fast attack patrol boats used by the South are exactly like the ones used by the North? We attack our own destroyer with patrol boats disguised as those belonging to the North. The destroyer will report the attack and believe it and so will Congress. We can probably get away without killing anyone on board; just give them a fright, enough to make it seem real.’
The room was silent. McGrath was thinking. Rafferty could see from his face that he liked the idea. He waited for him to speak.
‘Could the destroyer fight back and sink one of the patrol boats and then uncover the truth?’ he asked. It was a sensible question.
‘No, that won’t happen,’ Rafferty said. ‘These patrol boats can fire from long range; they won’t get close to the destroyer. They’ll hit fast and be gone before the destroyer can react, but not before the captain figures out they’ve been attacked by the North.’
McGrath nodded in acceptance of the answer.
‘Why will the captain think it’s the North?’ he asked.
‘Who else could it be? He won’t think it’s his own side, will he?’
William McGrath’s expression didn’t change.
‘Do you want the communists to take the South? he said.
Rafferty shrugged.
‘No,’ McGrath said. ‘Congress will pass the resolution. It doesn’t mean troops right away. That can still be a separate decision.
Rafferty listened to what sounded like a declaration of war. He wasn’t proud of the contribution he had made. He tried not to think about the rights and wrongs. He saw himself as a professional soldier doing a job. It was for other men to give him the jobs and for others still to make the decisions over what came from his labours. However, if anyone asked, then he would say that war in Vietnam was a bad idea. McGrath knew how he felt. He also knew that Rafferty’s plan would smooth the political way, but that it would happen with or without him. Both men knew military intervention was inevitable.
Rafferty stepped out of the cab carrying his bag and headed into the terminal. He stood at the ticket desk holding his coat over his arm.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the woman said. ‘Your flight departs in thirty-five minutes. Here is your ticket. Enjoy the flight.’ The woman smiled. She had straight, white teeth.
Rafferty took his seat on the Boeing 707. The jet lifted gently and then climbed steeply. It banked starboard. Rafferty turned to look through the window. They were on a north-easterly heading. He settled and rested his head. The air hostess brought him coffee and a ring doughnut.
The air hostess came by again. He smiled at her and pointed down at his empty coffee cup.
It was snowing when the cab pulled over on Fifth, outside Rafferty’s apartment building.
Inside, Patrick Smith was drinking a beer. Rafferty dropped his bag and removed his coat.
‘When did you get here?’ he asked.
‘Who’s been staying in the spare room? The bed smells of perfume,’ Smithy said.
Rafferty’s mind pictured Natalie’s naked body.
‘It was a friend of Isabella’s,’ he said. ‘She was visiting for Christmas and wanted to go shopping before she left, so she stayed the night.’
He hadn’t decided whether to tell his friend about Natalie.
Smithy nodded and drank some more beer.
‘Do you want to go out?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ Rafferty said.
The two men left the apartment and trudged one block over onto Madison; then rode north, jumped off at 77th and crossed onto 76th.
Bemelmans Bar got its name in honour of the legendary creator of the Madeline books. The design was stylish and warm with touches of art deco, chocolate-brown leather seats, a black granite bar and a gold-leaf-covered ceiling. Bemelmans himself had painted the mural on the wall behind the bar. It was called Central Park.
The square table was nickel-trimmed with a black glass top. The two men sat away from the crowded bar stools against the far wall.
‘Do you know a logistics controller named Karen Brekke?’ Rafferty asked.
Smithy thought for a moment.
‘What does she look like?’ he said.
‘…Scandinavian, natural blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s working in the Burbank office on Fifth,’ Rafferty said.
‘Is she the one that contacted me?’
‘Yeah, that’s her.’
‘No, I don’t know her. Why, is something up?’
‘Just wondered why she was picked, that’s all.’
‘Who set it up?’
‘I don’t know, but I need to find out.’ Rafferty paused while he thought. ‘Isn’t tomorrow New Year’s Eve?’ he said.
44 New Year’s Eve, 1963, Manhattan, New York
Karen Brekke bathed slowly. She ran the foamy sponge along her arm and across her breasts. The hot water had made the glass misty and her reflection resembled a bad impressionist painting. She let her body slip lower into the water and then closed her eyes in contemplation.
His eyes were so cold, she thought, until he smiled. She wondered if he would smile tonight.
Karen brushed her hair and then tied a ponytail. She smoothed her lipstick and pinned small silver earrings. The black dress pulled tightly against her figure and the coat fell to her thigh. She positioned the hat and adjusted it using both hands.
The cab drove away from the Village.
‘Bemelmans Bar on East 76th Street,’ Karen said. The confirmation of her destination caused the driver’s head to bob up and down several times. He drove north on Fifth.
The city was busy and every other car was a cab. The driver turned onto Madison. He pulled up outside Bemelmans. She paid and the driver’s head went up and down. He drove away while she was still shutting the door.
Inside, the bar was warm and filled with smoke. A three-piece jazz band played and Karen saw the saxophone raised for a moment above the heads of the crowd.
It was a scrum of New Year revellers. She couldn’t see the bar. Finding any route through was difficult. She took an opportunity and made it far enough to glimpse a barstool. She scanned ahead. Was he there? She couldn’t see him. Without warning, Karen felt a close presence. She turned to look and there he was, standing right behind her.
‘Hello,’ she said, keeping the surprise from her voice that his sudden appearance had caused.
Rafferty studied her for a moment.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ he said.
A small clearing seemed to open and there at the bar appeared an empty stool. He took her hand while she lifted herself up. They were beside a square column, and the lamplight fell across her lap.
He stood next to her. He wore a dark suit. His face was freshly shaven and h
is short hair shone in the glow of the pale bar light. He seemed relaxed. His eyes hadn’t left her face.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. The barman was waiting.
‘I’ll have a beer,’ she said.
‘Two Rheingold,’ Rafferty said. The barman turned. He snapped two bottles and put them down on the bar beside two glasses.
‘So what’s this date about?’ Rafferty asked.
‘It’s not a date,’ Karen said.
‘…but you asked me out.’
‘I thought it would be a good idea,’ she explained, ‘to get to know each other.’
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘…a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s a date.’
Karen smiled.
‘I didn’t think you would be a question-asker,’ she said.
Rafferty drank some beer.
Karen did the same.
‘I’ve had four boyfriends,’ she said. ‘None of them asked me to marry them. One of them was already married. The last one left me four months ago for a Broadway dancer, a male Broadway dancer. I’m not looking for number five.’
Rafferty nodded casually as if this information was widely known.
She watched him, expecting something. She got nothing.
‘So, why haven’t you ever been married?’ she asked.
He sipped his beer.
‘Soldiers,’ he said, ‘don’t get married.’
‘You haven’t been a soldier since nineteen forty-seven,’ Karen said.
‘No, not officially, but…’
‘There must have been someone,’ she said, interrupting him, ‘someone who…’
‘No,’ he said, interrupting her back, ‘there’s been no one.’
She sipped her beer.
‘What was it like being a soldier?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer her question; instead, he asked one of his own.
‘How did you get this job?’
Karen paused for a moment.
‘I went to college in Massachusetts and then I worked for Chase Manhattan. An official from Washington D.C. approached me. I thought the job sounded interesting.’ She kept her voice light.
His eyes remained on her face.
‘Do you know any good war stories?’ she asked.
‘War’s terrible. There aren’t any good war stories.’
‘Okay, then, tell me a bad war story,’ she said.
Rafferty was silent while he held her gaze. He sipped his beer.
‘It was in nineteen forty-four,’ he said. ‘A day in late May and I was in Italy. Have you ever been to Italy?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I haven’t.’
‘I was leading a small infantry unit. We were scouting the hills close to a place called Artena. It was during our advance to Rome. There was a small town. It was a picture of whitewashed stone buildings. A rural spot, which lay at the foot of a rolling valley that was speckled with spring flowers. A church stood alongside the town square. It had a sand tiled roof, a big round clock and a very tall spire that held a golden cross. I can remember how the late afternoon sun stretched lovingly across the houses, kissing them with a warm glow. It was almost too pretty.’
He paused and drank some beer.
‘Go on,’ Karen said. Her eyes remained fixed on his face.
‘While we watched, from our concealed position on the hillside, we realised something was happening in the square. A German staff car had arrived with an armoured escort and two trucks containing about sixty German foot soldiers. I watched them closely through my binoculars.’
Karen’s eyes were getting bigger.
‘My scouting unit numbered only eight.’ He took a mouthful of beer.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Over the next ten minutes or so, the German soldiers moved through the houses and rounded up the men and the boys. The shouted orders came from an officer who stood in the staff car waving a swagger stick.
‘What happened?’
‘They picked ten of them.’
‘Oh, God,’ Karen said.
‘As the other men and boys watched, with the women and girls wailing and crying, pleading and begging; the wives and mothers, sisters and daughters, the German soldiers lined the ten up against the church wall.’
‘Oh, God, no,’ she said, not wanting to hear it.
‘The sound of the machine gun fire carried easily to our position on the hill. It was metallic and ugly. Afterwards, the only sound was the screaming. I remember watching the women running to the fallen bodies.’
Karen’s face was pale. She was silent. Her big eyes stared at Rafferty. She couldn’t look away. Eventually, she spoke.
‘What did you do?’ she asked.
‘We radioed our position, reported the German troop details and, of course, what we had seen.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We waited until nightfall and then we moved out,’ he said.
‘What about the Germans?’
‘They had left already.’
‘Did you find out more about it?’ she asked.
‘Not really. I heard it was a reprisal killing. It was for some betrayal the SS German officer believed the town had committed. The SS patrol was pulling back to Rome and I suppose it was his farewell gift.’
Karen’s eyes dropped to the bar. She didn’t want to finish her beer.
Rafferty checked his Waltham wristwatch.
‘Do you want to go to Times Square?’ he said.
Karen didn’t answer. She was still thinking about the dead men and the screaming women. She remembered a proverb about not knowing a man until you had walked a mile in his shoes. Inside, she felt herself shiver.
‘Times Square,’ Rafferty repeated.
Karen looked up.
‘What?’ she said.
The jazz band was taking a break. The musicians were smoking and drinking beer. Some girls had gathered around them. Bemelmans was suddenly quiet.
‘Or would you like to go somewhere else?’ he said.
‘Times Square’s okay,’ she said. ‘We can watch the ball drop.’
Just before they left Bemelmans, the jazz band started up again. The song they played was Wonderful World.
‘I’m not sure I want to stand outside in the cold for two hours,’ Karen said, buttoning her coat.
Somehow, Rafferty managed to get a cab on Madison. The Manhattan night was breathless and frosty.
‘I’ll buy you a hot drink,’ he said.
The cab’s brakes squealed as the driver stamped on the pedal. He was an elderly man and he wore thick spectacles. His grey head nodded every time Rafferty spoke, and he drove very slowly.
‘Do you think we’ll get there before midnight?’ Karen whispered.
‘Is this close enough?’ the old cab driver asked without moving his head. ‘I can pull out here and go across Broadway.’
Rafferty paid, and the old man wished them a happy new year.
‘We can keep to the Broadway side, around forty-second,’ Rafferty said.
‘Yeah, if you want,’ she said.
They walked in silence. The sidewalk had a night-time bustle that helped lift the cold.
‘Why did you go to Los Angeles?’ Karen asked.
‘There was someone there I had to see,’ he said.
‘…who?’ she asked.
‘It’s not important.’
She didn’t like that answer.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
The crowds in Times Square overflowed onto 42nd Street and reduced walking to a stroll.
Midnight was getting nearer. They stopped at a street vendor and bought hot drinks. The steam warmed their faces.
‘Do you know why they drop a ball?’ she asked.
‘Is it something to do with sports?’ he said.
Karen’s face was a little pink.
‘The ball represents New Ye
ar’s Day,’ she told him.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asked.
‘Yes, a little,’ she said and rubbed her gloved hands together. She gazed up at the roof of the skyscraper where the ball was waiting to drop down its pole.
She moved against him and took his arm. He felt warm against her side.
The countdown began. The atmosphere in the crowd suddenly jumped. It was contagious.
‘Six, five, four,’ the crowd shouted.
‘Three,’ said Karen joining in. There was a strong feeling of expectation.
‘Two,’ she shouted. The moment had caught her.
‘One,’ she yelled and giggled up and down.
‘Happy New Year!’ she sang, and her voice mixed with all of New York.
Karen smiled and laughed as the ball dropped. She hugged Rafferty’s arm.
‘Here’s to 1964,’ he said.
‘What shall we do now?’ she asked.
‘Do you want to go home?’ he said.
‘Let’s get a drink in the Village,’ she said.
‘Do you know a place?’ he asked.
They rode down 7th Avenue with the crowds and jumped off on Grove Street.
‘It’s just around the corner, on Bedford Street,’ she told him.
The bar at number 86 went by the name of Chumley’s. Inside, it was dark and relaxed. There were a long bar and shelves full of books. Rafferty thought the clientele were most likely writers, poets and political activists.
He and Karen sat at a small round table in two easy chairs. The solid bar protected a long mirror and a row of liquor bottles. A bald headed man with dark-ringed eyes and no smile served them.
‘This place started life as a speakeasy in the twenties,’ Karen said. Her voice was soft as though drinking alcohol might still be illegal. ‘It has a secret entrance on Barrow Street where the customers could come and go unnoticed by the prohibition cops.’
She sipped her hot chocolate and Rafferty sipped his coffee.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘if there’s a raid we’ll be in the clear.’
He pointed to their drinks.
Karen laughed.
He watched her.
She smiled.
Karen thought there were times when he seemed quite menacing but never frightening. He was too protective for that.