Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  She touched her glass to his. “Don’t be sulky.”

  They both drank.

  She said, “I forgot your umbrella.”

  “So I see.”

  “I think I left it on the plane.”

  “It was a gift from my grandmother, right before she died.”

  “Then she won’t know I lost it.”

  They stared at each other awhile, then smiled simultaneously. Tyson noticed she was in a somewhat lighter mood than last time. He wondered if this was because she had some good news for him. But based on the conversation so far, that wasn’t likely. More likely she’d just gotten some good news for herself or had sex or bought a new shade of lip gloss.

  She said, “I’m to advise you again of your right to remain silent and to have an attorney present and of your other rights in regard to this investigation.”

  “I’ll waive that.”

  “Okay.” She surprised him by signaling to a waitress. The waitress approached, and Karen Harper motioned toward the nearly full glass of wine. “Please take this and bring me a glass of Principessa Gavia. Do you have that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Only by the bottle.”

  “Fine.”

  The waitress took the glass and moved off.

  Tyson said, “When in Rome . . .”

  She replied, “It’s actually a Piedmont wine from the Banfi estate at Gavia.”

  “Really.”

  “I visited the winery once.”

  “Are you going to drink the whole bottle?”

  “I only want a glass.”

  “You wouldn’t have ordered that at the Presidential.”

  “Probably not.” She continued, “I’ve done some further work on this investigation. Mostly telephone calls plus some records research. I contacted Andrew Picard by phone. He was very reluctant to tell me the names of your two platoon members who gave him his story. But I persuaded him it would be in the best interests of justice.”

  Tyson recalled that Picard was an ex-officer and might also be vulnerable. He replied, “I’m sure you were convincing.” He lit a cigarette.

  She stared at him awhile, then said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me who they were?”

  “No, I’m playing it cool.”

  She replied, “Well, I’ll pretend you asked because then I have to tell you. One of the men who related the Miséricorde Hospital story to Picard was your former platoon medic, Steven Brandt.” She glanced at him. Tyson showed no reaction.

  She continued, “He’s now a physician in Boston. An orthopedist. I spoke to him by phone.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. And he reiterated and confirmed the story he gave to Picard about the massacre.”

  “Did he?”

  “And he elaborated on it somewhat. That is, he’d read Picard’s book, of course, and he added some details.”

  Tyson knew it was Brandt, hoped it was Brandt, and not one of the others. But there was another man, and Tyson had no idea who it could be.

  Karen Harper continued, “I’m obligated to tell you about Brandt; that is, the name of a possible witness against you. But because his testimony was unsworn, there was no transcript and no recording made. Therefore I’m not obligated to tell you precisely what he said. However, if we proceed to a formal investigation, you or your attorney will have the opportunity to cross-examine any sworn testimony Dr. Brandt might give. Do you understand this point of law?”

  “I remember.”

  “Good.” She seemed thoughtful, then said, “Was there any bad blood between you and Dr. Brandt?”

  “He wasn’t a doctor then, only a scared punk kid like the rest of us. The title ‘doctor’ has some cachet, and I don’t want it used in these proceedings. How’s that for a point of law?”

  “I’ll make a note of it. How about the bad blood?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain? Mr. Brandt—Spec/4 Brandt—was a conscientious objector. There were often bad feelings between—”

  “That’s not true. The medics who were COs were as fine a group of soldiers as you could find. I respected their beliefs, their bravery, retrieving wounded under fire, carrying that huge medical bag that made them a better target than my lieutenant bar made me.”

  She nodded, then said, “But you’re speaking in general terms. Did you feel that way about Brandt?”

  “I’ll think about that.” Tyson stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Okay, who was the other man who spoke to Picard?”

  “Richard Farley.”

  “Farley?”

  “Yes. Do you remember him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “What do you remember about him?”

  “Nothing of any consequence.”

  “Was he a good soldier?”

  “Check his record.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Tyson thought a moment. Farley. Why Farley? Why not?

  “Mr. Tyson?”

  “He was . . . not particularly bright, not particularly brave—somewhat below average in all areas.”

  “Any bad blood between you? I ask that because if there was an incident it might be possible to show that Farley is not unbiased toward you.”

  “I understand. But there was no bad blood between us. Neither was there any love lost between officers and enlisted men. Actually, it was a classical love-hate relationship.”

  “You and Farley?”

  “Me and them.”

  A busboy brought a wine bucket and stand, setting it beside Tyson. A sommelier approached followed by the waitress. Tyson observed to Karen Harper, “This is getting serious.”

  The waitress set down two glasses and the sommelier displayed the label to Tyson. Tyson said, “I only read Scotch labels. The lady ordered the wine.”

  The wine steward bowed his head. “Very good, sir.” He pivoted smoothly and held the bottle toward Karen Harper. “Major?”

  She nodded.

  He drew the cork and set it on the cocktail table in front of her, then poured a few ounces into her glass. She sipped the wine. “Fine.”

  “Very good, Major.” He filled her glass and turned to Tyson. “Sir?” he said, with the expertise of one who recognizes an oenophobe when he sees one.

  Tyson shrugged. “Good chaser for the Scotch.”

  The sommelier filled Tyson’s glass, submerged the bottle in the bucket, bowed, and left.

  The waitress lingered a moment, looking at Tyson, then glanced at Harper, and recognition dawned on her face. She said, “Can I get you anything else?”

  “The bill,” said Tyson.

  She turned and left.

  Karen Harper sipped her wine in silence.

  Tyson tasted his. “Not bad. How would you describe it?”

  She replied, “It has a fresh, perfumy bouquet. It is clean, well balanced, with a light frizzante and a haunting aftertaste.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” He set his glass down and said, “By the way, the waitress recognized me. Maybe you too.”

  She nodded. “I thought she might have.”

  He said, “In New York, there are waitresses and such who get paid by gossip columnists to report on newsworthy people having a tête-à-tête in a dark lounge.”

  Karen Harper seemed a bit surprised by that. “Well, I don’t think—”

  “I don’t want to be here when a photographer from the American Investigator arrives.” He stood.

  “We could go to a pub I know in Georgetown. About five minutes’ walk—”

  “I’m tired of bars. Room 618, if you want to come up. Five-minute intervals, sound and light security, three knocks, password is ‘lollipop’—the enemy can’t say that. They say ‘rorripop.’ Did you know that?” He nodded toward the wine bucket. “That’s on the Army.” He turned and left.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Ben Tyson stood at his room bar and poured a miniature bottle of Scotch into a glass of ice and soda. He looked around the room. A hanging lamp ca
st a soft glow over the sitting area. The triple-sized bed was lit by a table lamp, and Tyson switched it off, leaving the bed in darkness.

  There were three solid raps on the door, and he moved toward the foyer. “Password.”

  After a moment of silence, he heard her say, “Rorripop.”

  He smiled, then opened the door.

  She stood at the threshold a moment, then entered wordlessly.

  He motioned her toward the couch on the far side of the room. She went to it but did not sit.

  Tyson took a split of white wine from the bar refrigerator and filled a stem glass. He set the glass on the coffee table in front of her. “Domestic. Okay?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Tyson took his drink to an upholstered chair opposite the couch and sat.

  After a full minute of mutual silence, she said, “I really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Neither should I.”

  “I have to put this in my report. I mean, where we are conducting this interview.”

  “You’re free to leave.”

  She said, “I’m thinking of your interests too. You’re a married man. . . .”

  “That is the least of my problems. Listen, Major Karen Harper, I didn’t ask for a female investigator. And I’m cooperating in this investigation. If I choose to conduct this interview in the privacy and comfort of my room, and if you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule this for another time and place. I can’t promise I’ll be as talkative then, and I may have a lawyer present.”

  She seemed indecisive for a moment, then sat on the couch. “Where were we?”

  “Downstairs in the lounge. Farley and I.” Tyson settled back in his chair.

  “Yes. Farley is a paraplegic. He was badly wounded by shrapnel in the spine about two months after you left Vietnam. Did you know that?”

  “I seem to remember someone writing to me about that.” He’d maintained some contact with the platoon for a few months. Then, through normal attrition—death, wounds, sickness, rotation back to the States, and transfers—there was no one left. The first platoon of Alpha Company had, like a college fraternity, metamorphosed into a different platoon, only the name remained the same—new blood in; old, tired, and dead blood out. A succession of new officers and new riflemen, who became old men if they lived longer than ninety days. Stories and myths were handed down: tales of cowardice and bravery, and the tales changed with each telling as the oral history of the platoon was transmitted like a compressed epic poem in the vernacular of the GI. He often wondered what legacy he’d left.

  Karen Harper broke into his thoughts. “Farley lives in Jersey City now. He spends a good deal of time in VA hospitals. He is drug-dependent and suffers from emotional disturbances.”

  “Good witness for the prosecution.” Tyson added, “Sorry to hear about that though.”

  “I spoke to him briefly by telephone. His story seems to corroborate that of Brandt.”

  Tyson kicked off his loafers and rubbed his feet against the thick rug. “You can make yourself comfortable.”

  “I’m comfortable.” She glanced around the softly lit room. “Very nice. Your company does quite well with government contracts.”

  “Those are not unrelated thoughts.”

  “No.”

  “I worked hard to get where I am—was.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

  “No, I don’t think you did. We’re from different worlds, Major.” He thought a moment, then said, “To use a lover’s expression, this is not working.”

  She stared at him before replying, “Let’s try to make it work.”

  He shrugged.

  She said, “Richard Farley is a potential witness for the prosecution. You will have the right to cross-examine him if—”

  “How did Picard find him? How did Picard find Brandt?”

  “Interesting. It seems that Picard, after his chance conversation with Sister Teresa in France, placed an ad in the locator section of the First Cavalry Division newspaper.” She opened her briefcase and handed Tyson a photocopy of the locator section dated some two years before.

  Tyson looked at the circled ad and read: Historian looking for veterans of Alpha Co., First Battalion, Seventh Cav. who served during the first three months of 1968. Specifically would want to hear from anyone from the second platoon who was at the battle of Miséricorde Hospital at Hue. Researching same for private client. All replies kept strictly confidential, anonymity assured.

  Which, thought Tyson, was bullshit. He noticed a post office box address in Sag Harbor. He laid the ad on the coffee table.

  She said, “The First Cavalry Division informs me that they send you that newspaper.”

  Tyson nodded. About the only thing he ever glanced at in that newspaper was the sometimes interesting locator section: men looking for lost buddies, women looking for wayward men, historians doing research—that sort of thing. But he’d obviously missed this one. Brandt had not. Fate. He said, “Brandt and Farley answered this?”

  “Actually only Brandt did. Sometime later, at Picard’s urging, Brandt supplied a corroborating witness in the person of Richard Farley.”

  Tyson nodded. “How did Brandt know the whereabouts of Farley? Why did Brandt come forward in the first place?”

  She shrugged. “When I spoke to Brandt he confined his answers to what he saw at Miséricorde Hospital. If he’s subpoenaed, we’ll discover the answers to your other questions.”

  “Was Brandt perhaps the medic who treated Farley after he was hit?”

  “Funny, but I asked that too. According to Farley, he was.”

  “That’s interesting. What else did Farley say?”

  “Not much that was comprehensible. He seemed very distraught. He cried actually.”

  Tyson’s eyes met hers, and she turned away. Tyson stood. “Want another?”

  “I haven’t touched this one.”

  He walked to the refrigerator and opened it. “Hey, here’s a bottle of champs.” He popped the cork on a split of Moët and poured two glasses of champagne, then carried the glasses back to the sitting area. “Here. Join me in a toast.”

  She took the glass. “To what?”

  Tyson raised his glass. “To Richard Farley and the other two million seven hundred thousand who returned to pollute our society with wasted limbs, damaged chromosomes, and sick minds.”

  She lowered her glass. “I won’t drink to that.”

  “Well, I will.” He raised his glass, then suddenly flung it across the room where it shattered against the bar cabinet. He strode quickly out of the room into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Karen Harper sat motionless and listened to the water running. She noticed her hands were shaking. She reached for her briefcase, then released it, then reached for it again and stood.

  Tyson came back into the room, motioned her into her seat, and sat down without a word.

  She noticed he’d splashed water on his face and combed his hair. She detected the faint scent of a good cologne.

  Tyson said, “Go on.”

  Karen Harper cleared her throat. She said, “May I have a cigarette?”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Sometimes I do.”

  He held his pack of cigarettes toward her, and she took one. He lit it, noticing that she held it awkwardly and drew on it as though she were sucking through a straw. She exhaled and continued, “As I indicated in our first meeting, I’ve located some members of your platoon. Two, to be exact. Since I last spoke to you I’ve spoken to them by telephone.”

  Tyson did not reply.

  She continued, “One is a former squad leader named Paul Sadowski, who lives in Chicago, and the other is Anthony Scorello, who now lives in a suburb of San Francisco. Do you remember them?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “I thought men remembered who they served with in combat.”

  “Macho myth.”

  Karen Harper regarded him for some time, then asked, �
�Do you want to know what Sadowski and Scorello said?”

  “Sure.” Tyson felt his heart thumping, and his mouth went dry. “Sure. What did they say?”

  She leaned toward him and watched him, making no pretense of not noticing his unease. Tyson stared back at her, angry that she would play it out like this. He snapped, “Well, what did they say, Major?”

  “They said,” she replied evenly, “exactly what you said.”

  Their eyes met, and neither looked away. Tyson settled back in his chair. “So. There you have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “My corroboration. Two against two. And if I offer sworn testimony in my own behalf—”

  “Neither a grand jury nor a court-martial takes a vote of witnesses, Lieutenant. They would be interested, however, in who is perjuring himself.”

  Tyson felt his confidence returning and said curtly, “I would be interested in why Brandt and Farley would perjure themselves.”

  She nodded appreciatively, drew on her cigarette, then stubbed it out. She said, “Whether it is perjury or truth, Mr. Tyson, I think that ultimately only you can tell me why they told Picard this story. Only you can tell me why Sadowski and Scorello told me a different story.” She stared at him, but he did not reply.

  She leaned across the cocktail table and lowered her voice. “Lies are destructive and spread like malignancy to the innocent and guilty alike. I want the lies to stop. I want you to put an end to them, if not for your own sake, then for the sake of the innocent and for the sake of your country. End the nightmare for everyone. Tell me what happened on 15 February 1968. What happened?”

  Tyson spoke with no inflection in his voice. “If I know the truth, and I haven’t told you, it’s because I’m not convinced that you, the country, the Army, or anyone deserves to know the truth.”

  “What can I do to convince you?”

  “Probably nothing. Maybe just get closer to it by stages. Truth should be hard-won. The truth is only recognized as the truth after all the lies are told and discounted. You won’t appreciate the truth or even begin to fathom it unless you take a tortuous road to find it.”

  She nodded. “But you will tell me? I mean, sometime after this is all over? You will tell me, personally and privately, if not publicly?”

  “I may. I may very well.”