LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  “Steven – ”

  “Just a minute, please. I want you to understand one thing. I’m going to pursue this, period. After what I heard last night, there’s nothing that could stop me. So let me use an analogy to put my position in perspective for you. Let’s say, Sophie Marx, that you had discovered the death camps before anyone else knew of their existence.

  “Let’s say your knowledge, if handled properly, could have brought you early recognition for being the great journalist you are and, more importantly, could have saved a lot of lives and prevented a lot of human suffering. Are you going to tell me you would have been able to pack up and remain silent for the rest of your life because you faced some hypothetical danger?”

  She poured boiling water over the freshly ground beans. “An especially bad analogy. If I had discovered the death camps, it would have been my discovery. This is different. I sent you in there, Steven. I persuaded you against your better judgment to seduce Michelet’s daughter. I did this so I could learn more about the man. Do you hear all the I’s? There are more. I could not handle it if anything happened to you. I simply couldn’t take it.”

  She wasn’t her usual efficient self in the kitchen. Steven thought he detected tears in her eyes. The joy of breaking their big story had evaporated. It was as if they had gone off joyously fly fishing for trout and had hooked a shark they didn’t know what to do with.

  But he wasn’t going to cut the line, and he didn’t believe she would either, once she had recovered from her shock and gotten past her fears. This was, after all, the Mother of all Stories, the big one she had been chasing her entire professional life – and so much more.

  He took cups from the cupboard and heated milk in one of her battered copper pans. He told her to go sit by the window, that he would finish up.

  When he brought her a perfect café au lait, she looked at him adoringly.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  She smiled and squeezed his arm. “Yes. And I suppose we had better not waste any more time. We’ve have two days and a night. Sit down. Let’s get busy. We need to discuss how we’re going to proceed.”

  He felt himself smiling, though he had vowed never to smile again. “I knew you’d come around, Sophie.”

  “Of course you knew, darling. You know me a little too well. I’m going to do the best I can not to worry about you. If we put our heads together, perhaps we can devise a strategy so brilliant it’s both safe and effective.”

  He hugged her for a long time. He had his soul mate back. “I’m sure we can. So what do you think? Should we involve the police?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The police? Steven, with what evidence?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What evidence?’ What have I just spent half the night giving you?”

  She drained her cup. Her energy was coming back now, he could feel its force.

  She said, “You’ve spent half the night giving me a detailed account of what you heard. Unfortunately, Steven, just because it’s true doesn’t mean its evidence. You and I know what’s going on, but who’s going to believe us? Have you thought of that?”

  “I . . . Jesus, no. You’re saying, when it comes down to my word against theirs – ”

  “Precisely. In the white corner you have a charming young American who’s stupfing Michelet’s daughter. In the black corner you have three powerful French public figures who will corroborate each other’s every syllable. I doubt even the Inquisitor would listen to you.”

  “Thanks. I should have taken a goddamn tape recorder.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “I could have been better prepared.”

  “You did just fine, Steven. Look what you’ve brought home. I will not permit you to transform your triumph into a miserable rite of Protestant self-abasement. Drop the guilt.”

  “I can’t. What I’ve brought home is useless. You just said so.”

  “Useless as evidence, I said. Which is why we have to think in larger terms than our little brains are accustomed.”

  “Think, Sophie! Your brain’s bigger than mine. What about the man who thought Airbus was behind this, the Washington guy? Didn’t you say he was in the government? Does he have any clout?”

  “That’s a good question, Steven. He’s been taking a lot of heat lately. I don’t know if people are still listening to him. I’ll certainly find out.”

  “So, who is he? Can you tell me?”

  She reflected for a moment. “Yes, of course. He’s the man I hope you’ve been reading about in the newspapers, the poor bastard entrusted with solving these crashes.”

  “You mean that NTSB guy the administration was trying to get rid of?”

  “Yes, precisely. Frank Warner.”

  “And you know him?”

  “I do. We met here in Paris after that horrible DC-10 crash in ’seventy-four. I helped him get along with the French. He wasn’t a big fan of journalists, but I think he considered me an exception. We became friends and we’ve remained friends.”

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s call him.”

  Sophie looked at her nails. “I don’t have his unlisted numbers, Steven. He tried to give them to me, and I stupidly refused. I wanted to underscore how little I thought of his Airbus hypothesis.” She sighed. “We all make mistakes, darling, though this isn’t one I’ll soon forget. We’ll just have to wait until the NTSB opens – and hope Warner’s not digging around out in the field somewhere.”

  “Well, at least that’s a start. What about in France? Isn’t the CIA active? The sabotage of U.S. planes should be right up their alley. They should jump on our information.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Sometimes I think ‘should’ has become the most common word in our vocabulary. Yes, darling, they should indeed be interested. But you mustn’t forget you’re talking about bureaucrats. Their hands are tied until they get the go-ahead from Langley. And Langley’s hands are tied until they get the green light from the White House. To tell you the truth, Steven, I don’t see that happening. France is an ally, and Michelet is a member of the French government.”

  “Excuse me? France isn’t an ally if they’re bringing down our planes, and Michelet is an asshole.”

  “Yes, but remember that one aggravating detail. We have no evidence. If our government were to authorize the secret service to spy on Michelet, it would be like the French authorizing their intelligence people to spy on one of our cabinet members – in the United States. I promise you that no American president in control of his faculties would risk a monumental international scandal without hard evidence. That’s just the way things are, Steven.”

  “Jesus, this is frustrating.”

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  “Okay, I’ve got an idea. I think this is one you’ll like.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “We know Claussen is coming to Michelet’s Friday night to collect for the crashes. We know the others will be there. If one of the CIA people working in France went with me – you know, off the record – and hid in the wine cellar, he could make recordings of everything with all that bugging equipment those guys use. Then we’d not only have our evidence; we’d have a believer inside the establishment. And you wouldn’t worry as much about me. What do you think?”

  She stood and paced in a counter-clockwise direction around the kitchen, a sign that her thoughts had shifted into high gear. “That would be ideal, Steven – if we could find an agent willing to put his career on the line. I don’t mean to sound negative, but I doubt we’ll find anyone willing to take that risk.”

  “For Christ’s sake, risk-taking is what they’re paid for.”

  “When it’s bureaucratically sanctioned. You can’t have spooks running around carrying out private agendas. That’s what Delors is doing. But there is something I can try. I knew the old CIA capo for France, a gentleman by the name of Devon Fairchild. When we were teenagers, our parents vacationed at neighboring beach houses in New Jersey. He ha
d a suffocating crush on me, and though that side of our relationship never amounted to much, we became good friends. When he took on the French assignment, we often shared information. Very confidentially, mind you.”

  “So where is this guy now?”

  “Dead. But his son, William, whom I also know, is at the embassy now. He’s CIA, followed in the footsteps of the old man. I’ll pay him a visit. Perhaps I can put the memory of his father to use.”

  “Excellent, Sophie. What about Walter Claussen? We know he lives in what used to be East Germany. Delors referred this a couple times. But where did he live when he was running Operation Litvyak? In the States? Seems to me he would have had to.”

  “Probably, Steven, but probably not under the name of Walter Claussen. I’ll check it out, though. We’ve got some pretty good computer search capabilities with the new software the press is using these days, and I have other contacts I can try. That should keep us busy for this morning, don’t you think?”

  He stood and tapped her on the arm. “Sophie, we’re going to pull it off. I have this very strong feeling we’re going to get the breaks we need. Don’t you?”

  When she looked at him, he was surprised to see that her exuberance of the last hour had vanished. In its place was the same sadness he had noticed earlier, a deep mournful sadness that seemed to pull her down into herself.

  He didn’t ask her what was wrong, but he no longer believed it was her fear for his life. It was something else, something bigger, a sadness that came, he thought, from a life devoted to discovery of the truth.

  She had discovered the truth again and again. The truth was supposed to be good and beautiful. But all too often, staring up at her when she peeled away the layers of deception, was the face of human cruelty.

  He didn’t like that face either, but he didn’t feel discouraged. In fact, he felt energized. His scoop wasn’t going to change human nature. But he was going to put a few big time bastards out of commission. For now, that seemed like enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was a cool cloudy morning in Paris. While Steven caught up on sleep, Sophie took the Métro to the American embassy.

  William Fairchild, whom she had cajoled on the phone into giving her an appointment, ushered her into his office. He buzzed for coffee and gestured for Sophie to have a seat in the straight-back chair across from his desk.

  “Well, Ms. Marx?”

  “Well, William, nice to see you. It’s been a long time.”

  “My father’s funeral, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right. You have a good memory. You know, William, I’m not exaggerating when I say Devon Fairchild was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

  “That may be, Ms. Marx, but if you came here expecting special treatment because you and dad were friends, I must disappoint you.”

  Not a good beginning. She remained silent while the secretary brought American-style coffee in Styrofoam cups. Fairchild fished through heaps of creamer and sugar packets, poured in a few and stirred the tan liquid with a plastic stick.

  She said, “I quite understand your misgivings about seeing me, William. But I assure you this isn’t what you think it is. In the course of my work, I’ve stumbled onto an ugly piece of information. The sabotage of our airliners is being orchestrated in France.”

  “Oh, really? Care to be a bit more specific?”

  “William, I’m going to forgive you your initial skepticism but I hope it doesn’t blind you permanently. Some months ago, a group of prominent Frenchmen reached an agreement with an ex-Soviet spy. Their objective was to bring down a number of Boeing planes.”

  “Now, now, Ms. Marx. Why would they want to do a thing like that?” He put his feet up on his desk and started to fiddle with his pipe.

  “To benefit Airbus and the French economy.”

  “Well, Ms. Marx, it’s an exciting scenario. I’m sure it will play well in the media. But I must disappoint you again. We have solved the mystery of those crashes. All that remains is to decide on an appropriate response. The French are not involved.”

  Sophie gave an exasperated sigh. “Iraq has been set up by the conspirators to look like the villain. You haven’t swallowed that rotten piece of bait, have you?”

  Fairchild lit his pipe and gazed out the window. “Ms. Marx, in my line of work, unlike in yours, it is customary to present evidence. Real evidence. Hard evidence. You haven’t. When and if you are able to do so, I will have someone look into your allegations.”

  “Thank you, William. You will have your evidence tomorrow night when you or one of your agents accompanies my colleague to a meeting of the conspirators. I promise your efforts will yield the sort of proof you need. These men’s identities will shock you as they did me. One is a member of the governing coalition.”

  “Is that so? I’m afraid, Ms. Marx, that I must disappoint you yet again. We don’t simply go around spying on the politicians of our allies, even if they’re French. To do something like that, I’d have to submit a request to Langley. It would have to be approved at the highest levels of government.

  “Furthermore, a request to assign an agent to this . . . caper would have to include proof that we were following more than an outsider’s hunch. Hearsay won’t do, Ms. Marx. I would need a detailed summary of how you came upon this information in the first place. My account would have to include at a very minimum such things as the name of your colleague, the names of the suspects, the address of the meeting and so on. This is even more the case here, Ms. Marx, because your dramatic scenario strikes me as highly unlikely.”

  “History, William, is a compilation of highly unlikely events. Don’t let history pass you by.”

  “I need more information. Names, places . . . “

  ”Sorry, William, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow night. What I tell you now is merely hearsay, and you’ve left no doubt as to how you feel about hearsay.”

  “Langley would – ”

  “Forget Langley. There’s not time to consult Langley. You’ll have to act on your own.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m going to leave you my telephone number. As I said, the agent who accompanies my colleague could be you. And, William, you are not going to get caught. You’ll do your snooping from a basement that has already been prepared, secured and tested in action. Your superiors don’t have to know what you’re doing – until you submit your incriminating tape.”

  “Is that it, Ms. Marx?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then I guess we’re finished.”

  They both stood. Before either moved, their eyes locked in fierce mental combat.

  Sophie was angry. Being polite hadn’t gotten her to first base with this obtuse bastard. It was time to try the bludgeon.

  She said, “I’d hate to be in your shoes, William. Imagine how you’ll feel when the rest of the world learns that you sat on your duff stirring coffee with a plastic stick while amateurs did your job for you.”

  “Ms. Marx, I resent – ”

  “Resent it all you want, William. In the meantime I suggest you try growing a set of balls. I don’t want to hear about rules and regulations. A man can still act like a man from time to time. Your father did, which is the reason Eisenhower died a natural death. My present colleague did, which is why I am now in a position to keep you, the Agency and the country from committing a drastic error. So give me a call if you feel a new weight rattling around in those Brooks Brothers trousers. Now, William, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run. Things are happening – everywhere but here.”

  She left her card and stormed out, not bothering to look back.

  ***

  Again in her office after the distastrous meeting at the embassy, Sophie glanced at her watch. Eleven a.m., still only five in D.C. It was too early to call Frank Warner at his office, and she hadn’t been able to con the operator or anyone else into giving her his unlisted numbers at home. It had not been a good morning. She hoped she w
asn’t losing her touch. Well, no time to worry about that now.

  She booted her computer, sent Monique out for pastries and began a search for information on Walter Claussen.

  There were seven Walter Claussens in the U.S. data base. Of these, three had immigrated from Germany after the war, four had been born in America. She limited her search to obituaries to see who was still around.

  The Kansas City Star of October 23, 1980, reported the death of Walter F. Claussen of Kansas City, Kansas, who had spent his career in agricultural fertilizers.

  Walter H. Claussen of Dubuque, Iowa, the Register reported, had died after a long battle with lung cancer on June 12, 1987. His survivors were suing a pesticide manufacturer.