Driving slowly through the admiring crowd, some of whom pressed their faces against the glass to get a closer glimpse of Josten, Ruddick said, "Recruitment's not a problem now. We could sign up a thousand men tomorrow. You've got the people excited!"
"You all had me going, I swear I was ready to jine up myself." Excited, Price had dropped his usual crisp accent, lapsing into his native Texas drawl.
Josten responded, "Let's not be hasty. I'd rather keep the numbers low for a while. Let's insist on high standards of physical fitness, perhaps even require a high school diploma for eligibility to become a Storm Klanner."
Ruddick nodded quietly to Price, then said, "Helmut's created a new initiation ceremony, one like the SS used. We'll give the candidates ceremonial knives; at the initiation we'll slash their fingers and have them touch them to the flag."
Dixon slapped his thigh, laughing. "That'll get 'em. Why is it that blood and knives appeal so much?"
"They appeal to brutes, and brutes are what we want."
Ruddick drove swiftly on the two-lane road, delighted to see his idea taking shape, pleased that Josten and Price were getting on well.
Price asked, "What about the older Klan members? Can we still use them? Aren't they jealous?"
Josten nodded to Ruddick to speak. "The older men are jealous, but we'll keep them, even let them wear the robes to cover their fat bellies. But the young ones, we'll give them spiffy new uniforms."
"Like the SS?"
Josten shook his head. "No—too provocative. We'll take the Arkansas State Trooper uniform and dress it up. The Storm Klan will have a white band around the hats and arms—signifying purity, of course—and silver-colored insignia. We'll make that close to the SS, use an S and a K, done like lightning bolts."
Ruddick chimed in, "And they'll have short hair, like the troopers wear."
Tired, Josten leaned back in the seat. "No, even shorter. We'll crop it to the skin, like the German students used to do."
They came to a railroad crossing where an L&N freight train rattled by. Ruddick turned, saying, "Helmut, these ideas are too good. Dixon and I don't think we need to wait. We'll lose time if we don't expand the Storm Klan as soon as we can. Who knows how long we can keep them interested?"
Josten shook his head.
"No. Let the word spread first. It will make the Storm Manners seem so immensely desirable that you'll have to turn hundreds away." He was quiet for a moment, then went on, "Let's get the Storm Klan completely indoctrinated, ready to die for the cause. They'll become the elite SS while the Klan will remain the SA. I don't want to dilute the results by expanding too fast."
Ruddick gave in, as he realized he was beginning to do in every instance to Josten. He was going to have to talk this over with Dixon. The caboose passed, the gates lifted, and they drove on in silence.
*
Little Rock, Arkansas/July 4, 1953
Ruddick was sitting with his hand over the receiver when Dixon Price came in, red-faced, collar soiled with sweat and tie askew, strutting like a banty rooster.
"It's the governor. As usual." The governor got uneasy when Price wasn't immediately available and kept tabs on his whereabouts by phone.
Price rolled his eyes and took the phone while Ruddick went over to the weathered leather couch; if it had been a client, he would have left the room, but he and Price went back too far for such niceties. As he listened, he watched Price closely.
"Yes, Governor, I understand what you mean. But if you'll recall, I told you that I was working on that, and I'm going to talk to Milo about that just this minute."
Price was five-feet four-inches tall and had weighed the same 125 pounds since he was in high school. His thinning white hair covered his sun-pink bald spot like a thin smear of frosting on a strawberry cake. Small but mighty, Ruddick thought. In thirty years of politics, Price was the smartest, toughest man he'd ever met, and he was profoundly grateful that they'd always been on the same side. After the war, as soon as the oil business had come off, Price had come to Little Rock and set up his own law firm. He'd never run for political office himself, but he'd insinuated himself into state politics from the start. He'd been the primary reason the governor had been elected, and for the past two years he had practically run the state.
Price shook his head as he listened to the governor. After a while he let the receiver dangle, spinning on its cord; Ruddick could hear the governor's droning voice. Price flipped the receiver to his hand, mumbled, "Uh uh, uh uh, yes, sir," and then cut in. "Governor, ah don't want to interrupt, but remember, you've got a meeting in the Capitol building in two minutes. With the folks from TV A? Remember? Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir."
"The governor's on his usual rampage?"
"I tell you, Milo, I have my hands full keeping him on track. He's the most capricious man I ever met."
"What does he want now?"
"Well, he's not satisfied with just having the Klan and the National Guard supporting him on segregation. He's upset about the progress the Air Force is making with integration on Little Rock Air Force Base. Wants you and me to go out and straighten out the base commander."
"Stupid move; the base commander doesn't owe him anything. He's not going to ruin his own chances for promotion, just to butter up the governor."
"Well, you know how he is, he gets an idea, he holds on to it like a tick in a hound's ear. I told him the best thing was to let me work on a local level. There are some people out there I can talk to, Southern boys, maybe we can get some token support. But that's not why you asked me to come in."
"No, I wanted to get your take on Josten. I'm worried that I've let him go too far, that I'm losing control over him."
"I don't think so. You've let him have his way, you had to do that to get the kind of enthusiasm he has. But you can get rid of him tomorrow. I think letting him run things is to our advantage. If something goes sour, we can walk away from it, point our fingers at him."
"He's a clever bastard. Mean as a snake, too. That's why the Klansmen love him."
"Yes, but without us, he's got no financial support. He sure as hell couldn't run the Klan by collecting dues. Besides, I don't think he's out to take over the Klan. He's got something else on his mind, something personal. I get the feeling that this job is just a holding action for him, something to keep him busy while he sorts things out."
Ruddick relaxed and went to the side bar. "Damn. No wonder you're running the state, Dixon, you've always got the take on things. Let me fix you a little drink—you've earned it."
*
Pyoktong, North Korea/August 15, 1953
Since asking his first question about Choi, John Marshall had not said another word, fearing more interrogation. There had been none; instead he had been isolated, in contact with no one but U Eun Chur. The guards did not speak to him, even in Korean. Yet in the last few weeks, his treatment had vastly improved; he was allowed to bathe once a week, and the last two times there had been a sliver of brown soap. His rations had increased to two bowls of rice a day, along with some kimchee and about two ounces of the amorphous, indefinable substance that passed for meat. He ate it greedily.
As he sat dozing in the spot of sunshine at the door to his hut, the. routine noise of the camp was suddenly broken with blaring march music and the sound of cymbals and drums. A ragtag procession of Chinese soldiers and Korean natives was marching through the center of the camp, carrying large pictures of Comrade Mao and Comrade Kim II Sung.
"Good show, eh, Marshall?"
Alan Burkett was standing beside him, dressed in the same unmade-bed outfit of baggy brown pants, plaid shirt, and argyle sweater that he'd worn to their lunch.
Burkett sat down and offered him a cigarette. Marshall put it away as guard bait.
"Well, when are you leaving?"
"Don't joke with me, Burkett. They'll never let me out of here."
"Au contraire, my friend. The war has been over since June; you're one of the last captives. They'll be sh
ipping you out as soon as you are fattened up a bit."
He felt a flash of anticipation, automatically suppressed it, and repeated, "Don't joke with me, Burkett."
"No joke at all. You'll be going to Panmunjom in a few days, and then it's over the border to your brothers-in-arms."
The Englishman seemed genuinely pleased to relay the news.
"And I'm glad to tell you that I was able to inform your wife and family about the happy news. I sent a wire this morning. They probably already have it."
Marshall sat, unwilling to believe. The last time Burkett had been with him, Colonel Choi had almost beaten him to death.
"Do you know where Colonel Choi is?"
"No, old chap; he just vanished."
"Well, I'll find him, come peace or war, hell or high water."
*
Washington, D.C./September 1, 1953
Erich Weissman walked out the prison doors, contrasting the last ten months of relative luxury with the years he'd spent in concentration camps. To call this a prison, with three good meals a day, a bunk, a library, even medical care.
But it was good to be out. He'd been picked up a week after the attempted shooting, still driving the Chevrolet. The police had not made the connection between the assassination attempt and the car theft, but he'd drawn a year's sentence.
An old friend was waiting outside for him. He got in the car—a Chevrolet, not unlike the one he'd stolen, and Jacob Goldberg, tall, thin but board-hard, arms folded over the wheel as if he were clutching the reins of a team, said, "Welcome, Erich. How was it?"
"Better than Dachau, worse than Coney Island."
Goldberg sat for a moment pulling on his thin driving gloves; Weissman had never seen anyone do that before. Goldberg adjusted the mirrors carefully, checked his tie in the process, then carefully moved out into traffic. He was a fashion plate, a regular Adolphe Menjou, Weissman thought, but a neatnik.
"They want you to rest for a while, take it easy. We have less stressful work for you in Chicago."
Weissman whirled in his seat. "Am I being punished for missing my targets?"
Goldberg smiled. "No, anyone can miss. They just want you not to be conspicuous for a while."
Silent for a moment, trying to quiet his resentment over Goldberg's patronizing smile—the man had been born in New York, lived in the United States all his life, what did he know?—Weissman said, "You had me shooting at the wrong man. I should have concentrated on Josten—we are fellow alumni from Nordhausen. I want another chance at him."
He could see that Nordhausen didn't mean anything to the man. "Perhaps . . . but not for a while. You recuperate, investigate some records for us. Then we'll see."
Weissman stared straight ahead, pursing his lips. He would go along with this for a while. If they didn't give him a new assignment, a new try at Josten, he'd go off on his own. It's a free country.
***
Chapter 8
Pyoktong, North Korea/September 15,1953
Dangling his legs off the wooden table, Marshall surveyed his battered body with some contentment. No doubt about it, he had put on some weight and most of his wounds were healing.
"Ready?"
He nodded and looked away, concentrating on the white medical table with its array of chipped enameled bowls, bottles of red and blue fluids, and the neat kit of surgical instruments marked u.s. army, wondering why they all looked unusual, then realizing it was because they were serving their intended purpose. Almost everything else in North Korea was improvised and make do: boards torn from railway cars to make buildings, stoves made from truck fenders, clogs made from tires. No wonder Dr. Liu seemed so proud of his office.
"Hold still." Then, to distract him from the pain, "You friend Burkett coming today."
Apprehension shot through Marshall, as cold and cutting as the scalpel slicing away the proud flesh from the wounds in his side. He winced, even though the pain from Liu's blade was not great.
"He's not my friend, Dr. Liu. You're my only friend here."
Burkett's past visits had marked turning points in Marshall's prison life. The first time, Choi had almost beaten him to death; the second, he was told he would be freed. It had been six weeks since their last talk, and things had continued to change for the better. They'd hauled him back from Manpo to Camp 5, by the beautiful lake, then on to this empty main prison camp on the Yalu. It had been in turmoil when he was here before; now it was strangely quiet, as charged with memories as a dead parent's home.
They still kept him isolated, but now there were no other prisoners to be seen in the distance, to yearn to talk to. Silence muffled the camp like a cloak of wet felt; bugles didn't blow, the loudspeaker no longer crackled its malevolent signals of bad news; there were no soldiers herding prisoners along the crooked streets.
His personal treatment had improved tremendously. Dr. Liu, who had examined him at Manpo, now saw him every day, treating his wounds with sulfa drugs and giving him vitamin pills. The doctor was learning English—and perhaps surgery, judging by his eagerness to practice on Marshall at every opportunity.
"How you bowels?"
"Still sick, much diarrhea."
The word was difficult for Liu, and he repeated it several times. "Diarrhea, diarrhea, like dysentry. Well, you try this, good medicine. You say."
Liu shoved the box in Marshall's face, who read aloud, "Sulfa-guanidine."
As Liu tried unsuccessfully to repeat the word, Marshall regarded the package with suspicion. It was obviously from American stores, but he couldn't be sure what the medication was, or what it was good for. Still, he knew he had to gain strength, to convert the better rations he was receiving into flesh on his bones. In the past he'd been given only a noxious mixture of ground charcoal and tannic acid that didn't cure the diarrhea and made him violently ill. He decided to accept it unless Liu wanted to administer it with a hypodermic—he was still unwilling to submit to that, afraid that they would give him some sort of truth serum.
"Shot?"
The doctor's smile was genuine. "Drink!" he said, and, wiping a tin cup carefully with his dirty handkerchief, shook the sulfa into it, filled it with cold tea, and stirred it with a spoon he had tied on a string around his neck like a stethoscope.
Three hours later, when he saw Burkett shambling toward him, Marshall felt strangely strong and comfortable. For the first time in months, his knees didn't tremble or his stomach convulse with the need for instant release.
"Burkett, you Commie bastard, I'm going to live! I'm going to get out of here."
Burkett, his face puffed and swollen from drink, leaned against the entrance. "Of course you are, dear boy, and soon, too." Marshall hated his affected accent.
"What have you heard?"
"You're to be moved south to the so-called 'Freedom Village.' That's where most of the transfers have taken place. But do come along, I've arranged for you to go to the cinema."
Somehow it didn't surprise Marshall—after months of brutality, he had food, medicine, and now, entertainment.
They went inside a hut that once had been an orderly room, judging by the notices still pinned to the wall, and a derelict desk and chair. At one end of the room a sheet of white cloth had been hung as a screen; at the other was an ancient 16-mm film projector.
There were no lights to turn off, but the shutters on the one window were pulled and, outside, a generator was started. In a few minutes the projection light snapped on and the opening titles flickered, first in an Oriental script, then in English. He felt his stomach clench as he heard the words "United States Air Force Captain John Marshall confesses to germ warfare." The voice was unmistakably Alan Burkett's.
When his image appeared on the screen, Marshall was appalled at the way he looked, furious that he had been filmed without his knowledge.
"How did you do this, Burkett?"
"Simple, old chap. They shot through a hole in the wall. Too bad there's no sound track for your comments; I believe you are in th
e midst of your famous 'Wanna buy a duck?' routine."
Marshall scanned the screen closely, hoping he could see his lips move, so that later the film could be slowed down and his lips read by someone, but the shot had been taken from the side. The film switched to show some damaged drop tanks and a native funeral procession, with Burkett's voice coming in loud over the squeak of the projector's take-up reel, droning on about germ warfare and its cost to innocent civilians.
Marshall couldn't believe how poorly it was done; he glanced at Burkett, smiling at the screen with pleasure as he heard himself say, "And so Captain Marshall, having confessed his complicity in germ warfare, signs his confession."
On the screen his shattered body slumped on the chair. God, how bad he looked, hair almost white, knobby elbows protruding. A guard stepped forward and prodded his arm, and he signed the papers placed before him. The lights flickered brightly, and Burkett turned the projector off.
"We'll have that edited and be releasing it throughout the West just about the time you get home."
"Burkett, why are you doing this to me? You're an Englishman! You know that it is all lies!"
"I don't know anything of the sort. I know you confessed, and I know that your precious United States Air Force will make you pay for doing so."
Marshall swung at Burkett, his arm looping ineffectually. The reporter moved back, laughing.
"Don't do anything foolish, my dear Captain. You'll be home in a few weeks, and then you'll see how your friends treat you. Maybe some of the things we've tried to teach you will sink in then."
"No one will believe I confessed; you know the sort of garbage I wrote."
"They'll find ways to believe, Captain. As the late Colonel Choi used to say, you are only a nigger to them."
Despite his fury, Marshall pounced on the word. "Late? Late? Is Choi dead?"
"As dead as that little rat in the parachute you made for him. He was sure he'd killed you—"
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