by James Bruno
“Name names.”
“John Tulliver.”
“Sure, everybody knows who he is.”
“Col. Dan Haley. He’s CHASM’s overall coordinator. Buckwheat Thompson. They murdered him because he was about to blow the lid on the program.”
Lauer bolted upright and hurriedly scribbled a note — Get the FBI. Now! — and pressed it against the glass of the sound- proof recording cubicle. He signaled double time with his hands. A studio assistant immediately got on the phone.
“Milan and Zlatko Brankovic, shortened to Branko. They went on a killing spree across the Midwest until the White House had them assassinatedI’ve…got to go now.”
“Wait! Ah, you’re on a roll. We’re lapping it up—”
“They’ll trace my call. I’ve got to leave.”
“Just one more question, Mr. Ferret! How. How could you do it. Kill your wife and kids, your mother. Was it temporary insanity, or what?”
“I ask myself that question a thousand times a day.”
Click. Ferret hung up.
The rabbi recited the kaddish as he tossed a handful of soil onto the coffin. Few of the deceased’s family could pray along with the rabbi, having been brought up with little in the way of religion, though several of the younger members knew at least parts of the ancient Jewish prayer.
The passing of an unassuming eighty-three-year old normally attracts little, if any, public attention. The news crews which jostled at a respectable distance to record the rites, however, showed that this funeral was for no ordinary man.
Upon the rabbi’s final blessing and the last farewells by family and friends, the newsmen broke out of their self-confinement to launch themselves into the funeral party like a barbarian horde waylaying peaceful villagers.
“Mrs. Glassman! Did you know you were married to an ex-Nazi? Were you born Jewish, Mrs. Glassman?”
“Were any of you aware of Mr. Glassman’s secret work for the government?”
“Rabbi! What compelled you to perform services over an SS officer?”
Glassman’s heirs and friends maintained a stoic silence as they strode hurriedly to their vehicles. Several of the older men and woman paused to confess that they were perplexed by the Plain Dealer cover story with its fantastic allegations about a long-time friend and business associate, a quiet immigrant who had shown generosity and compassion toward his community and his synogogue for a half century.
What made the whole account especially perplexing was that the Dealer’s story was fed to it by the dead man himself. On his death bed, as his heart weakened by the hour, Chaim Glassman turned a package over to his attorney with instructions that it be delivered to Cleveland’s newspaper upon his death.
I am Gruppenfuehrer Rolf Schleicker, formerly of Adolf Hitler’s Schutzstaffel, or SS. For the past 60 years, I have lived a double lie. The first is that, since coming to America, I have been Chaim Glassman, a Jew. The second is that I have been, since 1947, a secret agent of the United States Government charged with resettling more of my kind in this country. I have clandestinely assisted scores of war criminals of many nationalities. I write this testament, hoping that Yahweh will forgive me of my sins, though I know that I deserve to burn in Hell. From my dear family, I also ask for forgiveness, if not understanding. I bequeath half of my considerable estate to the Simon Wiesenthal Center, that it may bring to justice many of the persons whom I aided.
Upon the fall of Berlin in April 1945, American troops arrested me. Their intelligence officials were impressed by my specialized knowledge and my contacts in Eastern Europe. They recruited me…
Enclosed in Glassman’s package to the Dealer were over six decades of diaries and papers documenting his roles in the SS and in Operations PAPERCLIP and CHASM. Along with Cy Lauer’s conversation with Ferret, it was viewed by the White House as a torpedo that had slammed broadside into the Ship of State.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The girl whimpered as the President parted her legs. Christ! Where did LaFontaine find these little tarts anyway? They seemed to be getting younger and younger. As his hand explored her little patch, a chill ran through him, bringing the proceedings to an abrupt halt.
Merriman bolted upright on the bed. He looked down at the girl. “How old are you?”
“Ah’m, Ah’m twunty yeahs old, suh.” Her wide, midnight eyes revealed fear and vulnerability, a combination that normally piqued the Chief Executive’s sexual arousal.
But he knew she was lying. And while the American people would judge him harshly should it ever come out that their President slept around, they would throw him in jail if they found out that he did it with underage girls. Add to the volatile mix that he had a particular penchant for young black girls, and anything was possible.
Merriman took another close look at the girl. She modestly covered herself with the bedsheet. If anything, her eyes became wider.
Merriman pondered, wrestled with his emotions. God, how a good lay before a press conference stimulated him, got the juices flowing, bolstered his self-confidence. Orgasm, the riskier the circumstances the better, acted as a narcotic for Graham Merriman. And he needed a double dose two hours before announcing a major White House shake-up.
I’ll have to talk to LaFontaine. In the meantime… He lowered himself on top of the girl.
Just as he had with every adversity during his adult life, he would take it like a Marine, Dan Haley repeated to himself as he cleaned out two years worth of some memorabilia and a lot of junk from his desk and file cabinets. He should have shredded all papers relating to the Recall Program long ago, but that made no difference now that they were all printed verbatim in the world press, thanks to Buckwheat Thompson and Winford Ferret.
Anne had told him that he was nuts to take the fall for the President and for Tulliver. He’d replied that he had no choice but to do so for the President. He had sworn to Duty when he came into the Marines and he had every intention to live up to his oath. Semper fi. He had a keen sense of history. Presidents may have their foibles, but, good or bad, they held the Republic in their hands. Dan Haley just felt too much loyalty. It was for the country’s sake that he’d take the wrap for CHASM. Sacrifice for one’s country. That, after all, was what soldiers were paid for.
Haley paused as he saw his in-box — the last time he would plow through it. The Washington Post lay on top, crisp and untouched. There he was on page one, photographed leaving the West Wing, stiffly erect, wearing his uniform, smartly holding a brief case.
President Fires White House Aide
Marine Colonel Ran Rogue Operation, President Says
“Rogue operation!” Haley harrumphed. “Who says you can’t fool all of the people all of the time? And they’ll actually get away with it.”
Billy Jaspar McGrew had wasted no time in offering himself up as Haley’s defense counsel. A flamboyant lawyer, McGrew specialized in the obviously guilty, celebrity malefactors who had all the evidence stacked against them. McGrew was a magician with the law; almost all of his clients walked. He would defend Haley for a cut of the book and movie deals. He even offered to help him launch a political career.
Tamara stuck her head in the office guardedly. “You want something Dan? Can I help you?” the attractive blonde secretary asked.
“Huh? Uh, no. I’ll be fine. You’re wonderful, as always, Tami.”
She looked furtively behind her, closed the door, and went up to him.
“I think you should see this. They haven’t gotten around to cutting us out of the loop yet. It simply landed on my desk with the morning take.” She handed him a document bearing the presidential seal.
TEXT - PRESIDENTIAL STATEMENT
Embargoed till 20:00, April 21
On April 19, I learned that an operation was being run out of the National Security Council and the State Department which had no authorization from me and of which I had no knowledge whatsoever. This operation, called CHASM, placed persons in our refugee resettlement program who
had no legitimate claim to refugee status. Moreover, from preliminary indications, many of them may be guilty of war crimes in various countries racked in recent years by internal conflict.
I have ordered the immediate dismissal of the official on the NSC staff who ran this rogue operation, and I have ordered an immediate and vigorous investigation, the results of which will be disclosed fully to Congress.
Be assured that your President will do all in his power to right this wrong and to ensure that all of those who abused their office by taking part in it will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Finally, it is with deep regret that I accept the resignation of John Tulliver, an energetic Secretary of State and my good friend. That this rogue operation carried over into the State Department, without his knowledge or approval, should in no way blemish his great accomplishments as a loyal public servant. The decision to resign is his alone and I will miss him.
Haley handed the press announcement back to his secretary, shook his head and resumed packing out. Tami backed deferentially out of the office, closing the door silently behind her.
“I’m taking no calls,” he said after her.
Haley opened the bottom drawer of his desk. A black leather pouch sat snugly in the rear. He paused, then reached down, picked up the pouch and placed it directly in front of him on the desk. He pulled himself up and put his hands, palms down, on either side of the leather satchel. He did not flinch as he sat and stared.
Carefully, he lifted the pouch and held it edgewise on the desk, while, with his other hand, he slowly unzipped it. The pouch fell open like a book. On one side lay a weighty, black firearm. On the other, a dozen brassy bullets were strapped neatly in a row. The Colt .45 Model 1911 had been his father’s, a Marine officer who had risen quickly to the rank of brigadier during the Korean War.
He picked up the gun and held it lovingly with both hands, then set it on the desk. Haley proceeded then to load bullets methodically into the gun’s magazine. He stopped at two.
He thought of his father’s heroism, and he pondered his own shame. His career, to which he had devoted his heart and his life, ended abruptly, aborted. He pictured the faces of his children. How could he ever face them? What would he tell them? That he was really not acting outside the law? He, of course, was. That the President told him to do it? No proof of that; besides, the Nuremberg Trials showed that following orders in the name of evil was still evil, and also criminal. Finally, he told himself, he had ordered people to be killed. Not in combat, but gunned down like mad dogs. The shame. The shame.
Col. Dan Haley raised the gun to his lips. He opened his mouth and stuck the barrel in, touching his palate. He shut his eyes.
“Put your clothes back on. Oh, Tully, you’re such a pill. Truly precious.” Manny Merriman sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. She was shaking her head as she put out a cigarette.
“Are we through too?” Tulliver asked. He stood before her naked but for a bath towel which he held with both hands in front of his crotch.
“Well, I’d certainly say that one of us is definitely through. I’ve got to meet some Eagle scouts or something in the Rose Garden in twenty-five minutes.” She looked at her watch.
“I thought you wanted to see me to…to…”
“Fuck? Uh, no thanks, Tully. I’m getting it elsewhere these days. I just wanted to tell you that we’re through. That’s all.” She stood up and primped herself in the bedroom mirror.
“Can we at least talk?” Tulliver reached for his underwear and trousers on a vanity chair.
“Nothing to talk about, sweetie. Unless you wish to discuss your recurrent problems with potency. Have you had yourself checked out, as I suggested months ago?” The First Lady struggled to keep a bang in place.
“Well, I have something I want to ask you.” Tulliver almost fell over as he got one foot stuck in his trousers.
“Make it quick. You always were quick, lovey.”
“This resignation business. I was wondering if you, well, might convince your hus—, that is, the President to reconsider. To refuse to accept my ‘resignation’ and insist that I stay on. After all, all those shenanigans were going on at State under my watch, but I didn’t even know about them. The real culprits, Goldman, Ferret, Haley — they’re out of the picture now—”
“Stuff it, Tully! I’m not some jerk-off citizen watching the evening news. If you intend to peddle yourself as some noble public servant falling on his sword in order to take the heat from his president, go and do it in Peoria.” She swung around. “You Washington power studs are all the same! Screw over the women around you. Screw over the public. Get them to buy your line, do your bidding. Well, mister, it all catches up with you sooner or later.”
“But, Manny, I thought we had something—”
“We used each other, Tully. In Washington, everyone is a whore. Don’t you get it?!”
She picked up her bag and strutted out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The crowd at Shaughnigan’s was light. Perhaps it was the fickle spring weather of northern Ohio, or maybe it was the entertainment that week — a young girl with a guitar who sang wistfully of lost love, unrequited love, and impossible love. The music was neither the foot-stomping kind nor patriotic.
The color TV over the bar offered the only entertainment till the girl came on at eight. The bar had only four denizens: Gallatin, Lisa, Ray D’Angelo and Pat the Bartender.
“Jameson’s?” Pat, proud of his recall of clients’ favored drinks, asked Gallatin.
“How about Ocean Spray, aged one month in a glass jar?” Gallatin replied with a smile.
“Gotcha.” Pat pointed his finger at his head. “I’m reprogramming the data bank. From now on the screen will pull up the correct input.” He let out a hearty laugh.
The local station was running the sports news. Figures of baseball players scrambling on a slushy field were followed by highlights of some soccer match somewhere the names of whose players all ended in a vowel; this, in turn, was replaced by a middle-aged golf star taking forever to putt one into the eighteenth hole.
The buxom waitress swung around the bar with a tray poised up on one hand and her order pad and pencil in the other. She paused before the klatsch at the bar and said, “Just thought you’d wanna know—”
“Don’t tell me,” Gallatin interjected. “That The Lads will be comin’ by to collect,” he finished in a mock brogue.
“No. That the special tonight is shepherd’s pie. Comes with a side order of salad or a choice of vegetable.”
Gallatin appeared flabbergasted. He looked at D’Angelo.
“Oh. Yeah. I went around to all the Irish joints to let them know, on behalf of the Cleveland police department, that allowing unlicensed solicitation of funds is punishable by a fat fine and that I had it on good word from the State Attorney General’s office that collecting funds for a foreign conflict constituted a violation of the neutrality act. I added we might have to close some establishments which turned a blind eye to such activities on their premises.”
D’Angelo took a sip of his beer. “Oh yeah, ICE swept through here the other night. Guess what? They nabbed four illegal aliens. All micks. A short, ugly guy, a big, stupid one and two other bozos. They’ve been deported. Seems they were facing charges of freight hijacking, extortion and loan sharking back home.”
Gallatin raised his glass. “I always said the Cleveland cops were the best in the business. Good work.”
“Can’t do our job without friends,” D’Angelo said.
They all drank to Gallatin’s toast.
“Speaking of justice for all, let me raise one to you two. To a wonderful life together and to vindication,” D’Angelo reciprocated.
“Vindication isn’t ours yet,” Lisa said. “Nothing’s happened to Tulliver — yet.”
“That one guy blew his own brains out. Tulliver’s next in line,” D’Angelo joked lamely.
“Haley,”
Gallatin said, shaking his head. “He may have saved the country a trial, but his testimony against Tulliver and others would have been invaluable. He could’ve copped a plea, gotten off with twenty years. Schmuck.”
“You think Tulliver can wiggle out of it?” D’Angelo asked.
“No,” Gallatin said. “The DA for the District of Columbia, a guy with limitless political ambitions himself, is pulling out all the stops to nail Tulliver and company. It looks like this CHASM thing goes far and deep. Anything but a ‘rogue operation.’” He looked at Lisa forlornly. “It also looks like we’ll be busy testifying before grand juries and congressional hearings for months.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Why couldn’t I be a refugee on my brother’s farm?”
D’Angelo fell silent. He looked up at Gallatin. “How about Lauren?”
The Greyhound bus arrived at Chester Avenue station, two hours behind schedule. The rumpled passengers spilled out into the grungy area of decrepit buildings, marginal businesses and crossed humanity. The wet, empty streets glistened in the cold drizzle. Off of the bus, Mlavic lit up a cigarette and rubbed his four-day growth of beard as he surveyed the scene. He picked up his army surplus duffle and walked past the waiting cabs. He turned left for no special reason.