“No, this won’t take long. Tell me, did you know a Roger Girardin when you were in the service?”
Nick could not be sure if he had seen a shudder run through Jack—the man shifted constantly.
“Not sure, maybe... maybe, vaguely,” Jack said in a way that did not give Nick confidence he was ready to cooperate.
“He was from Bridgeport.”
“Like I told ya, maybe.”
“Well, if you knew him, would it have been while you were a POW?”
“Don’t remember him there.” Jack folded his swollen lower lip under his upper teeth.
“When then? When’d you know him?”
“Might have been a guy that was with me in the 24th.”
“He never returned from Korea... ”
“Mister, could have been MIA, KIA. Lots of things happened.”
“Like, maybe he didn’t come back with the other soldiers?”
Nick saw Jack’s jaw stiffen. “What’re you driving at?”
Nick raised his hands, palms open. “Hey, it’s no business of mine. But, those couple of dozen guys that decided to stay on with the Chinese after the POW exchange were called turncoats. Right? It’s possible Girardin defected, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about him, but I didn’t. I was too sick to come back. It’s this kinda bullshit I’m tryin’ not to get mixed up in. I got a wife and kid, and they shouldn’t be hearing this crap, like I was a... a traiter or somethin’.”
“Jack, I know what the guys went through that came back after the POW exchange. It wasn’t deserved. I, for one, believed they were brainwashed. So, I’ll do everything in my power not to get into that.”
“Well, that would really fuck me up, job-wise, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, I’m risking a lot talkin’ to you.”
“Yes, and I know that.”
“More than you know, Mac. More than you know.”
“I have some maps of a POW camp. Can you look at them?”
Nick removed his jacket. Sitting down again, he reached for his briefcase, removing several yellowed, folded documents and unfolded one marked B-2.
“Do you recognize this?”
Jack looked at Nick, then at the map. He reviewed the lines on the paper for about thirty seconds. “It’s the layout of the camp I was at.” He pointed to a blue set of lines at one edge of the paper, “The main road came in here. We came and went by that road. And here’s where the barracks were, all over here—a little town. Not really barracks, huts more like, where we slept.”
Jack stopped. He had added nothing that Nick did not already know. Nick rolled out the next map, marked B-4 in the upper corner. “Do you recognize this one?”
“Well, it’s the eastern end of North Korea near the... Yeah, here’s the Yalu, here’s the border. Manchuria.”
Nick pointed to a line, “Do you know what this is?”
“Looks like a map of the route south.”
“Anything else you recognize?”
“No. Look, Mac, it’s been a long, long time.” Jack scratched the large lump left by the billy stick.
“How about these, B-3 and B-1?”
“Well, B-1 looks similar to B-2, think it’s probably Camp 13. B-3, I don’t know what area that’s referring to.”
“Over here, on B-2 these hexagonal marks, what do they stand for?”
Jack’s eyes slid to where Nick pointed. Beads of sweat had formed on Jack’s forehead, and he rubbed his hands along his legs. “Don’t know.”
“Think hard... I was hoping you could tell me.”
Jack rose from his chair. “Look, I got a splittin’ headache.”
“I just need a few more answers.”
“They might be anything,” Jack avoided Nick’s gaze. “Camps, caches, you know, ammo. Or even minefields. Who knows? Hexagons within hexagons. Hexahexagonagon. Ha!”
Nick could see the man was nearing the edge again and changed tack, asking more about Jack’s life after the service. Jack said he had worked for Hamilton Helicopters after he came home from Korea. Nick asked how he had gotten the job, and he mentioned that he knew the owner.
“Did you know that the owner Trent Hamilton was also a POW?” Nick had read this in the local newspaper.
“No, no I had not.”
Nick found Jack’s answer curious, figuring that if he knew the owner when he came back from Korea, he would know that they both shared the uncommon experience of being POWs. However, while Jack’s responses were mostly nods or a flat out “no’s,” he seemed to have returned to a level of rationality.
“Jack, a guy named Jaeger testified that you and Girardin were patrolling one morning, late November ’50. Claimed you’d saved his life when you killed a sniper. Recall that?”
Jack looked confused. “No, ain’t got no memory of saving anybody. Can hardly save myself. Ha! Never was on no patrol with Girardin neither. Guy’s got it wrong.”
“I need you to say that in court.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
***
Nick, Kathy and Mitch met over lunch at Zorba’s. Without asking, Big Sally slid Monday’s meatloaf special in front of Nick. She also brought a couple of burgers for Kathy and Mitch.
After interviewing Jack, Nick had sent Mitch out on a fact-finding mission to gather some basic information on Trent Hamilton—since he was, after all, a POW—and because Nick felt uneasy about Jack’s answer.
“So, Mitch, what’d you get?”
Mitch swiped the hair out of his eyes and recounted what he had gleaned from the local library newspaper stacks. “Well, they’re local high flyers, as we know: Hamilton’s CEO of Hamilton Helicopters, the family business. Sister’s married to a senator.”
“Okay, yadda yadda, and what we don’t know... ”
“Well, the town gave Hamilton the hero’s welcome when he came back from Korea, tickertape, the whole nine yards.”
“He’d been a POW, right?” asked Kathy.
“Yeah, we knew that, but better than that,” returned Mitch.
“Interesting choice of words,” quipped Kathy.
Mitch ducked his head, but knowing he had their full attention, he took a bite out of his burger. Nick and Kathy watched and waited as he chomped.
“Well?” asked Nick.
“Guess where.” Mitch replied, licking his fingers.
Kathy winced. “Camp 13?”
“You got it. Busy place, old Camp 13.”
“Excellent work, Mitch.”
“All right, so court tomorrow?”
“Yeah, all right,” Nick conceded. “But find O’Conner’s military records this afternoon. Kathy can play point man for a while.”
But wait,” Kathy interrupted, “let me get this straight. Three local boys, this Hamilton fellow gets the ticker tape, Prado is a turncoat, and Girardin never comes back? Wow. At least you can’t blame it on the water.”
“So what’s this Prado guy like?” Mitch asked.
“More importantly,” Kathy added, “what was his recollection of events?”
“Recollection of events,” mimicked Mitch.
“Vague,” answered Nick. “A lotta ‘don’t remember,’ or ‘too long ago.’ But it was more than that. The guy seemed rattled.”
“Can we use him?” asked Mitch.
“We have to, to rebut Jaeger, but what happened in Camp 13 isn’t something the guy’s giving up easily.”
Mitch slurped his coke, inspecting the ice melting at the bottom. “What’s his beef?”
“Can’t tell. He’s not being straight. Like I said, this thing about Hamilton—you’d think he’d have mentioned it, even if he wasn’t in the same POW camp. Just the idea they were both POWs. Then again, he’s troubled by the possibility that his time in Korea after the POW switch will come out. That he’ll be called a commie or a traitor or something. It was a bad time. And he’s definitely an alkie, but it goes beyond alcohol
. He can’t think straight. I’ve seen that. And people don’t like to get up in front of a lot of strangers and bare their souls. It’s terrifying.”
Gumshoes and Secretaries
AFTER LUNCH, NICK SENT KATHY to research Hamilton Helicopters stories at The Bridgeport Post where she found dozens of articles about the company that she summarized for Nick — its government contracts, work force and local influence. From the early 40s until the Hamilton’s takeover in ’52, pay had been fair, layoffs rare, business cyclical. It had a foundry, which aged men years before their time—most working until 62. It hired whole families, workers complained little and, although lines between management and workers had been razor sharp, workers had a job for life.
When Trent took over in the early 50s, the first casualty was the friendly atmosphere between workers and management. The end of the Korean War collapsed the spare parts business and the company downsized. A ’53 Wall Street Journal analyst wrote that the company needed, “A cultural sea change” to stay competitive. Two years after his return from the war, Trent Hamilton had installed management loyalists, including Jack O’Conner, who assumed a middle management role half-heartedly. He ran a less than tight ship — far from meeting Trent’s expectation of affording no quarter to foot-draggers — but Trent did little to change Jack’s work ethic, figuring he achieved his objective: keeping Jack close and beholden.
Hamilton’s management philosophy was described by a Bridgeport Post editorial as:
“... a biological determinism, where the success of the company (Hamilton Helicopters) depends not on innovation or product integrity as much as on forced ranking bottom up, where the lower ten percent are routinely replaced by better prospects on the theory that evolution produces the best management team. Hamilton divided competition into two kinds, those prepared to lose it all in taking what they wanted and those who refused to risk it all and falling short. Hamilton’s attitude, ‘Take what you want, pay for it, say thanks and move on.’ The attitude a hunter takes. No sentimentality.”
Beginning in ’65, Hamilton started recapturing the technology that had been stolen by renegade ex-licensees setting up competition throughout the world. Hamilton’s lawyers sued, bribed and put a heavy hand on U.S. embassies for help. With that mission accomplished, Hamilton regained dominant positions in Brazil, Congo and India.
Nick did not know what to make of the information on Hamilton Helicopters. His concerns were more immediate: if O’Conner were linked to Roger in some way, and O’Conner and Hamilton were linked in wartime, was it possible that Hamilton knew Roger, too? Nick wondered what Hamilton would say if he were asked outright, “Did you know Roger Girardin?” Rather than cold call, he asked John Santos, the ex-FBI agent he used from time to time, to make contact. Santos met Nick that night at the law office.
“John, see if he remembers Girardin. It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll get lucky. If Hamilton knew what happened to Roger, we could get to the bottom of this pretty quick.”
Santos went to Hamilton’s office the next morning, flashed his old F.B.I. badge at the coiffed receptionist, and asked for Hamilton. In the next instant he was greeted by a sentinel in stilettos and a tailored suit, who put the ex-cop under the lamp rather than the other way around. “Who are you, and what do you want with Mr. Hamilton? If you need answers, put it in writing, address it to our lawyers Kramer and Fish.” But John did not come away empty handed, he learned that Hamilton was on a trip, and was not expected back for two weeks. He asked where. “We don’t give out that information. Please leave, now.”
When Santos gave Nick the news, he replied. “While we’re waiting for him, get some G-2 on his non-public activities.” Santos lined up a few people willing to talk. One described Hamilton as the “alpha male,” another as, “cunning and careful.”
A so-called friend from the country club met Santos at a diner before tee-time, while it was still dark. Surprisingly, he said, “His father taught him how to con people.”
“Con? Strong word. How’s that?”
“Guy creates the illusion that you’re like him, ambitious, high-spirited. Gets you to identify with him, his cause. Keeps that billfold just out of reach. Gets you to believe your fortunes are tied to him.”
“Are they?”
The man did not answer.
An executive fired three months earlier spoke by phone, breathing hard. “Rude, scrapped with the foreman, the union, even the workers, if he saw something he didn’t like. When he felt he’d won, he’d rub your nose in it... . ”
“Why did you quit?”
“I didn’t. Had a heart attack. Retired me, what they used to call ‘fired.’”
“Do you know anything about Hamilton’s overseas operations?”
“Not much—a division in Brazil, India, has ties in Washington. Don’t know much more than that.” The man added, “He visits the plants a few times a year.”
“Why is he successful?”
“Man lives on the edge, a gambler.”
“Gambles what?”
“Against getting caught, always tryin’ to slip through, skirting the edge.”
“Like?”
The man exhaled into the phone. “Mister, I think I’ve said enough.”
“Well, doesn’t sound like anybody I want to be friends with, not an ounce of some redeeming quality.”
“Except for the orphanage.”
“The orphanage? What’s that?”
“He started an orphanage and some kind of adoption service for Chinese and Korean kids sent to the states by some overseas missionaries.”
“What’s his role?”
“Chairman and a big, big donor. I mean seven-figures big.”
The two men were silent until the man remarked, “Hear he may run for governor.”
World Travesty
August 1983
AS THE PLANE DESCENDED INTO CALCUTTA, Hamilton peered out the 747 first class upper-deck. The man sitting next to him remarked, “The city’s just like the rest of the third world—dirty. Just bigger.” It was 2 a.m. local time when the chauffeur headed for the Tan Mahler Hotel where a new moon and an occasional run of ghee lights brought from the shadows mile after mile of homeless wrapped in white linen. Hamilton, having traveled the route many times, eventually bored of the view and closed his eyes.
The next morning, over eggs and a few slices of specially ordered bacon, he read the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal. A trend line showed futures on an incline. He picked up the phone and wired a two word telegram to his broker: Sell aluminum. He put his toast into the egg’s yellow center, stuffed it in his mouth and casually gazed out the window—following one-armed, pick-pocketing wafts horsing around and giggling before they struck the mark. He went back to the article, where it said his associate John Walker Russell was in line for Secretary of Defense. Hamilton met Russell, then a CIA operative, through Hamilton’s former army boss Andy Johnston twenty years ago. Shortly afterwards Russell and Hamilton formed a profitable alliance, where Hamilton supplied inside information to Russell in his CIA capacity, and Russell reciprocated by helping Hamilton export technology, especially when U.S. export licenses were almost impossible to obtain. In time, the “business” from Russell’s point-of-view deserved more than simply G-2, which only benefited his employer. Russell wanted his cut, access to a Swiss bank account in which Hamilton would deposit a small percentage of the funds from each export transaction. Reading the newspaper, Hamilton surmised that the level of scrutiny Russell would get being elevated from Undersecretary to the top Defense post would be intense, and he wasn’t happy, since any detection of their relationship would result in embarrassment or worse. After all, he had his eye on the governorship.
After breakfast, Hamilton proceeded to meet his Far East contact. In the next few minutes he found himself part of a moving wall of people and decided to slip down a side street where the hubbub transitioned to a relatively stilled picture, where women quietly went about chores in brilliant
saris of vermilion, turquoise blue, brown, white; each forehead smudged scarlet, aquamarine or soot black to symbolize one or another blessing, demon inoculation or simply to adorn her face. A man rummaged through a garbage heap, another darted around it, almost run down by a bicycle. Hamilton noticed a light skinned woman sweeping the sidewalk: a fifty-year-old woman lost in a seventy-year-old body, with arms only slightly thicker than her broomstick. She swept briskly. He stepped around the miniature dust devil that swirled in her wake, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. He slipped it into her hand.
Hamilton came to the two-story frame that bore the number 96, the place where he would meet his associate. This kind of meeting was not typical for a man of Hamilton’s position. People in-country did his bidding, but this convocation was classified as “sensitive—highly confidential.” Hamilton knew he could maintain a defensible position if the meeting were ever exposed for what it was. Officially, the organization he dealt with was Crawford, Singh and Sons, Ltd., a subsidiary of a larger Indian concern. Hamilton walked up two flights and into a room that was crowded by a desk, four chairs, a floor fan running on high speed, two Indians and a Chinese man.
The Chinese man smiled widely. “Hello, Trent, excellent to see you again.”
“And, you too, Tat Wah. Three years, right? What have you been doing?”
Trent had known the man for thirty years, and though he had gained weight since last time, he would recognize him strictly from his short, wide shouldered, stocky appearance and his hallmark white Palm Beach linen suit, gray fedora, highly polished black shoes and ebony cane.
“Yes, three. Been going between Shanghai and Hong Kong.” He tapped his cane into his hand.
“What’s been your focus?”
“Erecting tire plants. Planning to export because the economy’s sunk. That “Intellectual Revolution” stunted growth. Now we turn policy to entrepreneurship.”
“Well,” Hamilton started in a sympathetic tone, “we had our rabble rousers... protesters, civil rights.”
Through with small talk, Tat Wah asked, “What do you bring today?”
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