The Ambassador, page 18
‘Then what?’
‘I will head back down to Boston. Figure out a way to watch his place and have a conversation with him.’
‘What will you say?’
‘I’ll try and reason with him or get him to incriminate himself.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘I’ll come up with something.’ I wasn’t sure what that would be, and I was pretty sure that there was a lot of stuff I wouldn’t do.
‘Well, we have a plan of sorts.’ He didn’t sound very confident, but I have that effect on my clients. The only thing that had been missing from the lunch was good beer to go with it. All the case was missing was a better suspect.
We went back to the journals and notes and began working through his time in Laos. His youthful enthusiasm and Pollyannaish worldview had given way to realpolitik, and it made for dry, if pragmatic reading.
Stevenson had been in Laos right up to the end. After that, he had bumped around to different ambassadorships. Somewhere along the way he ran afoul of the head office in Washington, and that led to his retirement. If he screwed over anyone along the way who would bear a grudge, it certainly wasn’t recorded in his journals. Somewhere along the way he had ceased recording his true feelings, and had begun writing for posterity’s sake instead.
We knocked off in the late afternoon as the sun was easing its way down. I could hear Frieda banging about in the kitchen and muttering in German. I stood up and stretched and then said to Stevenson, ‘I could use some fresh air.’ I nodded my head toward the veranda.
I let myself out. I pulled a Lucky from the pack and, by the time I had it lit with the Zippo, cupping my hand to shield the flame, Stevenson had joined me. He had pulled on an old, OD green Army wool shirt. Not a bad idea as it was chilly out, and it felt like there would be a frost. We walked down the steps and on to the lawn.
The large pine in the front yard was throwing a long shadow.
‘Sir, I wanted to just talk to you away from the house for a minute.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, sir, I have to ask you some questions that might be uncomfortable, and I felt you might answer me more freely if we had a little privacy.’
‘You mean, I might talk if I wasn’t around my family and the people who work for me?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t have anything to say to you that I can’t …’
‘Sir, you and I both know that isn’t true. You’ve been around, you’ve amassed a small fortune, you’ve done your country’s bidding … Somewhere along the way you made an enemy. Maybe it’s Kovach, maybe it isn’t.’
‘OK, Roark, I get it. Ask your questions.’
‘OK, other than Stanhope, did you have similar business dealings with anyone?’ I phrased the question carefully; I didn’t want to accuse him of anything or he wouldn’t talk.
‘You mean did I fuck anyone else over?’
‘Exactly.’
‘No. My former brother-in-law provided me with information about the aerospace industry, but we both made a pile of money on that. His sister cleaned up nicely in the divorce settlement, and was happy to see the last of me.’
‘Were you faithful to her?’
‘No, but she wasn’t particularly faithful to me either. Infidelity is a rite of passage among people from our set.’ He meant the boarding school to Ivy League to CEO set. I didn’t bother to tell him that there was plenty of it among the more modest classes too. It helped pay my rent.
‘Any jealous husbands out there?’
‘No, once I met Honey, I hung up my spurs, so to speak. Anyone who felt wronged by me … well, the statute of limitations has long run out.’
‘Anyone out there who might have figured out that they’ve been raising a kid they thought was theirs but in reality is yours?’
‘Crude. But no. As far as I know, Gordy is my only child.’
‘Anyone from the State Department days?’
‘No. I don’t fish off the company dock. The ladies in the typing pool were off-limits and so were the wives and daughters.’
‘Anyone you might have competed with professionally?’
‘You mean, fucked over to get ahead?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I made it the old-fashioned way – family connections, a little money, and some talent. And if there was anyone I fucked over, that was decades ago. I think they would have tried something long ago.’
‘Other than Kovach, is there anyone or anything from your time in Laos?’
‘You mean, besides all you SOG cowboys? No.’ I ignored the dig. He was irritated, which was understandable given the questions I was asking him. I had yet to meet anyone who didn’t get irritated when I questioned them about the parts of their lives that they had glossed over so they could believe they were the best versions of themselves.
‘OK. Let me ask you this … how well do you trust the people around you?’
‘You mean like Bradley or Baz?’
‘Sure, isn’t it always the butler who did it?’
‘I don’t have a butler. I just have Frieda, and the only grudge she would have is when I mess about in her kitchen.’
‘Bradley?’
‘He and Gordon went to Dartmouth together. They were friends. He, frankly, always seemed more interested in my work than Gordon ever has. Gordon wants to be a filmmaker. I wanted him to be a lawyer, or a diplomat.’
‘What about Baz?’
‘He’s a mercenary, pure and simple. I needed a bodyguard, and he had the right résumé. Vietnam, Rhodesia, and a couple other hot spots in Africa. If there is to be shooting, I want it done by someone who is good at it.’
‘OK, what about Maureen?’
‘I needed a ghostwriter and Bradley found her. Just like he found me Baz, that’s what Bradley does.’
‘OK, and you trust them?’
‘Yes, I do. In their own ways, they are both mercenaries, working for me. If something happens to me, they won’t get paid.’
‘What about the current Mrs Stevenson?’
‘Honey?’ He laughed. ‘I doubt it. She definitely married down. Her family is worth a lot more than I am.’
‘How about anyone whose nose might have been put out of joint by you marrying her?’
‘Other than her father? Ex-boyfriends, that sort of thing? None that I know of.’
‘All right. I guess that’s it.’
‘So, Kovach then?’
‘So far, he seems the most likely.’
The sun had dipped below the trees. It was October in Vermont; when the sun was no longer up, it cooled down fast. We had walked a good way from the house and were almost at the little fairy-tale house in the front yard.
‘What is that for?’ I asked.
‘Pump house. We have a spring-fed well and that holds the pump and electronics that feed water into the house. Take a look.’ He turned a wooden latch and revealed that the house was just a cover for a small foundation with a ladder leading down ten feet. Inside, I could see pink insulation, a circuit panel, heavy gauge wire, and a pump. There was a bare bulb and a chain hanging from the roof of the pump house.
‘Neat, looks well-thought-out.’
‘It has to be well-insulated for the winters up here, but it is worth it.’
‘Where’s the spring?’ I hadn’t seen any water in the pump house.
‘Just through those trees. There is a small house over it.’ He pointed to the tree line at the edge of the field running downhill. Everything was technically downhill from the house. The ground was uneven with small dips and rises, all evidence of glaciers past.
‘C’mon, it’s getting dark and neither of us wants to face Frieda’s wrath if we are late for dinner.’ He motioned to the house with his arm like he was John Wayne encouraging the Marines to hit the beach. We headed up the gentle slope toward the hunting lodge, whose windows were lit with warm light that spilled out on to the yard and the terrace. I could almost imagine the smells coming from Frieda’s kitchen.
I wasn’t wrong. The house was warm and the smells coming from the kitchen were fantastic.
‘There you two are. I was about to send Baz out to find you.’ Honey was standing in the living room. She was dressed simply in white tennis sneakers, jeans that were tight but not too tight, and a cream-colored silk blouse with the top two buttons undone. Diamonds glinted in her earlobes and a simple cross of gold was visible at her open collar.
‘Roark wanted to ask me a bunch of embarrassing questions and felt I would be more likely to talk if I was out the house.’ So much for subtlety.
‘And did he talk?’
‘No, he didn’t crack under questioning,’ I joked.
‘See that, he is disappointed that there is no dirt on me.’
‘No, not disappointed. In a lot of ways, having just one person to look at makes it a lot easier.’
‘As long as it isn’t one of you SOG cowboys?’ His voice had a needling quality to it that made me once more contemplate punching him in the nose, but that is usually bad for business.
‘Mr Ambassador, I’m a hired gun, just like Baz and the lady writer. You hired me to investigate and I am. If that leads me to an SOG guy, then so be it.’ My voice had the old familiar steel in it.
‘OK boys, separate corners. Gordon, why don’t you go see if you can find a nice wine to go with dinner? Mr Roark, why don’t you go wash up?’ While both were phrased in the form of a question, there was no mistaking them for what they were. Orders.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ I gave a mock salute and went downstairs to do as I was told.
By the time I had returned, the table was set and there was a place for me. We were all seated where we had been the night before, except for Bradley who was downstairs on the phone to the West Coast. He was allowed to skip dinner to try and sell the rights to Stevenson’s memoirs to Hollywood. Even Stevenson wouldn’t mind that type of money coming in.
I had wondered if I was going to have to join Baz and Frieda in the kitchen. Dinner in either place would have been fantastic. It was a roast; Frieda had put the meat on a bed of carrots and onions and then put peeled Yukon Gold potatoes around so that they took on some of the meat’s flavor as it all roasted. There was a large wooden bowl filled with salad and homemade dressing that wasn’t shy with either the garlic or the dill.
Stevenson also followed his orders well. He had produced a couple of bottles of Bordeaux that had been bottled in the middle of the Carter presidency. I don’t know enough about wine to tell the difference between a good bottle and a really good bottle. I do know a bit about cheap wine, and this was far from it. Stevenson carved the meat, and Frieda was to be commended. It was a perfect medium to medium rare.
Maureen joined Honey, Stevenson and me for dinner, while Baz again ate in the kitchen with Frieda. Maureen chatted with me and, when she thought no one was looking, she slid her hand under the tablecloth and gave my thigh a squeeze.
‘Andy, what did you do during Vietnam?’
‘I was a clerk.’ This warranted a pinch instead of a squeeze on my thigh, a little higher than was entirely comfortable.
‘No, really.’
‘I was in Special Forces.’ That answer was usually enough for most people.
‘Doing what?’
‘Yes, Andy, doing what?’ Stevenson asked, parodying Maureen.
‘Oh, working with indigenous soldiers, that sort of thing.’
‘Working on what, exactly?’ She was like a terrier ferreting out a rodent.
‘Nothing too exciting, just helping to train them.’
We went back and forth like that for a bit until Stevenson said, ‘Maureen, he can’t tell you.’
‘What, doesn’t he know what he did during the war?’
‘No, Maureen, it’s classified. He could go to jail for telling you about it. You can bat your pretty eyes at him and grope him under the table all you want. He won’t tell you anything.’
‘Is that true?’ This to me.
‘There isn’t anything to tell, really. I went to a war, I worked with indigenous people. I came home and then the war was over.’
‘Haha, see, Maureen, he is an infuriating prick.’ Stevenson laughed but he wasn’t very far off.
‘Most people who don’t like me don’t really know me that well. Once you get to know me, I’m a real peach.’ That got a laugh from everyone, and we were able to pay attention to the excellent meal and wine instead of rehashing my war record.
When the main meal was done, Bradley came upstairs to join us. Frieda cleared the table and brought brandy and strudel for dessert. She made no mention of coffee, and no one seemed interested in it. Stevenson poured a large snifter of brandy for both of us. Maureen was poured a more ladylike measure and Honey declined.
‘Roark, you were a team leader over there, weren’t you?’ Stevenson was back in Hemingway mode.
‘Yes.’ It was still classified, and I wasn’t the type to talk about it. The problem was that Stevenson knew all about it and I didn’t want him to lay it all out in front of everyone.
‘You were responsible for what … five, maybe eight other men?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And you SOG guys always blamed me for putting restrictions on your operations.’
‘It was frustrating.’ That was the world’s biggest understatement.
‘You guys … that’s the problem, no perspective.’
‘Perspective, sir?’
‘Yeah, sure. In World War II, I was responsible for a hundred men. In Laos, I was fighting a war.’
‘So were we, sir.’
‘Yes, but I was responsible for trying to keep the communists from overrunning the country by attempting to maintain the illusion of its neutrality. We were able to tie up thousands of NVA. Keep them out of Vietnam and off the Trail. I had an army of forty thousand men that I was responsible for. You had eight. You’re mad because I wouldn’t let you go after one or two downed pilots.’
‘Yes, sir. Yes, I am. We owed those guys. They saved my hide on numerous occasions.’
‘They did and they deserved better, but war is a messy business. I occasionally had to sacrifice one or two to protect thousands. I had to protect an army, a country; you had to worry about a squad.’ His face was flushed and the veins in his cheeks from years of hard drinking were a little more prominent.
‘Bass,’ Baz poked his head in from the kitchen. ‘I’m going to go do my rounds. Everything OK?’
‘Yes, yeah, sure. Sure, they are. Aren’t they, Roark?’
‘Just ducky.’ I could have brought up the fact that his responsibilities and sacrificing a pilot or two would be cold fucking comfort to their widows. Instead, I uncharacteristically kept my mouth shut. Baz nodded at us and then left to go on his rounds. I watched him through the Andersen windows as he walked along the veranda on his way to the front yard. I turned back to the table when his head disappeared down the steps.
Stevenson topped off his brandy, and I shook my head when he offered to do the same to mine. He ignored me and poured more. Everyone else was quiet, picking at their strudel and wondering what the hell had happened to their nice dinner.
‘Oh, come on, Roark, have a drink with me. I know I’m a bastard. I do. It’s just hard to sit here having you ask me all these questions. Judging me about my life, my war. Come on, man, let’s bury the hatchet.’ It wasn’t a bad idea, but I think he meant something different from what I was thinking.
‘Sure, why not.’
‘Well, good. Good for you. Hell, let’s move this downstairs. Ladies, boys, come on.’ Life of the party Stevenson was back. We all got up and moved away from the table. Bradley looked a little green around the gills and Gordon Junior looked flushed.
I stood by Maureen, pulling her chair back, pretending to be some sort of gentleman. Glancing out the window by the part of the terrace that touched the woods, I saw fireflies. Except there are no fireflies in Vermont in October. It’s too cold.
I wrapped an arm around Maureen’s shoulders and dived, pulling her to the floor with me. Stevenson, decades from his time in the OSS, half in the bag as he was, hit the floor too. His cries of ‘get down!’ were lost as the windows began to shatter and the reports of the rifle reached us. They were loud and close, someone firing fast on semi-auto, tearing up the windows, the walls, and the china hutch opposite the windows.
Plaster dust was starting to fill the room from where the rounds were punching through everything. I rolled on my side and saw light switches above the phone on the sideboard by the mercifully untouched sliding glass doors. I reached up and flicked them off and the room went dark.
‘Crawl into the kitchen or hallway. Get behind the chimney,’ I heard myself yell. Then I stood up like a fool, my .38 in hand, and ripped five rounds into the wood line where I thought I had seen the muzzle flashes. Each of my five rounds exploded into a ball of orange flame as hot gasses escaped from the muzzle and the cylinder in the darkened room.
I dropped to the floor, cordite in my nose and ringing in my ears. They were all moving away slowly and carefully on their bellies. I emptied the cylinder on the floor then dug a speedloader out of my pocket. I fitted the rounds into the cylinder, tossing the empty speedloader away.
Because I hadn’t done enough stupid stuff that night, I stood up, back to the wall, and unlocked the sliding glass door. I slid it open, took a couple of deep breaths, then stepped out into the night and the screen door. I got tangled up and went down, hitting the terrace, but was quickly up and free of the screen and moving into the wood line, toward where I thought Kovach was. I could hear something or someone big moving through the brush.
I started moving forward and promptly smacked into a branch. Shit. The flash from my own shooting had wiped out my night vision. I put my left hand out in front of me and pointed my .38 in front of me with a bent arm. I took a couple of steps, but it was slow going. I heard footsteps behind me, and I heard heavy breathing. I pivoted when the beam from a flashlight hit me square in the eyes.
‘Roark, don’t shoot. It’s me, Baz.’ At least I could still hear.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I asked angrily, as much needing to vent as being genuinely curious.
