The Ambassador, page 26
I slept heavily and dreamt about being in the woods. I was dressed in my old sterile jungle fatigues and wearing a Howdy Doody-style toy cowboy hat. Baz was there dressed in a khaki North Vietnamese Army uniform. He was leading an NVA human wave assault. I stood up and realized I was wearing flip-flops instead of boots. I pulled two pearl-handled cap guns from cheap plastic holsters on my hips. I fired at Baz and the NVA bayonet charge, the red paper caps unfurling and smoking as I pulled the trigger. It was the absurd last stand of Staff Sergeant Roark. They overwhelmed me, running over me, pushing me deeper and deeper into the mud of a hemlock forest.
I woke up with Sir Leominster on my chest. He was kneading my chest with his front paws, the way cats do. He meowed at me when I opened my eyes and, for a second or two, I had no idea where I was.
In the bathroom I splashed cold water on my face. The bruises that I had picked up in the woods were starting to make themselves known. I had scratches I didn’t remember getting. Just reacting, moving, careening off things and not feeling them because of the adrenaline, the focus on the gunfight. There was a bite mark on my chest, but that had nothing to do with any gunfight.
It was raining outside, and the wind rattled the apartment windows. The rain was coming down hard enough to make me abandon the thought of going for a run. Fall in Boston was either woodsmoke on crisp air, fall foliage and hot chocolate, or it was a storm. There never seemed to be any middle ground.
I found an old dressing gown that had been a gift from an old girlfriend. It was a little thin at the elbows these days, but it was perfect for lazing about in. After all, I had earned it after tangling with Baz in the woods. I couldn’t decide if I had been lucky in the woods or just more skilled. Or whether he had just been unlucky. Luck counts as much as skill in a fight. It didn’t much matter now.
I made an espresso on the stove-top and contemplated my day. I wanted to start typing up my case files so that I could send Stevenson a report of the investigation. More importantly, I wanted to send him a bill. When I had lazed about enough and had enough espresso and cigarettes, it was time for a shave and a shower.
When I was showered and dressed, I gathered up my notes and put them in my trusty mail bag. I dressed for the fall chill and topped it off with my old trench coat, which still repelled some water. I went back to carrying my revolver holstered on my hip.
The rain let up enough that I was just damp from the walk. When I got to the office, there was the faint smell of pipe tobacco in the background, like the bass in a John Coltrane number. There was something to be said for the quiet days. I hung my trench coat on the coat rack, appreciating the simple nuances involved in not being dead.
I cracked the window open, letting in a cool, damp draft. I pulled out my notes and a mostly clean legal pad. I packed a pipe and managed to get it lit with only two matches. I have heard that people who really know what they are doing can get a pipe lit and drawing with one match. I wasn’t one of them.
I went through my case notes methodically, and on the mostly new legal pad turned them into some sort of coherent narrative. I stuck to the facts and the indicators that had led the investigation in the direction it had gone in. Putting it all down on paper, Kovach seemed like a very thin lead to follow. Baz seemed obvious – the butler did it. Butler, bodyguard, whatever.
It still nagged me how Baz had gotten Bradley to recommend him to Stevenson. It was awfully convenient for Baz to get that close. How had Bradley come up with Baz’s name? He didn’t strike me as the type to read Soldier of Fortune magazine.
Was there anyone else who had a reason to get involved in the scheme? Stevenson was obviously out. Honey, having a lot of money of her own, didn’t seem likely. Gordon Junior just didn’t strike me as having enough get-up-and-go to do much more than sponge off the old man. That left Maureen and Frieda, and I couldn’t see either of them having the motive or the knowledge to plan something like this. That left Bradley, the aide-de-camp, Stevenson’s loyal assistant, whose parents were about to lose the farm in Ohio. He had the brains and he certainly had motive. He also had opportunity and he hired Baz.
The problem was that this was all speculation, and I wasn’t going to put any of it into a report to Stevenson. I had been paid to investigate, not type up a bunch of assumption and conjecture. I stuck to the facts and tried to write up a neat, clean report and nothing else. When I had written it out longhand, I took a break and went to the deli around the corner for lunch.
Later, back at the office, I dug out my own typewriter and, thanking my freshman year typing teacher, I started to type up my findings. My typewriter was a Brother Correct-O-Riter, which, compared to an IBM, seemed positively petite. After an hour and a half and a bit of cursing, it was done. I typed up a bill and it all went into an envelope that I addressed to Stevenson’s hunting lodge. I put two stamps on it and popped it in the blue mailbox on my way home.
NINETEEN
The next week was taken up with an insurance fraud case that came my way. It wasn’t the most exciting case, but most of them weren’t. It had meant spending a little time following a guy around. A little digging and it turned out he was working under the table for his cousin who was in construction.
My client was happy, which was good for me. It has been my experience that the insurance companies paid faster when they liked the results. It also helped that they might need me for a deposition, and prompt payment always kept me in a good mood.
A week after I sent the Ambassador his case report and bill, I opened the mailbox to find a cream-colored envelope of thick paper. It was embossed with Stevenson’s name and title. Inside was a note of thanks. It also explained that he had included a bonus. He had added five hundred dollars to what I had billed. I thought that was rather sporting of him.
A few days after that, I was at a loose end again. I had sent the insurance company their report, complete with pictures. I had spoken to Watts a couple of times, but she didn’t have anything more to tell me other than the body they found by the highway was Kovach.
Later that night my phone rang, and I had only had one whiskey, so I answered.
‘Roark. Stevenson here. Listen, Honey and I were wondering if you’d come up to the house over the weekend.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, things are great. Honey just felt that, you know, we should thank you. That money wasn’t enough. Come up for the weekend.’
‘Umn.’ I wasn’t sure that I wanted to spend a weekend listening to Stevenson talk about himself.
‘Come on. It’s only a couple of hours away. Honey insists. You don’t want me to be in Dutch with the wife, do you?’ I personally didn’t care, but I didn’t have anything else to do and Maureen might be there. That possibility made the thought of another trip to Vermont much more interesting than sleeping alone in Boston.
‘I can drive up Saturday morning,’ I said, hoping that an urgent case would come up.
‘Good, good. I will tell Frieda to make her world-famous Sauerbraten.’
‘That sounds great.’ I have a well-known love of Sauerbraten, which I can only get at the Wursthaus in Cambridge. They had it at the Café Budapest, but I could hardly ever afford to eat there.
Saturday mid-morning found me driving north again. The fall colors had faded from the trees. And there was a bright, brittle kind of sunlight shining through their bare branches. In spite of the lack of foliage, I enjoyed the ride through the hills.
I had stopped at the New Hampshire State Liquor Store off the highway. You couldn’t tell that – a few weeks before – a man had been murdered there. I am sure it wasn’t the first and was confident it wouldn’t be the last. The radio was playing ‘Rock and Roll’ by the Velvet Underground and I tapped my fingers to it against the Maverick’s steering wheel. By the time I pulled up to the hunting lodge, I was feeling pretty good.
Maureen’s light blue Mustang was parked next to the house, and I swung my own Ford in behind hers. I got out and was greeted with crisp fall air and the smell of woodsmoke from the chimney. It was nice to see the place without bodyguards or State Police hanging around.
Stevenson was waiting for me at the door.
‘Roark. Glad you could make it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Come on in out of the chill.’ It was colder than the last time I had been here. I was glad that I had my old pea jacket on.
‘Sure thing.’
‘I am glad that you made it. Honey would have had my hide if you hadn’t.’
‘We can’t have that. It was nice of her to invite me up.’
‘I think she has some romantic vision of you as our savior. She said you didn’t have to chase Baz into the woods and get into a gunfight with him. You could have just let the authorities handle it.’
‘Never even occurred to me. Either way, it is nice of you to invite me up.’
‘Sure, let’s get you settled. Bradley is in Brookline, so there is an open guest room. Unless you’d prefer the couch downstairs?’
‘Guest room is fine. How are the memoirs coming?’
‘Much better now. It is funny how not having a murderer threatening your family helps.’
‘I can see where that would be a weight lifted off your shoulders.’ I followed him into the house and had to keep myself from instinctively going downstairs when he turned left down the hallway. He showed me a corner bedroom that gave me a view of the garage and front field by the road.
‘Come downstairs for a drink after you’ve settled in.’ He left and I put my bag down on the wing chair in one corner by the closet. The room was furnished simply but tastefully, with a queen-sized bed, a wooden night table with a brass lamp, and an antique bureau in addition to the chair. There were a few watercolors, landscapes of varying sizes, on the wall.
After washing up, I stepped out to the unmistakable smell of Frieda’s Sauerbraten. It smelled fantastic. I poked my head into the kitchen where Frieda was peeling potatoes with a paring knife. ‘Guten Tag.’
‘Guten Tag, Herr Roark.’ I was rewarded with a smile.
I jerked my head in the direction of the stairs and said, ‘Herr Ambassador?’
She nodded and went back to her potatoes. I walked downstairs and joined Stevenson in his inner sanctum.
‘What do you want to drink?’
‘Scotch and soda?’
He made my drink and handed it to me.
‘Cheers.’ We ritually clinked glasses. I took a sip and admired Honey’s paintings.
‘They’re something. Even I can’t get over how talented she is.’
‘They are.’ Then something occurred to me. ‘Did anything hang here before?’
‘Trophies. I used to do a fair bit of hunting and had a few heads mounted on the wall. Honey wasn’t a fan of them, and these went up in their place.’
‘I think you made out on the deal.’
‘Yes, you’re right, but I was proud of them. I used to have a bearskin in front of the fireplace, from a brown bear I bagged.’ I looked over at the polished bit of floor in front of the fireplace.
‘Was that your biggest kill?’
‘No, I did some big game hunting in Africa … now, that was exhilarating. I haven’t done much in the last few years.’
‘No? It seems like this is the perfect area for deer.’
‘I was going to get back into it but, you know …’
‘What happened?’
‘Honey happened. She has views about killing defenseless animals.’
‘Ah …’
‘Roark, why do you think he did it?’
‘Baz?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said it best himself. He was a mercenary. He had half a million reasons why.’
‘Yes, but why me? Why did he choose us to terrorize?’
‘I don’t know. I have wondered that myself.’
‘Would you look into it for us?’
‘I don’t think I could do anything in this case that the FBI can’t do better.’
‘You don’t want to make more money?’
‘It isn’t that.’
‘Then what?’
‘When you first hired me, it was because you thought it was an SOG guy doing it.’
‘Sure, that was the theory.’
‘I was the right guy for that job, for obvious reasons.’
‘You were. You caught Baz.’
‘I got lucky. If I was a heavier sleeper, you’d be out half a million.’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘No, to try and find out why Baz did it, that might involve a lot of things that are just a little bit beyond my skill sets.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like getting the State Department to give us an idea of his movements in and out of the country, or getting his service records from Vietnam, and there is no way I would be able to get any details about him from his time in Rhodesia. No, sir, I think this is a case for the FBI.’
‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you?’
‘Special Agent Watts is good. If she can’t find out why, then it can’t be found out.’
‘OK. Come on, let’s go upstairs and say hi to Honey and Maureen.’
‘Sure.’
Upstairs there was a fire in the living-room fireplace. Honey was sitting on the couch with her feet tucked under her. She was dressed casually, jeans and sweater, hair behind her ears, and I understood why Stevenson had given up hunting. She put down her book, stood up and walked over.
‘Mr Roark, it was so good of you to come. I wanted to say thank you.’
‘Mrs Stevenson, of course. I am glad to be here.’ I was lying. I wanted to be just about anywhere else, but here I was.
‘I know you think you were just doing your job, but we think you were exceptional. Don’t we, Gordon?’
‘I was just downstairs trying to tell him that, but he was more interested in your paintings.’
‘Do you like them, Mr Roark?’
‘Yes, they are quite good. I mean, I’m no art critic, but I like them.’
‘I am so glad.’
I saw Maureen walk in from the kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand. She saw me and smiled ruefully, ‘I heard that the cowboy was coming back for a weekend appearance.’
‘Well, I was told that there would be Sauerbraten.’
‘Silly me, I thought you came up for the conversation.’
‘That too. That too.’
Later over dinner, it was just the four of us. It was like a weird double date, but with homemade Sauerbraten, potato dumplings the size of tennis balls and braised red cabbage, all of it served with a generous amount of brown gravy. It was fantastic, and Stevenson paired it with a very dry German Riesling.
Dinner was followed by Bienenstich, or bee-sting cake. I dug a fork into the cake, which consisted of two bread layers that had vanilla custard between them and were covered with a crunchy almond and honey topping. It was to die for. It was one of the best meals I have ever had.
Stevenson was better too. He was more relaxed and less of a caricature. He told funny stories about his time in the OSS and the diplomatic corps. Honey beamed at him, and it was easy to see that she loved him. Maureen told funny stories about her time staying on her grandparents’ farm, tending to the animals, learning to ride, and nice stories of life in the country.
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, my door opened, and Maureen slipped into the room and then into my bed. We made love slowly and sweetly, falling asleep next to each other. It had been a very good day.
The next morning, I woke up alone. I took my shaving kit and went downstairs. I went to Baz’s room and tossed it, but there was nothing to be found that the FBI hadn’t already taken away. Something about the case was bothering me still though, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Giving up, I went to shower.
Breakfast was coffee and the rest of the cake. Being a god-fearing woman, Frieda didn’t work on Sundays. It was just Stevenson, Honey and me at the table. Maureen was sleeping in. It was still early, and there was frost outside on the grass.
‘Are you heading back today, Mr Roark?’
‘Yes, but first I might take a walk in the woods.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Roark,’ Stevenson said.
‘I don’t think it will bring back any flashbacks or nightmares.’
‘Oh no, not that. It’s hunting season. The locals will be out with high-powered rifles shooting at anything that moves. You think the NVA were dangerous? These boys …’
‘That bad?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Roark. This time of year, I take my morning walk around the field. I stay out of the woods and don’t even walk on the road,’ Honey said.
We finished breakfast and I went to pack. I stopped at Maureen’s door, opening it a crack. She was still asleep, snoring softly, and I didn’t want to wake her. She knew how to find me if she ever wanted to come to Boston. I went to say goodbye to Stevenson.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider?’
‘No, sir. I have taken this case as far as I can. Anything more would just be taking your money.’
‘I see. Well, thanks again.’ He stuck his hand out and I took it.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Honey is outside, walking around the field. Don’t leave without saying goodbye to her. She thinks you’re a good egg.’
‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste.’
I put on my pea jacket and shouldered my bag. Outside, I put the bag on the Maverick’s passenger seat and spied Honey walking down by the tree line on the low side of the field. I called her name and she stopped, turning my way. I walked the forty yards downhill to her. She smiled when she saw me, and I understood what people meant when they describe pregnant women as ‘glowing’.
‘Mr Roark, I’m glad you came up to see us.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
‘It was a nice time?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘We can’t thank you enough.’
‘It’s OK. Really. I am glad to have helped.’ She leaned in and kissed my cheek again.
‘Thank you. I do hope you will come and see us again. Gordon likes you. He doesn’t meet many people who stand up to him. He is a good man, though.’
