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  Marcy didn’t reply.

  Tyson continued, “Plus all my vacation pay, sick pay, and some year-end bonus money.”

  “That . . . that was very generous.”

  “Very.” But Tyson didn’t think generosity had anything to do with it. The government was subsidizing this, one way or another. They didn’t want to leave him destitute. And that was not altruism, that was public relations strategy. But he didn’t think he wanted to play their game. He said, “I don’t know what first lieutenants make these days, and I really don’t give a damn, but I figure with that pay and your salary we’ll be broke within the year.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you accept the offer?”

  “No. In fact, I’m thinking of resigning as a matter of principle.”

  “Why? That’s absurd, Ben. Take the half pay. You’ve put in years of hard work for that company—”

  “But how about principle? You’re a principled person, so I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d back me up on this. And you’re an antimaterialist. So it can’t be money you’re worried about.”

  “Are you baiting me?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Marcy stayed silent for some time, and then said, “What is the principle you’re going to resign for?”

  “The right to be financially ruined. The right to reject money you don’t work for. The right to suffer the consequences of one’s actions. The right to embarrass the government. How’s that for antiestablishment rhetoric? Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “Look . . . I didn’t call to fight . . . and I think I understand . . . but you have a family. . . .”

  “We’ll get by.”

  There was a silence, then Marcy said, “Yes, we’ll get by. Do what you think is best.”

  Tyson nodded to himself. He had the feeling she meant it.

  Marcy said, “What does this recall mean? Do you have to go somewhere?”

  “Well, yes. I also received assignment orders.” He glanced at the separate sheet of paper. “Could be a lot worse—”

  “Where?”

  “Fort Hamilton. Brooklyn. You know where that is? Near the Verrazano Bridge.”

  “Yes . . . well, that’s good. Can you . . . are you confined or anything?”

  “I don’t know. I just have to report by fifteen July, as they say in the back-assward Army.” He thought a moment. “Hey, when’s my shark trip?” He looked at his daybook. “The fourteenth. Good. I can do that, then report in the next day. I’ll bring the shark if I get one.” He paused, then observed, “This sucks a mop.”

  She didn’t reply, but he thought he heard her stifling a sob.

  Tyson lit a cigarette and put his feet on the windowsill. If he were unmarried, he reflected, he’d have already quit his job and been in Hong Kong by now, a city he remembered fondly from his R and R. Everyone, including and especially the government, would be glad to see him go. But not, unfortunately, to Hong Kong, a British colony. He’d have to go, as old Chet indicated, someplace where the government could make a pretense of being unable to get him back. That is what he would do if he were not a husband and father. But he was. Still, it was enticing. He watched the rain running down the big windowpane, then said, “What do you think of the idea of me skipping out of the country? I mean, is that an alternative to this mess?”

  “It is. But your ego and your overblown sense of responsibility will keep you here.”

  Tyson thought that her voice sounded stronger, more like Marcy. She always bounced back quickly. He said, “But I’d be saving you, David, and the government a lot of embarrassment and trouble. They’re probably praying in Washington that I fly away and bother them no more.”

  “Well, if that’s true, you should work out a deal of some sort. . . .”

  Tyson thought Marcy and Chet Brown would get along well. “Right. Airfare and pension. Send for the family later. Brazil has no extradition, but I don’t care for the tropics. Maybe Sweden. They have limited extradition. I’ll get a job with Volvo. I’ll talk them into putting electronic rocket-aiming devices in the four-door model. What do you think?”

  Marcy forced a light tone in her voice. “Get yourself a big blonde Viking. You always liked blondes.”

  Tyson smiled. “Well . . . let’s think about it. Fight or flight? I have a few weeks.”

  Neither spoke, then Marcy said, “How are we doing?”

  Tyson was surprised to hear himself saying, “I love you.”

  She replied quickly, “I love you, too.” She added, “But I think you’ve decided not to come home.”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  She said, “I suppose you have enough on your mind without marital problems. Right?”

  Tyson didn’t offer an immediate reply, then said, “I found a place in the city. Paul Stein’s. You know him. He’s going to the Hamptons. I pay the utilities, keep the burglars away, forward the mail, and take phone messages.”

  Again, there was a long, awkward silence, then Marcy spoke. “Will they let you live . . . what is it called—?”

  “Off-post. I hope so. Beats BOQ—bachelor officer’s quarters. . . . My horoscope this morning said, ‘You will exchange a well-paying executive position for a job as a house sitter. New careers in the armed forces will open up for you. You may go on a long trip at government expense, or you may go at your own expense to a place where the government can’t find you. Your mate will be understanding if she gets a postcard from Rio de Janeiro signed Joao.’”

  “Just keep me informed.”

  Tyson swung the chair around to his desk. “Okay. You have Stein’s number. I’ll be moving in this weekend.”

  “Well . . . watch out for those horny working girls.”

  “Best to David.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Okay. Take care.”

  “I will. You, too.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Neither hung up, and Tyson said, “’Bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  Tyson put the receiver in the cradle and saw that his hand was shaking. “Damn it.” He slammed his hand on his desk, and the desk items bounced. “Damn it!” He stood and kicked the wastebasket across the room.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Ben Tyson stood in front of the round barbecue grill, a Scotch in one hand, a spatula in the other. He looked down at the single hamburger. There was something pathetic about it, he decided, and he scooped it up with the spatula, flipping it into the bushes. He finished his Scotch.

  The stillness of the backyard was broken by a sudden, sharp report that quieted the birds. Somewhere out on the dark street there was a series of hollow popping sounds, and a dog began barking. A few backyards down, he could hear the sounds of recorded music and laughter. July Fourth was not his favorite holiday, but spending it alone was no treat either. Most years, if he was home, he, Marcy, and David would go to the country club. The club went to great pains to create a traditional Fourth with striped tents on the lawn, hot dogs, hamburgers, balloons, and cotton candy. People sat on the veranda and drank beer, children’s games were organized, and a brass band played Sousa marches. The only thing missing, thankfully, was speeches.

  He had considered joining the festivities, but decided he was not in the mood to meet the public, nor did he feel like spreading awkwardness among his neighbors. His objective for the evening was to get too drunk to consider taking the rented car out to Sag Harbor.

  Tyson opened the French doors and went into the den. He poured himself another Scotch and took a few books from the shelf, dropping them into a carton. He intended to drive into Manhattan in the morning and move into Paul Stein’s apartment.

  The phone rang, but Tyson ignored it as he went through his desk drawers trying to find his pocket calculator. The phone kept ringing. Only about a dozen people had the unlisted number, and he couldn’t think of one he wanted to speak to. He found his calculator and dropped it in his briefcase. The phone contin
ued to ring. He suddenly realized it might be David, and he picked it up.

  A female voice he didn’t recognize said, “Mr. Benjamin Tyson?”

  Tyson said, “Who is this?”

  “This is Major Harper—”

  He felt his stomach give a turn.

  “I’m from the Judge Advocate General’s office. I’ve been assigned to conduct an investigation under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice to look into the facts surrounding certain allegations of wrongdoing at Miséricorde Hospital in the Republic—”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I am.”

  Tyson sat in his desk chair. “How did you get my number?”

  Major Harper replied, “It was given to me in my briefing papers—”

  “This is an unlisted number.”

  “I don’t see what relevance that has. I do apologize for calling on a holiday evening—”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Washington, which is also irrelevant, Lieutenant.”

  “I don’t wish to be called lieutenant.”

  “Did you receive your orders recalling you to active duty?”

  Tyson leaned forward and doodled on his blotter. This call was not unexpected, yet he found he wasn’t quite prepared for it. A few days ago he might have been able to leave the country legally. Today, he was an officer in the United States Army, and he did not have the freedoms that most American citizens enjoyed.

  Major Harper said, “I have a registered mail receipt here—”

  “Yes, I got the damned thing.”

  After a silence on the phone, Major Harper said, “I would appreciate it if you would address me with the respect that is due my rank.”

  Tyson rubbed his eyes and sat back in the chair. “Do you expect me to call you ma’am?”

  “That is the correct form of address for a female officer of higher rank.”

  Tyson exhaled a long breath. His head was beginning to ache, and his stomach did another turn. He put a milder tone in his voice. “All right. I suppose I ought to be as polite as possible, ma’am.”

  Her tone was immediately conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I came on a little strong.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, as I said, I’m conducting this informal investigation to determine if there is any substance to certain allegations put forth in a book called Hue: Death of a City. I assume you’re familiar with the work.”

  “It certainly sounds familiar.”

  She said, “I was going to begin my investigation in other areas, then call you. But then the thought occurred to me that you may want to have the opportunity to give your side first.”

  “That’s thoughtful.”

  Major Harper continued, “I’m supposed to advise you of your rights under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You have the right to remain silent and the right to counsel. Also, I’m to advise you of any possible charge contemplated . . . which is . . . murder.”

  Tyson did not reply.

  She continued, “You also have the right to question witnesses, but we have none at this time. As I said, I called you first. Look, as an officer you know your rights. What I want to know is if you’d like us to meet.”

  Tyson considered his reply. The woman was unusually open, admitting she hadn’t done any preliminary work before calling. The usual procedure in an Army investigation, he recalled, was to suggest to the suspect that there were already battalions of witnesses against him, drawers full of signed depositions, and lockers overflowing with incriminating evidence.

  He saw a faint possibility that this could be quashed at this stage. It depended to a large extent, he understood, on himself and this unknown woman. To be sure, there were other factors, but the recommendation of a preliminary investigating officer not to pursue the matter might kill it. Tyson said, “All right. Let’s meet.”

  She replied, “Fine. Do you want to come to Washington?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Well, I’ll fly to New York. How about tomorrow?”

  Tyson thought a moment, then said, “Okay.”

  “What time would be convenient?”

  “What place are we talking about, Major?”

  “Well . . . several choices . . . the airport, Fort Hamilton—”

  “No and no.”

  “Your office?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate unless you come in civilian clothes.”

  “Well, I could do that, but . . . can we meet at your home?”

  He said, “Take the nine A.M. shuttle. Any Long Island limo should be able to find the address. You’ll be here before eleven.”

  “All right, about eleven A.M., your house. And I assume that since we are meeting, you will waive your right to remain silent.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to come all the way to New York so I can plead the Fifth.”

  “Fine . . . because there is a possibility we can . . . I don’t mean to hold out false hope, but perhaps if we just discussed this, we could get it into perspective. This matter may end after I interview you and the other members of your platoon whom we can locate.”

  “Good.”

  “May I ask if you’re bringing civil suit against the author of that book? You don’t have to answer.”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “Will you have an attorney present at our interview?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “That’s your right, of course. But as an officer and an educated man, you may not need one present.” She continued, “You could have an attorney available by phone, but there’s no use escalating this. If you have an attorney, then I may have to bring a stenographer, then—”

  “Then I’ll need a tape recorder, and before you know it we’ll have TV cameras and a house full of people. Okay, no attorney.”

  “I don’t mean to talk you out of anything. Under the UCMJ, you have a right—”

  “I know the UCMJ. I took a refresher course at the library.”

  “Fine.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “If I’m a lieutenant and you’re a major, why am I calling some of the shots? Now, you don’t have to answer that. It’s your right as a lawyer to dissemble.”

  There was a short silence before Major Harper replied, “Do you feel like an officer in the United States Army?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Then, rank aside, I’ll be considerate of your feelings. This must be disorienting for you.”

  “It was disorienting the first time I was called to active duty. This time it just plain sucks.”

  Major Harper didn’t reply.

  Tyson said, “I hope this is a short tour of duty.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you?” He asked abruptly, “Do you drink coffee? I hate to make a whole pot if you don’t drink it.”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a happy Fourth.” Tyson hung up.

  He sat back and breathed deeply. He thought about the disembodied voice he had just heard and tried to picture a face. The voice was pleasant, soft, almost melodic, with a touch of the Midwest. She was, he thought again, very frank. Disarmingly so. And it wasn’t because she was being particularly considerate. It was her interrogation style, and he’d be wise to remember that.

  Also, the reason he had been able to call the shots wasn’t because of any female deference or consideration for his feelings. It was because she had been ordered to take a soft approach. The JAG Corps, the Pentagon, and perhaps even the White House were handling him gingerly. “Good,” he said aloud. “I like being handled gingerly by powerful people.” He had been so engrossed in his own fears that he had forgotten they were afraid too.

  Tyson stood and poured himself another Scotch. He surveyed the partially packed boxes around the den.


  He threw open the French doors and stared out onto the dark patio with its glowing brazier. Fireworks echoed between the houses, and rockets from the county park lit up the eastern sky. He almost looked forward to the interview, to the prospect of having his fate hinge solely on his own resources. To hell with lawyers. Here was a challenge in a life that had become devoid of important challenges.

  Tyson felt a long-forgotten flutter in his stomach: It is the night before the big Auburn-Navy game, it is the hour before the dawn attack. It is, he thought, the culmination of one life and the beginning of another. He said softly, “Not one game, not one battle ever turned out to be half as bad as the anticipation. Let’s get on with it.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  At ten minutes to eleven, Benjamin Tyson’s doorbell rang. Tyson moved to the foyer and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He regarded the navy blue blazer of summer wool, then fluffed the red silk pocket handkerchief. The crease in the beige trousers was, as they said in the Army, razor sharp. His black loafers were polished, and the white cotton shirt accented his tan. His intent was to look prosperous, self-assured, untouchable. This house was his castle, the clothing his armor.

  The doorbell rang again. Tyson moved to the front door, reached out, and opened it quickly.

  Subconsciously, he’d expected to see a woman in a light-colored uniform, but she wore what the Army called Class A greens: forest green skirt, matching tunic, light green blouse, and a crisscrossed black tie. On her head, at a jaunty angle, was a green garrison cap with officers’ gold piping. A black handbag was slung over her shoulder, and she carried a black leather briefcase in her left hand. She smiled pleasantly. “Mr. Tyson?”

  “No. I’m Lieutenant Tyson. I guess the mufti threw you.” He extended his hand. “The gold oak leaf tells me you’re a major, and your name tag says Harper. Hello, Major Harper.”

  As she took his hand she said, “There’s no need for you to wear a uniform.”