Once again, the only substantive mention of Commander Driscoll was a brief obituary in a Wichita Falls newspaper from July 1984. Nothing about the cause of death, just that it had been ‘sudden’. Blowing your brains out counted as ‘sudden’. Megan jotted down the names of his brother and parents, and his ex-wife and their two children.
She was more hopeful in her search for Pat Greenwald, and indeed there was quite a lot about her involvement in the anti-nuclear movement in the 1980s and 1990s. There was even a short Wikipedia entry for her. Which stated that she was murdered in 1996.
What!
Megan’s fingers flew over the keys as she did some more Googling. Greenwald had been killed only yards from her home in Brooklyn Heights in a mugging gone wrong. The perpetrators had never been caught, but there had been a number of murders in the area related to the crack cocaine epidemic.
She was survived by a husband, an academic at Columbia University named Ron Greenwald, and a son, Henry.
1996? That was when her father had said that the FBI had visited him and her mother in England to ask about Pat Greenwald. Could that be a coincidence? It could be. But then again, it might not be.
Naturally, there was no indication that Pat Greenwald had been suspected of being a Russian spy. Megan started Googling her husband, who was a professor of Earth and Environmental Sciences. He had written a number of books and articles about environmental issues, including nuclear energy. But there was virtually nothing about him joining his wife in the anti-nuclear movement in the eighties and nineties.
He, too, had died. Of cancer in 2012, the same year as Megan’s mother. Now, that must be a coincidence.
There was one son, Henry. Megan Googled him. Nothing. Checked him out on Facebook and narrowed the few Henry Greenwalds down to one guy who was thirty-nine, a geriatrician living in Brooklyn, married with two kids. He wasn’t an active user of the service. Not expecting much, Megan clicked on Henry’s Facebook friends. There were not many of them. On the second page she saw a name she recognized.
Sam Bowen.
It was the Sam Bowen. Writer and historian at Newcastle University.
So Sam had stumbled upon Pat Greenwald after all. She was certainly someone many people would want to keep out of his book.
Megan considered a message on Facebook, or sending Henry an email directly.
But then she had a better idea.
FORTY
January 1984, New York City
Donna and I spent the entire weekend in her apartment, with the exception of two quick forays by me into the snow to pick up Chinese takeout on Saturday night and bagels and the New York Times on Sunday morning.
I had to return to the base on Sunday evening, so I called to find out the schedule for the last train back to New London. When the time came, we put on our clothes, and Donna accompanied me on a walk through the snowy city to Penn Station.
It was dark, but the newly fallen snow glimmered in the street lights. Silhouettes drifted past us. As we skirted Washington Square, four separate men offered to sell us drugs.
After almost thirty-six hours of almost constant talking, we fell silent, happy to be in each other’s company, walking hand in hand.
Things were changing, and I was excited.
Then I started to think.
We were on Broadway, not far from Penn Station. The area was getting distinctly sleazier, but somehow the snow made it feel safer.
‘What’s up?’ said Donna.
‘Nothing’s up,’ I said, summoning a smile.
‘Oh, come on. Something’s up? Are you worried about going back to base?’
‘It’s not that,’ I said.
‘Then what is it?’
I didn’t want to tell her.
She squeezed my hand.
I knew what she meant by that gesture. I didn’t have to tell her if I didn’t want to. But she would like it if I did, if I trusted her with my thoughts.
OK.
‘It’s the cover-up,’ I said.
‘What, don’t you think it will hold?’
‘No. I think if the Navy wants to cover something up it will stay covered up. Especially if it’s about nuclear weapons. It’s just I’m not sure they should want to do that.’
‘Now you’re beginning to sound like me.’
‘Is that what you’ve been thinking?’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t going to say it. And if they don’t cover it up what would happen to you? You’d get court martialled, right?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. But if they do cover it up and I tell anybody, then I definitely will be in trouble.’
‘I get that,’ said Donna.
I was grateful for her understanding. The reason I had been reluctant to tell her what I was thinking was that I had been afraid she would urge me to blow the whistle and I would have ended up in an argument with her, when what I really wanted to do was explain how I felt.
‘I killed my best friend. I saw the world almost blow itself up. The Navy can’t deny that happened. I can’t deny that happened. We have to tell someone.’
‘I can see why I might think you should,’ said Donna carefully. ‘But why do you say that?’
‘It’s just too big a deal. The world has to know about it so it can react. Take steps to deal with something similar occurring in future. If something like this happened on the Hamilton it can happen somewhere else. It will happen somewhere else. And we won’t be prepared.’
‘So who do you want to tell?’
‘The American government – I bet the Navy won’t inform Congress. The American people. Maybe even the Russians. After all, they are the guys who will be deciding whether to retaliate next time.’
‘So why don’t you do it?’
‘Because I’m a coward. They would call it treason and I’d go to jail for the rest of my life. And – don’t laugh at this – because I gave them my word.’
But Donna laughed. ‘You are such a boy scout!’ She squeezed my hand. ‘But that’s OK. I admire honesty; I like people you can trust.’
I smiled. We were at the entrance to the station. I actually felt better having shared my worry with Donna. It hadn’t gone away; it would probably never go away. I was going to have to learn to live with it, and maybe she could help with that.
When we parted I promised to see her in two weekends’ time. She smiled broadly when she heard this, a smile I held in my mind the entire train journey back to Connecticut.
FORTY-ONE
February 1984, New York City
I shivered as I stood on the small rise overlooking the model boat pond in Central Park. Scraps of brown snow clung to tree trunks and the ankles of Hans Christian Andersen on the far side of the water. The temperature had wavered within a degree or two of freezing for the past week, and the thaw had been slow. What remained of the snow, which had been so pristine when I had visited the city two weeks before, was now grey, shot through with streaks of brown.
I watched as a black poodle lifted its leg a few yards away. And yellow.
‘Got a cigarette?’ said Donna, threading her arm through mine and huddling close, as much to make use of me as a windbreak as through a sudden burst of affection.
I lit one for her, shielding the flame from the cold breeze whipping through the streets of the Upper East Side into the park. ‘She’s late,’ I said, checking my watch.
‘She’s always late,’ said Donna.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said Bill. ‘And why didn’t she pick a cafe? It’s freezing out here.’
‘She wants to make sure she’s not being followed.’