Such a man, such a butcher, plunged a knife, drove it deeply into the back (back, mind you) of August de Spadante, waiting in darkness, on an errand of mercy.
This killer, this Paul Bonner, is no stranger to wanton murder, as readers of this column have surmised. But he’s been protected; perhaps he was protecting others.
Are we as citizens going to allow the United States Army to harbor hired killers, killers let loose to make their own decisions as to who will live and who will die?
Bruce smiled as he clipped the pages together. He got up and stretched his five-foot-three-inch body. He went to his desk, took a manila envelope from a drawer, and placed the pages within it. He sealed the envelope and stamped both sides with his usual rubber stamp: «Roderick Bruce Copy—Speciaclass="underline" City Desk.»
He had started for the kitchen door when his eyes caught sight of the Chinese box in his walled bookcase. He stopped and crossed to it, putting the envelope down and reaching into his pocket for his key chain. He removed the box, inserted a tiny key into its lock and opened the lid.
Alex’s letters.
All addressed to Roger Brewster and sent to a special general-delivery number in the large overburdened downtown Washington Post Office.
He had to be careful. They both had to be careful, but he had to be more careful than Alex.
Alex, young enough to be his son—his daughter. Only neither son nor daughter, but lover. Passionate, understanding, teaching Roger Brewster to vent the pent-up physical emotions of a lifetime. His first love.
Alex was an ex-graduate student, a young genius whose expertise in Far East languages and cultures led to scholarship after scholarship, and a doctoral thesis from the University of Chicago. He had been sent to Washington on a grant to evaluate Oriental artifacts willed to the Smithsonian.
But his deferment was ended; Alex was taken into the Army, and Roderick Bruce dared not interfere—although the temptation nearly drove him insane. Instead, Alex was commissioned because Rod Bruce did point out to certain military personnel that Alex’s background could be put to good use in the Pentagon-based Asian Affairs Bureau. It seemed as though their life would go on—quietly, lovingly. Then, suddenly, without planning, without prior knowledge, without warning, Alex was told he had four hours to gather his belongings—no more than sixty-five pounds—straighten out whatever personal affairs he had, and report to Andrews Air Force Base.
He was being flown across the world to Saigon.
No one would tell him why. And Roderick Bruce, frightened for himself and his lover, overcame his fears and tried to find out what had happened.
It was too classified even for him.
And then Alex’s letters started to arrive. He was part of an intelligence team in training for some sort of trip into the northeastern areas. He had been told that they needed an American interpreter—they couldn’t trust the local agents and feared ARVN leaks—preferably a man with some knowledge of the religious habits and superstitions of the people. The computers had come up with his name; that’s the way the commander of the unit had put it. A major named Bonner, who was nothing short of a maniac. Alex knew this Bonner despised him. «He’s a repressed you-know-what.»
The Major drove Alex incessantly, was unrelenting in his harassment, brutal in his insults.
Then the letters stopped. For weeks Roderick Bruce made the trips downtown to the post office, sometimes two and three times a day. Nothing.
And then he confirmed the horror, his horror.
The name was simply a name on the Pentagon casualty list. One of thirty-eight that week. Discreet inquiry, on the pretext of knowing the parents, uncovered the fact that Alex had been taken prisoner in Chung-Kal in northern Cambodia near the border of Thailand. It had been an intelligence operation under the command of Major Paul Bonner—one of the six men to survive the mission. Alex’s body had been found by Cambodian farmers.
He’d been executed.
And several months later the name Paul Bonner came up for another sort of scrutiny, a more public one, and Roderick Bruce knew he’d found the means to avenge his lover. His beautiful, studious, gentle lover who had opened a world of physical ecstasy to him. His lover, led to death by an arrogant major who now was being accused by his own colleagues of being a law unto himself.
The hunt began when Roderick Bruce informed his editors he was going to do a series of columns from Southeast Asia. A general covering, with, perhaps, concentration on the men in the field—a contemporary Ernie Pyle approach; no one had done that very well in Vietnam.
The editors were delighted. Roderick Bruce, reporting from Danang, or Son Toy, or the Mekong Delta, had a sound to it reminiscent of the best of vintage war reporting. It was bound to sell more papers and enhance the already superior reputation of the columnist.
It took Rod Bruce less than a month to file his first story about the Major being held incommunicado, awaiting a military court’s decision as to whether it had grounds for charges. Several other columns followed, each more damaging than its predecessor. Six weeks after he left Washington Roderick Bruce unearthed the phrase «killer from Saigon.»
He used it unmercifully.
But the military court wasn’t listening. It had orders from some other place, and Major Paul Bonner was quietly released and sent back to the States for obscure duty in the Pentagon.
The military would listen now. Three years and four months after the death of Alex, his Alex, they’d listen. And they’d comply with his demands.
36
Trevayne was annoyed that Walter Madison hesitated. He curled the telephone cord around his finger, his eyes on the folded newspaper in front of him. He kept looking at the three-column story in the lower-left corner of the front page. Its caption was simple, understated: «Army Officer Held in Slaying.»
The subheading was less restrained: «Ex-Special Forces Major Accused of Murders in Indochina Three Years Ago Charged with Brutal Killing in Connecticut.»
Madison was now muttering legalistic platitudes about caution.
«Walter, he’s being railroaded! Let’s not argue the merits; you’ll see I’m right. I just want you to say you’ll defend him, be his civilian attorney.»
«That’s a tall order, Andy. There are several preliminaries we might not overcome; have you thought of that?»
«What preliminaries?»
«To begin with, he might not want us to represent him. And, frankly, I’m not sure I’d care to. My partners would object strenuously.»
«What the hell are you talking about?» Andrew found himself angry; Madison was going to refuse him. For convenience. «I haven’t noticed any strenuous objecting when I’ve brought you people a few hundred contract situations which were a damn sight more offensive than defending an innocent man. A man, incidentally, who saved my life, thus allowing me to continue to provide you with retainers. Do I make myself clear?»
«In your usual forthright manner… Calm down, Andy. You were on the scene; you’re too close to it. I’m thinking of you. If we jump into the defense, we’re tying you to Bonner and—not incidentally—to De Spadante. I don’t think that’s wise. You do retain me to make such judgments. You may not always like them, but—»
«I don’t care about that,» interrupted Trevayne. «I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it; but it doesn’t matter. I want him to have the best.»