“You got it wrong, Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said. “It was the opposite. I disregarded caution, I crowded the plate. I made myself a target.”
Vayetch nodded, a sudden look of excitement in his face. “I enjoy my holidays in Spain often and I’ve learned something of the bullfight. Some toreros work close to the horns out of courage, others out of fear. But you were not afraid of being hit by the baseball, you are saying?”
“Of course I was afraid of being hit, but I didn’t expect it,” Lasari said. “I didn’t wait for it... that’s the difference.”
Vayetch smiled sympathetically. “Everyone is afraid of certain things, Jackson. Herr Rauch here could break me in two like a stalk of celery, but I’m not afraid of that, because I trust him. But I am afraid of misjudging you. A great deal depends on my estimate.”
Then he laughed, as if dismissing the subject. “You may consider all this torero talk as so much bullshit, if you’ll forgive a pun. We are in Heidelberg, not Valencia, after all. We have our reality.
“You’ll be training dogs Sergeant Strasser tells me,” Pytor Vayetch said. “Are you good at that, is there some quality of personality that allows you to gain their fear or confidence?”
“A dog is a dumb animal with keen instincts,” Lasari said. “A raw canine recruit from the kennels will be trying to figure out what a trainer wants from him. If you can make a dog understand your wishes — and you can do that by your voice, by repetition, by using simple commands and a choke chain — if you can do all that, he’ll try like hell to do what you tell him, what you show him you want. Never mix work and play in training sessions. Work an animal only as long as his patience and attention hold, then reward him with food, a pat on the head, tell him he’s doing great, and you’ll get results. And don’t forget the choke chain. A smart dog understands getting his wind cut off once in a while...”
Vayetch nodded thoughtfully. “Everybody’s in limbo, it seems. The batter at the plate, the bullfighter, the dog on the leash, caught between a heaven and hell they’re hardly aware of.”
The waiter removed the steak platter and set a bowl of blueberries and cream in front of Herr Rauch.
Lasari sipped his beer and looked toward the dance floor where he could see Strasser and Greta, her shiny blonde head bobbing up and down among the dancers.
“This is a hypothetical question, so perhaps you can give me only a hypothetical answer, but try to be honest. Would you have deserted in a combat situation in Vietnam?” Vayetch said.
“No,” Lasari said. “No, I would not.”
“Always you would crowd the plate, work close to the horns, right?”
“I walked out of a hospital in the States, but I wouldn’t walk away from a platoon in a firefight.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said, “if you’re interviewing me for a job, why don’t you come out and ask me what the hell you really want to know. Will I run out on you or not? Will I try to fuck up your deal or not? That’s what you’re trying to find out, isn’t it?”
“That is my concern,” the man said, and signaled for the check.
“You spelled it out earlier, Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said. “I’m in big, big trouble, and that’s why I’m here. So think of me as a dog you’re training. Keep your commands clear and easy. I don’t want to guess, I don’t want to think. I’ll do what I’m told, but if I were you I’d keep a choke chain handy. Either you know how to use me or you don’t. It’s all really up to you.”
“It’s not that simple,” the man said. “The decision is not completely mine.” He opened his wallet, counted out a stack of deutsche marks and put them on top of the check.
Herr Rauch had finished his blueberries. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and drank the rest of his wine. Lasari noticed the berries had stained the man’s mouth, edging his heavy lips with a faint line of blue. Vayetch glanced at his companion directly for the first time.
“Well, Herr Rauch?”
The man continued to wipe his lips with the napkin. At last he looked at Lasari and nodded dourly. “He is right for us, Vayetch.”
Rauch dipped the corner of his napkin in his water goblet, then daubed his cheeks and forehead, as if he felt faint. Standing suddenly, he said, “I’ll wait outside for you, Pytor. Even from the dance floor, the whore’s perfume spoiled my dinner.”
Chapter Twenty-six
A female civilian wearing a striped cafeteria uniform brought a tray of coffee and sandwiches into Colonel Benton’s office. The colonel slipped off his military jacket and hung it inside the closet door. Major Staub stood at the window, a half-smoked cigarette slanting in his mouth, watching a squadron of Navy jets heading toward the Potomac.
Benton thanked the young woman and when the door closed, said to the major, “I’m late because Senator Copeland was late, but I wanted to bring him abreast of our operation, convince him everything’s under control. He’s pleased.” The colonel laughed without humor. “In fact, he tried to reassure me that this is just a small-time operation.”
“Copeland is a self-made senile; he was born an old fogey. That man would rather talk than think,” Major Staub said. “But in this case, I believe he’s right.”
“Spare me your amateur aphorisms, or whatever those were,” Benton said, “and come over here and serve yourself, Merrill. I’m in no mood to play host.”
Staub moved to the desk and lifted a slice off several sandwiches before finding one that suited him. He poured himself black coffee and took his lunch back to the window seat.
“Goddamn it,” Benton said impatiently as he rifled the sandwich tray. “I told them no cheese and no egg salad. Whatever happened to watercress and turkey and class? If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”
“Easy, Dick, easy,” the major said soothingly. He paused as the distant jets hit the sound barrier, sending off a rapid cannonade. “At least you’re winning the big ones. I feel quite optimistic about the current operation. We’ve tracked our man every mile from Chicago right through to Heidelberg. Our assignee on that side of the water monitored last night’s meet. Private Jackson is part of the loop. For the time being we may be observers, but we are distinctly operative. Patience is the name of the game.”
“The point is,” Benton said, “I’m cautious both by nature and experience, and I want to keep this a small-time action, something within the confines of our jurisdiction, entirely under wraps. I made that clear from the beginning. So Stigmuller’s interest jolted me and nobody wants Tarbert Weir sniffing the wind. I don’t want to expand our parameters for any reason, Merrill, not for any irrelevant bullshit whatsoever.”
The colonel sipped his coffee and wished he were lunching alone. He picked up a pad and pencil and began to doodle. He would have liked to be in an isolation tank, freed from all external stimuli, disconnected from his own nervous system, from distractions. His nose itched and he momentarily resented even that demand on his attention. His wife’s recent attitudes, the deeply personal demands on his emotions were draining the energies he so badly needed for his work. When he thought of her even, white teeth, the strain of her smile, he could feel the muscles in his stomach and groin tightening with anger.
“This morning Senator Copeland referred to our problem euphemistically as ‘the minor excesses of a few sergeants,’ ” he said to Staub. “Let’s just hope so. You know my philosophy about rumors — true or not, don’t let ’em get started. I’m more concerned about the allover picture, the suspicions and innuendos, the hearsay that might tarnish the image of the U.S. military man. We’re stockpiling our GIs on foreign soil just as we’re stockpiling nuclear weapons. We’ve got to keep our noses clean.” He sighed. “Now bring me up to date on Stigmuller.”