The signature, which he had written in full — Private Jackson Baird, United States Army — was close to the bottom of the page, letters small and crowded together.
Docker gave the letter to Trankic and sipped his drink.
His hands still trembled. Every word of the letter had sent a chill through him.
“Christ!” Trankic said, and looked up at Docker. “You know I had to hit him that time, Bull. You know there was nothing else to do...”
“Sure, Trank... you got a place to stay tonight?”
Trankic glanced at the girls seated along the bar, laughing with the soldiers. “I’ll find someplace. Where you going?”
Docker put Baird’s letter in the pocket of his tunic. “I’ve got to see a man.”
“Want one for the road?”
“Rain check on that.” Docker stood and pushed his way through the crowded bar to the street.
In the lobby of the Empire he asked for Major Karsh’s room number, took an elevator to the sixth floor and walked along a corridor whose decor had once been grand, lofty ceilings with original gold and silver wallpaper now faded and discolored, blending in softly with the worn carpets and stiff brocade draperies.
He stopped at the number the desk clerk had given him and knocked on the door.
Sergeant Elspeth Corey opened it. In the light from an overhead fixture he saw that she wore makeup and that her light hair was held back by a brown velvet ribbon. Noisy conversation sounded in the room behind her, and from the radio a chorus was singing, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
“Is Major Karsh here?” he said.
“Yes, he is, lieutenant. Shall I tell him you’re—”
“I’ll find him,” he said, and walked past her into the parlor of a suite furnished with worn velour chairs and sofas. The air was blue with cigarette smoke, sharp with the smell of gin and whiskey. A bar had been set up with card tables covered with a linen bed sheet. Several Belgian civilians were talking with Captain Walton and General Adamson’s aide. Colonel Rankin. At the bay windows, blacked out by coarse navy sacking, Karsh and Lieutenant Weiffel stood beside two matronly ladies and a newspaperman with a correspondent’s patch on the sleeve of his uniform. An enlisted man stood behind the bar with a towel over his shoulder.
Major Karsh turned from the group near the window and smiled when he saw Docker. He excused himself and crossed the room to join him, stopping to collect a fresh drink on the way and to exchange a nod with the civilians and Colonel Rankin.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, lieutenant,” he said. “The bartender’s name is Billy and what more does a thirsty guest need to know?”
“Thanks, but I don’t want a drink, major.”
Karsh looked closely at him. “What is it. Docker?”
“I’d like to talk to you alone, sir.”
“About what, if I may ask?”
“The Baird transcript, sir.”
Karsh glanced quickly, almost reflexively toward Colonel Rankin, and said casually, “I can’t imagine there’s anything more to say on that subject.”
“Not true, sir. Is there someplace we can talk?”
The colonel joined them, a dark brown whiskey and water held loosely in his hand. He looked deliberately from Karsh to Docker, his wide-set eyes seeming to gather them together in one quick, appraising glance.
“Lieutenant, I’ve been pleased with your cooperation,” Rankin said. “For a while I thought you were coming down with what we call ‘the myopia of junior officers.’ ” Rankin rattled the ice in the glass. “Do you get my meaning?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“I mean the nearsightedness that afflicts troops too close to the action. They have their eyes fixed on the ground so hard that they seldom see the horizon, the larger picture... Billy, get me another one of these.”
The barman gave the colonel a smiling nod and began pouring a fresh drink.
“Colonel, would you excuse us for a moment? We’ve got a couple of details to clear up,” Karsh said.
The colonel took a full glass from the barman, turned back to Karsh.
“Nothing myopic, I hope, because if there is, I want to know about it. We’ve had our procedural differences in this matter and I’ve deferred to you so far.” The colonel’s eyes focused on the drink in his hand. “You’ve done a good job, Karsh. Keep it that way.”
“I intend to, colonel.” Karsh took Docker’s arm and escorted him past the Belgian civilians into an adjacent bedroom where, after snapping on the lights, he closed the door with a decisive gesture and looked coldly at Docker.
“All right, what’s on your mind, lieutenant?”
“The transcript isn’t complete yet,” Docker said. “It doesn’t speak for Jackson Baird. That’s what we’ve got to talk about, major.”
“We don’t have to talk about one goddamn thing. We’ve talked enough, too much.” Karsh’s voice was tight with exasperation. “And by God you had better understand this... the final transcript of those hearings — repeat, final, complete with decorative sealing wax and appropriate endorsements and signatures, including yours, lieutenant — is on a plane this very moment for SHAEF in Paris, and from there it will go by special courier to General Jonathan Baird at MacArthur’s headquarters at Leyte. And nobody is going to change one sentence, word or comma in that transcript, now or at any time in the future. Do I make myself clear, Docker?”
“I think you’d better read this,” Docker said, and handed him Jackson Baird’s letter.
Karsh’s eyes swept across the page like guns tracking enemy positions. When he finished reading, he walked around the room in an aimless circle, pausing occasionally to press his fingers tightly against his temples. Finally he stopped and started at the letter again, frowning and shaking his head slowly, as if not quite able to believe what was in front of his eyes.
“All right, I’ve read it,” he said, and looked grimly at Docker. “Are you familiar with Jackson Baird’s handwriting?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve seen it before. He wrote a detailed memo on the defense of our position on Mont Reynard—”
Karsh cut him off. “All right, all right. You’re sure this is his handwriting?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Then supposing you tell me just what you expect me to do with this letter.”
For an instant Docker didn’t understand what Karsh meant; the literal sense was clear, but he was puzzled by the tone of dismissal, a sarcasm in Karsh’s voice.
“I should think that’s pretty obvious.”
“If it were obvious, I wouldn’t have asked the question.”
“Then you’re either making a debater’s point, major, or you’re pretty stupid—”
“Now watch yourself. Docker. We aren’t a pair of hack drivers exchanging dim-witted philosophies in a Third Avenue bar. You’re a buck lieutenant and I’m a major, and I would strongly advise you not to forget that—”
“I expect you’d also like me to forget those gray areas we discussed, major. Or do you even remember them now? We aren’t talking about a matter of opinion, or a matter of viewpoint. What you’re holding in your hands now is the truth. So why do you need me to tell you what to do with it?”
Karsh pointed a finger at him. “I’m warning you for the last time. Docker, I won’t tolerate—”
The door opened and Captain Walton looked into the room, making quick, silencing gestures with his hands. “Major, the colonel suggests you gentlemen tone it down.”