The rotten weather had not discouraged visitors. There were dozens, standing like statues. staring at the vast granite slab, searching, discovering, reaching out, and touching the names of daughters, sons, lovers, fathers, husbands, best friends or college pal s, saying good-bye as the sky wept with them.
Hatcher knew a lot of names on that solemn roster. He had fought but not served in Vietnam; a civilian, he had done jobs so dirty even the military would not sanction or talk about them. There were no medals or commendations, not even any records kept, for the kind of work he had done, but he had been there, done his work, and watched friends and enemies die in every inhumane, ugly, loathsome, unspeakable way human beings can leave this earth.
Hatcher had never seen the monument before, had never wanted to see it. But now, looking down through the rain, he was awed by its simple eloquence. It stirred in him, for the first time, the thought that he might have returned to the World with the same scars, the same guilt and confusion, as everybody else who fought in Nam. In that particular operation he had been labeled a mercenary, and mercenaries do not share glory, do not march in parades or have holidays named after them. For them there is only winning or losing — or more simply defined — living or dying.
But here there was no politics, no arguing the endless, unresolved yeas and nays of that faraway war; there was simply an open grave and the good-bye list of a conflict that probably would be nothing more than a footnote in history books a hundred years hence — a paragraph without resolution. History deals fleetingly with events it cannot explain.
He would never have recognized the old warrior had it not been for the four stars on his shoulder. Buffalo Bill Cody was still ramrod-straight, but ten years and the worms gnawing at his insides had devoured his body, leaving behind a craggy, hollow-eyed sliver of a man with pain written in every crevice of his face. The tailored trench coat that accentuated his bony frame was a further reminder that even legends are mortal.
But a legend he was. While other military big shots were destroyed by the scandal of Nam, Cody had emerged with his reputation unscathed. A hero and a soldier’s general who somehow maintained a sense of dignity in the middle of chaos, Cody had become the acceptable military figure of the Vietnam war. Shy, almost self-deprecating, he avoided the spotlight and was admired by left, right and center, an ordinary man who had sacrificed a son to the conflict and who seemed to bring a sense of sanity t an otherwise totally insane endeavor. He was like the nation’s favorite uncle, over there watching out for the kids. Now he stood, between a hunched-over man in combat fatigues and a woman with a teenage boy, looking at the list. Nobody paid any attention to him. The place was like that. It made commoners of everyone.
‘He looks a hundred and ten,’ Hatcher croaked.
‘He might as well be,’ Sloan answered. ‘He’ll be lucky if he lasts six months.’
‘Do we have to stand out here in the rain?’ Hatcher asked.
‘He’ll be through in a minute. The ritual never changes.’
Hatcher huddled down deeper in his raincoat, watched the general, and inwardly marveled at Sloan’s remarkable ability at the big con. Yesterday Hatcher had considered killing him. Today Hatcher was standing in the rain, seven hundred miles from home, actually considering doing a job he didn’t need, didn’t want and didn’t believe in. A hundred years ago, thought Hatcher, Sloan would have been hawking elixirs from the back of a wagon or selling shares in the Brooklyn Bridge. Now he sold dirty tricks with fictions of adventure and patriotism, seducing wide-eyed young men and women into the shadow wars, to become assassins, saboteurs, gunrunners, second-story men, safe crackers, even mercenaries, all for the glory of flag and country. Hatcher had met Sloan in the time of his innocence and had bought the lie.
The general finished his ritual and started back toward the street. Hatcher and Sloan watched Buffalo Bill slowly mount the steps, leaning heavily on a cane but avoiding the help of his assistant, a young major who had West Point inscribed in every move.
‘He doesn’t know anything about the money,’ Sloan said, half under his breath. ‘That’s between you and me.’
‘Does he know anything about me?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And he approves?’
‘He trusts my judgement.’
Hatcher chuckled. ‘How long has he known you?’
The general’s arrival ended the exchange. Up close, he looked even sicker than from a distance. His color was gray, and his eyes were watery and lifeless and had lost the fire that had once touched even his photographs with electricity. But he still stood erect, and if he was in pain, he didn’t show it.
‘Glad you made it, Harry,’ he said and then turned to Hatcher. ‘You must be Christian Hatcher. It’s a pleasure meeting you.’ He switched his cane to his left hand and offered Hatcher a bony but hearty handshake.
‘My pleasure, General,’ Hatcher said.
‘You served well in the Far East,’ Cody said. ‘Sloan kept me up on you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The old warrior seemed shocked when he heard Hatcher’s ruined voice. ‘Let’s get out of the rain shall we?’ he said, quickly covering his surprise. His aide held the rear door open and they got in the limousine. Hatcher sat in the jump seat, facing Sloan and Cody. The old man shuddered from the effects of the cold and rain, and the aide wrapped a blanket around his legs.
‘Thanks, Jerry,’ Cody said, and the aide closed the door, leaving the three men alone in the backseat.
‘Don’t have enough meat left on these old bones to stave off the cold,’ Cody said with embarrassment, then hurried on: ‘Well, sir, Colonel Sloan tells me he’s filled you in on our problem.’
Hatcher nodded.
‘What do you think?’
Hatcher said, ‘Our best bet is the Thai, Wol Pot. If he’s telling the truth and Murph is alive, I can find him.’
‘You sound pretty positive,’ said Cody.
‘I qualified it — if your son’s alive.’
The general nodded. ‘And what do your instincts tell you about that?’
Hatcher shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. The files are pretty bleak.’
‘Yes, not much to go on. Sorry.’
‘There may be a few leads in there, Hatcher said. ‘You understand the need for discretion,’ Cody said, and it was a statement rather than a question. Hatcher nodded again. ‘Also,’ he went on, ‘there is some urgency in the matter.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hatcher said.
‘You two were pretty close at the academy, as I recall.’ Hatcher nodded again. ‘We were on the boxing team together. He graduated a year ahead of me.’ He paused for a moment, and added, ‘He was okay, General. A stand-up guy.’
‘Good. I feel a little more comfortable knowing you knew him — and liked him.’
‘You and I met once before,’ Hatcher whispered suddenly, ‘at Murph’s wedding.’
The general peered hard at Hatcher, but there was no recognition in his bleak stare. ‘That was a long time ago. I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be.’
‘Hell, mine isn’t anything to write home about, either.’ The general looked at Sloan for a moment, then back at Hatcher. ‘May I ask you a personal question?’
‘Sure,’ Hatcher said.
‘Why did you accept this mission?’
Hatcher wasn’t sure how to answer. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘A friend of mine once asked me if I was a patriot. At the time I said I wasn’t sure. Now maybe I can find out.’