Rolling his glass between his palms, Trumbull nodded slowly, as if agreeing with whatever thought was passing through his own head.
“Well,” Trumbull said. “What we seem to have here is a pretty good case against all the people Paul has put the finger on. We’ve got two men who believe it in this room-am I right, David? You buy what Paul’s told us?”
“There’s no choice,” Patchen said. “It’s not just this reporting. There’s collateral intelligence in our hands that confirms almost everything he’s told us. With a little more work we can remove every shadow of a doubt. Every shadow.”
“Okay,” Trumbull said. “That’s you and Paul. I respect your judgment, David, and your work, Paul. Then there’s Dennis, here-I take it he doesn’t believe it, and he won’t believe it.”
Foley said, “That is correct.”
“Then there’s me,” Trumbull said. “I guess I make the decision. Do we trot this in to the President? He’s the man. The rest of us are just his lookouts.”
Trumbull collected the scattered pages and photographs and put them back in order.
“If I show this to the President, what’ll he do?” he asked. “He can go on TV and hand the American people another brutal, horrible shock, or he can read it and keep it secret and worry about it for the rest of his Presidency. The country has got to come together after this tragedy down in Dallas. Got to. We’ve got something to do in Vietnam, and we’ve got to do it. We can’t do it without public understanding and support for our policy. Wouldn’t you agree, Dennis-David?”
Foley nodded. Patchen, as usual, gave back no indication of his thoughts.
“I’ll tell you a plain fact,” Trumbull said. “If the American people believed that a bunch of Vietnamese got together and killed John F. Kennedy, they’d want to go over there and nuke that country-nuke it. You’d never get another dime out of Congress for South Vietnam. You’d never get an ounce of support from the press-those fellows love Kennedy’s memory almost as much as Dennis does.”
Trumbull riffled the pages of Christopher’s report. “You’ve got to be careful who you let change history,” he said. “You’re sure that this is the only copy of this thing?”
“There’s a photograph in Christopher’s head,” Foley said.
Trumbull gave Christopher a smile of great sweetness. It was the last time he looked at him.
“I’ve grown a lot of gray hair, son,” he said, “but I’ve never seen anyone do the things you say you’ve done. I want you to know I believe you did it all. And I wish you luck-I mean that, Paul.”
Trumbull stood up and went to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and stirred the logs. Kneeling with an apologetic, arthritic groan, he fed Christopher’s report into the flames, sheet by sheet. Bits of charred paper, lifted by the draught, flew up the chimney.
4
Patchen went to the door with Trumbull and Foley. Neither man said anything more to Christopher. He watched through the window as Trumbull, smiling at his driver and making a joke, got into his car. Foley opened the back door of his Cadillac for himself, brushing past the chauffeur. The two black cars rolled away down the quiet street, under the leafless trees.
When Patchen came back from the hall he wore his topcoat and carried Christopher’s over his arm. “I guess there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have dinner together,” he said.
They ate a bad meal, cooked with contempt and served with scorn, in an expensive restaurant in Georgetown that was going out of fashion. In the men’s room there were lewd jokes in French painted on the wall. They spoke very little; Patchen did not finish his food.
Outside, on the sidewalk, Patchen, with an abrupt movement, held out his hand to Christopher. He was exceptionally strong on the good side of his body, and he tightened his grip until he caused pain.
“You think they’re coming after you, don’t you?” he asked.
“The Vietnamese? Yes. But maybe not right away. They’ll know I’ve told you. When nothing happens, they may postpone. It’s a matter of waiting-everything is.”
“Maybe they’ll conclude the damage has been done. They may decide they’ve done enough.”
“Do you think so?” Christopher asked. “They’ve had two sons murdered-three, if you count Ngo Dinh Can. The generals will shoot him eventually.”
Patchen buttoned the collar of his coat; the wind, smelling of winter rain, was blowing down Wisconsin Avenue.
“So?”
“Only one Kennedy has been shot,” Christopher said.
FIFTEEN
l
Molly came into the room with snow in her hair. When she saw a man standing by the window, she went silent and stopped, frozen, like a cat that scents something strange in a familiar house. Then, seeing that the man was Christopher, she fell back against the door and put her hands to her cheeks: she wore all the rings Christopher had ever given her.
“Ah,” she said. “Ah, Paul-it’s you.”
Molly had been on the ski runs and the wind had gone into her clothes; she smelled as clean as the snow. The mountain sun had browned her face and bleached her lashes, so that her eyes seemed a darker green. They didn’t kiss. Christopher stood by the window with snow falling beyond the glass; Molly leaned against the door, her bright clothes reflecting in the varnished pine.
Christopher said, “Nothing has happened?”
“Nothing. We’ve spent the whole time on the slopes, or eating fondu.”
“Then you’ve had a good week?”
“Oh, yes,” Molly said; she moved across the room and touched his face, tracing the line of his eye and mouth. “But there’s been a certain lack.”
Later, she sat up with the bolster folded behind her and brushed her hair. It crackled and sailed after the brush in the cold air; Molly parted it into two long streams and brushed hard, biting her lip as she counted the strokes. Christopher arranged her hair, still alive with electricity, so that it covered her breasts. Molly threw back the featherbed and examined his skin.
“What are all those red bumps? I felt them under the eiderdown.”
“Insect bites,” he said. “I’ve been in Africa.”
“Not the dreaded tsetse fly?” Molly cried, in an imitation of Sybille’s voice.
Christopher laughed. “You’ve learned to love Sybille?”
“I believe so. I do think it’s wonderful, the way she dances on the candle flame and flirts with waiters, other women, dogs, the English language-every thing and creature except poor Tom. She’s so filmy, like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind.”
“Tom thinks she’s a wonder. They’re a sort of comedy team.”
“Tom’s been marvelous. He tells me all the time we’re safe in Zermatt because there are no roads up the mountain, only the train. He goes down and watches each train unload, then comes back and tells me once again that I can’t possibly be liquidated until the next one arrives.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“He’s mad to know what you’ve been up to,” Molly said. “I haven’t breathed a word. Sybille says he’s most impressed, the way I keep secrets.”
“I’ll tell him tonight.”
“Then it’s over?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m through with it.”
“Ah, and did you learn anything?”
“Everything, Molly.”
“Everything? Only the dead know everything.”
Christopher took his hands away. Molly grinned at him, drawing a strand of hair across her upper lip. Christopher laughed and kissed her; she laid her long body against his, toe, breast, and cheek.