«Have you read Roderick Bruce’s stuff? It’s very unpleasant. So far he’s left you on the sidelines; that’s not going to be possible much longer. Even so, I’d like to keep him neutral where you’re concerned. We can’t accomplish that if we’re Bonner’s attorney.»
«For Christ’s sake, Walter. What words do I have to use? I don’t give a goddamn on that level. I really don’t; I wish you’d believe that. Bruce is a nasty little bastard with a lot of venom and a nose for blood. Bonner’s a perfect target. Nobody likes him.»
«Apparently with reason. He seems to have a capacity for implementing his own rather violent solutions. Andy, it’s not a question of likes and dislikes. It’s justified disapproval. The man’s a psychopath.»
«That’s not true. He’s been ordered into terribly violent situations. He didn’t create them… Look, Walter, I don’t want to hire a military crusader. I want a solid firm who’s anxious to handle the job because it publicly thinks it can win an acquittal.»
«That could very well disqualify us.»
«I said ‘publicly’; I don’t give a damn what you think personally. You’ll change your mind when you’ve got the facts; I’m sure of that.»
There was a pause. Madison exhaled audibly into the telephone. «What facts, Andy? Are there really any supportable facts that disprove the charge that Bonner stabbed the man without so much as determining who he was or what he was doing there? I’ve read the newspaper accounts and Bruce’s columns. Bonner admits to the accusations. The only mitigating circumstance is his claim that he was protecting you. But from what?»
«He was shot at! There’s an Army car with bulletholes in the door and through the glass.»
«Then you haven’t read Bruce’s follow-ups. That car had one bullet mark in the windshield and three in the door pane. They very well could have been put there with a revolver owned by Bonner. The man denies he had a gun.»
«That’s a lie!»
«I’m not a fan of Bruce, but I’d be reluctant to call him a liar. His facts are too specific. You know, of course, he ridicules Bonner’s statement that the guards were removed.»
«Also a lie… Wait a minute… Walter, is all that stuff—Paul’s statements, the car, the patrols—is that public?»
«How do you mean?»
«Is it public information?»
«It’s easily pieced together from charges and defense statements. Certainly no problem for an experienced reporter. Especially someone like Bruce.»
«But Paul’s Army counsel hasn’t held any press conferences.»
«He wouldn’t have to. Bruce wouldn’t need them.»
Trevayne forgot for a moment his argument with Walter Madison. He was suddenly concerned with Roderick Bruce. With an aspect of the diminutive columnist that he hadn’t thoroughly considered before. Trevayne had thought Bruce was after Paul Bonner for some mythical conspiratorial theory associated with right-wing politics, Paul being the symbol of the military fascist. But Bruce hadn’t pursued that line of attack. Instead, he’d isolated Bonner, concentrated on the specifics related to the Connecticut incident alone. There were allusions to Indochina, to the murders in the field; but that was all, just allusions. No conspiracy, no Pentagon guilt, no philosophical implications. Just Major Paul Bonner, the «killer from Saigon,» let loose in Connecticut.
It wasn’t logical, thought Trevayne as his mind raced, knowing Madison expected him to speak. Bruce had the ammunition to go after the Pentagon hard-liners, the men who ostensibly issued orders to someone like Paul Bonner. But he hadn’t; he hadn’t even speculated on Bonner’s superiors.
Again, just Bonner.
It was a subtle omission. But it was there.
«Walter, I know your position, and I won’t play dirty games. No threats—»
«I should hope not, Andy.» It was Madison’s turn to interrupt, and he recognized it. «We’ve been through too many productive years to see them buried by an Army officer who, I gather, hasn’t much use for you.»
«You’re right.» Trevayne momentarily lowered his eyes to the telephone. Madison’s statement confused him, but he didn’t have the time to go into it. «Think it over; talk to your partners. Let me know in a couple of hours. If the answer’s negative, I will want to be apprised of your reasons; I think I deserve that. If it’s yes, I’ll expect a whopping bill.»
«I’ll get back to you this afternoon or early evening. Will you be at your office?»
«If I’m not, Sam Vicarson will know where to reach me. I’ll be home later, Tawning Spring number. I’ll expect your call.»
Trevayne hung up and made a decision. Sam Vicarson had a new research project.
By early afternoon Sam had gathered together every column Roderick Bruce had written that had any mention of Paul Bonner, the «killer from Saigon.»
The writings revealed only that Bruce had latched onto a volatile story made more explosive by the government’s insistence on keeping it classified three years ago. It was difficult to tell whether the extraordinary invective used against Paul Bonner was directed at him or at those in command who were protecting the Special Forces Major. The columns were semibalanced in this respect. But sporadically this posture appeared as an excuse, a springboard, to remount an attack on one man—the symbol of monstrosity that was Paul Bonner.
The attacks were superbly written exercises in character assassination. Bonner was both the creator and product of a brutal system of armed exploitation. He was to be scorned and pitied; the pity very much an afterthought and only to be employed as one pities a barbarian who impales the bodies of children because he believes they stem from evil ancestors. Pity the primitive motive, but first destroy the Hun.
And then—as Trevayne had accurately assessed—the current writings shifted. No longer was there any attempt to lock in Bonner with a system. No product now, only a creator.
An isolated monster who betrayed his uniform.
There was a difference.
«Man, he’s out for a firing squad!» Vicarson whistled before making the pronouncement.
«He certainly is, and I want to know why.»
«I think it’s there. Underneath the Savile Row clothes and expensive restaurants, Rod Bruce is the freaked-out new left.»
«Then why isn’t he asking for more than one execution?… Find out where they’ve got Bonner. I want to see him.»
Paul removed the irritating neck brace and leaned his back against the wall while sitting on the regulation Army bed. Andrew remained standing; the first few minutes of their meeting had been awkward. The BOQ room was small; there was an Army guard stationed in the corridor, and Trevayne had been startled at Bonner’s explanation that he was not permitted outside the room except for exercise periods.
«It’s better than a cell, I suppose,» said Andy.
«Not a hell of a lot.»
Trevayne began the questioning cautiously. «I know you can’t, or won’t, discuss these things, but I want to help. I hope I don’t have to convince you of that.»
«No. I’ll buy it. But I don’t think I’m going to need any.»
«You sound confident.»
«Cooper’s expected back in a few days. I’ve gone through this before, remember? There’s a lot of yelling, a lot of formalities; then somehow it all rides out and I’m quietly transferred somewhere else.»
«You believe that?»
Bonner looked reflective. «Yes, I do… For a lot of reasons. If I were in Cooper’s place—or in the shoes of the other guys up there in Brasswares—I’d do just what they’re doing. Let the flap settle… I’ve thought about it.» Paul smiled and gave a short laugh. «The Army moves in mysterious ways.»