“Reason with him,” Lowell said dryly. “Try to point out the error of his ways. He wasn’t always a murderous sonofabitch who beats prisoners to death with baseball bats; and as Father Whatsisname of Boys’ Town said, ‘there is no such thing as a bad boy.’”
“You mean assassinate him,” Bellmon said.
“No, that’s absolutely not an option,” Lowell said. “I told you what the orders are. Keep an eye on him. Maybe cause him a little trouble, but that’s all.”
“That’s the CIA’s business,” Bellmon argued.
“The President gave the job to Felter,” Hanrahan said.
Clearly, Bellmon thought, after the Felter-run operation to rescue hostages from Stanleyville had gone off so well, he enjoyed, for the moment at least, the admiration of the President. The President admired results.
“If the CIA had to run around in the Africa jungle,” Lowell offered, “keeping an eye on Guevara, they’d get mud on their shiny loafers. Couldn’t have that, could we?”
“I don’t see why Felter would put Johnny Oliver in something like that,” Bellmon said. “He has neither the training nor the experience for something like that.”
When neither Hanrahan nor Lowell replied, Bellmon added, “I still think he’d be better off working for George Rand.”
“It’s done, Bob,” Hanrahan said. “If you raised a lot of hell about it, you might get it undone. But I’m not sure. Why don’t you just let it be? If nothing else, for his sake, give him a little time to get over the woman. I’m probably betraying a confidence when I say this, but Major Lunsford told me he broke down and cried like a baby.”
Bellmon looked at him. It was a moment before he spoke.
“Just within these walls, I am about out of patience with that goddamned widow.” Then he shrugged. “Okay. If the best thing for Johnny to do is go eat snakes, bon appétit!”
“There’s one more thing, Bob,” Lowell said. “He had planned to tell you about this tonight. Apparently, he was afraid of your reaction. Red told him you already knew—that he’d gotten a copy of the TWX changing his orders.”
“I’m not about to add to the poor guy’s problems. A crazy widow and you two, plus Felter, is more than enough of a burden for a young captain to bear.”
Lowell smiled and chuckled.
“Well, now that we’re all old pals again,” Lowell said, “would anybody like another drink?”
“Please,” Generals Bellmon and Hanrahan said, almost in unison.
V
[ ONE ]
Quarters One
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1825 18 December 1964
Second Lieutenant Robert F. Bellmon entered his parents’ home via the kitchen door and found Jacques Portet standing on the kitchen table, and his sister fussing with Jack’s trousers’ cuffs.
“What the hell is going on?” Bobby demanded.
“Ask the lieutenant,” Marjorie said.
“Jack, what the hell is going on?”
“That’s ‘what the hell is going on, sir?’ ” Jack said. “See if you can remember that in the future.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Marjorie said disgustedly. But there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Those are officer’s trousers,” Bobby observed in surprise, having seen the black stripe down the trousers’ seam that differentiates officer’s trousers from those of enlisted men.
“Splendid!” Jack said. “Perception is a characteristic to be encouraged in junior officers.”
“Marjorie?” Bobby asked, sounding young and confused.
“The damned fool took a commission,” Marjorie said.
“Took a commission?”
“As a first lieutenant,” Jack said. “You don’t have to stand at attention in my presence, Bobby, but a little respect would be in order.”
“You can get off the table,” Marjorie said. “And put your other pants back on.”
Jack jumped nimbly off the table.
“Stick around, Bobby,” Jack said. “I need a favor.”
He walked out of the kitchen, and Marjorie followed him.
Two minutes later, he walked back in. He laid a uniform tunic and a handful of plastic-boxed insignia on the table.
“I don’t know where that stuff goes, Bobby,” Jack said. “Would you show me?”
“You’re really an officer?” Bobby asked.
Jack nodded.
Bobby regained his composure.
“Then let me offer my congratulations, Jack.”
He put out his hand, and Jack took it.
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Your sister is less than thrilled, as you may have noticed.”
“What’s that all about?” Bobby asked.
“She wanted me safe and sound at the Instrument Examiner Board,” Jack said.
Major General Robert F. Bellmon entered the kitchen a few minutes later. Bobby was bent over the kitchen table, pinning the crossed rifles of Infantry to the lapels of Jack’s tunic.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, offering his hand.
“Good evening, sir,” Jack said. “I’d hoped to have this finished before you got home.”