he splashed ham fat on eggs in the pan. “This is one of God’s Good Meals.”
The Chairman looked at General Bellmon.
“So tell me, Bellmon, out of school, of course, who told you about Dragon Rouge?”
When Bellmon did not immediately reply, the chief called, “You can trust him, Bob. For a sailor, you can really trust him pretty far.”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave the chief of staff of the U.S. Army the finger.
“I was always taught, Admiral,” Bellmon said, “that a good officer protects juniors.”
“A lieutenant colonel, in other words, with a big mouth?” the Chairman said, not seeming either surprised or angry. “It is hard to keep a secret, isn’t it?”
The chief sat down beside them.
“Actually, sir, it was my daughter’s boyfriend,” Bellmon said.
“A lieutenant, then? Maybe a captain?” the chief said.
“Actually, sir, he’s a sergeant,” Bellmon said.
“A sergeant?” the chief parroted incredulously.
“A sergeant,” Bellmon repeated. “I should have shut him up, but I didn’t. He simply presumed that as a general officer, I knew all about it. I didn’t, but I was curious, and let him talk.”
“Marjorie’s boyfriend is a sergeant?” the chief asked. “And how does that go with Barbara?”
“He’s a very fine young man,” Bellmon said testily. “Barbara likes him, I like him. Before he was drafted, he was an airline pilot.”
“A sergeant who knew about Dragon Rouge because he was involved in it, right? Does this sergeant work for Colonel Felter, by any chance?”
“Yes, sir, he does.”
“Tell me about him,” the Chairman said.
“His name is Jacques Portet, and—”
“I meant Colonel Felter,” the Chairman interrupted. “I understand you’re acquainted with him.”
“Colonel Felter is a friend of mine, sir.”
“Some people define ‘friend’ as anyone they call by his first name. I define a friend as someone you’d go to the mat for, and vice versa. Which is it with you and Colonel Felter?”
“Colonel Felter is a close personal friend, sir.”
“Then you know what he does for a living?”
“I know he works for the President, sir. I think his job title is ‘Counselor to the President.’ ”
“He’s President Johnson’s personal spook,” the Chairman said. “As he was for Kennedy, and before that, for Eisenhower.” He paused, and looked directly at Bellmon. “He has been described as ‘one ruthless sonofabitch who runs over anybody who gets in his way.’ ”
“Sir,” Bellmon said coldly, “I would not categorize Colonel Felter as either ruthless or a sonofabitch.”
“Then you’re out of sync with the Commander-in-Chief, General. The President used—sometime around oh three hundred this morning, and admiringly, I thought—precisely those words.”
The Chairman chuckled, then went on: “How’d you get involved with someone like Felter, General?”
“I’m not sure what the admiral means by ‘involved,’ sir,” Bellmon said.
“Well, for example, where did you first meet him?”
Bellmon paused thoughtfully, then shrugged.
“At 1330, 8 April 1945,” he said. “Outside a stable, in Zwenkau, Saxony, in what is now East Germany.”
Both the Chairman and the chief looked at him curiously.
“You tend to remember precisely where and when you’re liberated, ” Bellmon said. “Maybe especially if, sixty seconds before, you were convinced you were on your way to Siberia.”
“I’m not tracking you, General,” the Chairman said.
“I was captured in North Africa, Admiral,” Bellmon said. “On 17 February 1943. I was a POW for two years, one month, and eighteen days, most of it in Stalag XVII-B, near Szczecin—Stettin—Poland. As the Russians advanced through Poland, the camp commandant was ordered to move us westward, toward Berlin. We didn’t make it. We were overrun by the Russians—”
“Lucky for you,” the Chairman interrupted.
“No, sir,” Bellmon said. “Our Russian allies almost immediately made it clear they had no intention of turning us loose. Quite the contrary, we were informed that transportation was being arranged to take us to ‘safety’ in the Soviet Union.”
“I’ve heard the stories, but—”
“I’m afraid they’re all true, Admiral. In some cases, we have no idea why, they held on to our men. In this case, there’s good reason to believe that they were trying to shove their murder of Polish officers in the Katyn Forest under the rug. Russian intelligence officers asked each of us if we had any knowledge of American officers being taken from Stalag XVII-B by German officers to visit the Katyn Forest.”
“And had there been?”
“Yes, sir, there had. I had. I was taken to the Katyn Forest by a German officer who had been a friend of my father’s. He wanted to make sure, when the war was over, that the Germans weren’t held responsible for that particular atrocity.”