Major Andrew Fontine sat rigidly at his desk, listening to the sounds of morning. It was five minutes to eight; the offices were beginning to fill up. Voices rose and fell in the corridors as the Pentagon started the day.
He had five days to think. No, not to think, to move. There wasn’t that much to think about; it was only necessary to move out and cut down. Stop whatever Adrian and his “concerned citizens” had started.
Eye Corps was the most legitimate clandestine unit in the army. It was doing exactly what the dissenters thought they were doing, but without tearing down the system, without revealing weakness. Maintain strength and the illusion of strength. It was all important. They’d tried it the other way. Eye Corps wasn’t born in Georgetown, over brandy and cigars and pictures of the Pentagon on the walls. Bullshit! It was born in a hut in the Mekong Delta. After he had come back from Saigon and told his three subordinate officers what had happened at command headquarters.
He had gone to Saigon with legitimate field complaints, proof of corruption in the supply lines. Hundred of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment was being drained off all over the Mekong every week, abandoned by ARVN troops at the first sign of hostilities, routed back into the black market. Payrolls were banked by ARVN commanders, drugs bought and distributed by Vietnamese networks out of Hue and Da-nang. Millions were piped out of the Southeast Asia operation, and no one seemed to know what to do about it.
So he brought his proof to Saigon, right up to the command brass. And what did the brass do? They thanked him and said they would investigate. What was there to investigate? He’d brought enough proof to institute a dozen charges.
A brigadier had taken him out for a drink.
“Listen, Fontine. Better a little corruption than blow the whole ammo dump. These people are thieves by nature, we’re not going to change that.”
“We could make a few examples, sir. Openly.”
“For Christ’s sake! We’ve got enough Stateside problems! That kind of publicity would play right into the antimilitary hands. Now, you’ve got a fine record; don’t louse it up.”
That’s when it started, when Eye Corps was born. The name itself said it: a unit of men who watched and recorded. And as the months went on, the four of them expanded to five, then seven. Recently, they’d added the eighth man: Captain Martin Greene, in the Pentagon. They were born of disgust. The army was led by weak-kneed whores—women—afraid to offend. What kind of stature was that for the military leaders of the strongest nation on earth?
Something else happened, too, along the way. As the records grew and the enemies within tagged for what they were, the obvious stared the men of Eye Corps in the face: they were the inheritors! They were the incorruptible; they were the elite.
Since regular channels didn’t work, they would do it their way. Build up the records, get files on every misfit, every deviate, ever corrupter, large and small. Strength lay with those who could confront the misfits and make them crawl. Make them do exactly what strong, incorruptible men wanted them to do.
Eye Corps was nearly there. Almost three years’ worth of recorded garbage. Christ! Southeast Asia was the place to find it. They’d take over soon; go right into the Pentagon and take over! It was men like themselves who had the skill and training and the commitment to oversee the vast complexities that were the armed might of the country. It was not a delusion; they were the elite.
It was so logical for him, too. His father would understand that, if he could ever talk to him about it. And one day he might. Since his earliest memories, he felt the presence of influence, of pride, of consequence. And power … yes, power. It wasn’t a dirty word! It belonged to those who knew how to handle it; it was his birthright.
And Adrian wanted to tear it down! Well, the spoiler was not going to tear it down. He was not going to rip Eye Corps apart.
… arrangements can be made. That’s what Adrian had said in the boathouse.
How right he was! Arrangements could be made; but not any arrangements considered by Adrian and his concerned citizens. A lot would happen before then.
Five days. Adrian wasn’t trained to consider the options. Practical, physical alternatives, not words and abstractions and “positions.” The army would have a hell of a time trying to reach him five days from now if he was 10,000 miles away in a combat zone, involved in operations covered by an umbrella of security. He had enough clout to do that; to get over there and build that umbrella.
There was a weakling in Saigon who had betrayed them. Betrayed the rest of Eye Corps. To learn who he was—and he was one of six—was the first reason to get over there. Find him … then make a decision.
Once he was found—and the decision made—the rest was easy. He’d brief the remaining men of Eye Corps. The stories would be integrated, synchronized.
Even the army needed proof. And there was no way it could get that proof.
Here in Washington, Eye Corps’ eighth member could take care of himself. Captain Martin Greene was steel and leather. And smart. He could hold his own against any flak leveled at him. His people had come from the Irgun, the toughest fighters in Jew history. If the D.C. brass gave him any static, he’d cut out for Israel in a second, and the Jew army would be better for it.
Andrew looked at his watch. It was a little past eight, time to reach Greene. He couldn’t take the chance last night. Adrian and his civilians were trying to find an unknown officer who worked at the Pentagon. Outside telephones could not be trusted. He and Marty would have to talk; they couldn’t wait for their next scheduled meeting. He would be on a plane for Saigon before the day was over.
They had agreed never to be seen together. If they met by chance at a conference or a cocktail party, both pretended they were meeting for the first time. It was vital that no connection between them be apparent. When they did meet, it was in out-of-the-way places and always by prearranged schedule. During the meetings they would combine whatever damaging information they’d culled from Pentagon files during the week, seal the pages in an envelope, and mail it to a post office box in Baltimore. The enemies of Eye Corps were being catalogued everywhere.
In times of emergencies, or when one needed the other’s immediate advice, they sent word to each other by placing a “mistaken” call through the Pentagon switchboard. It was the signal to invent some excuse, get out of the office, and head for a bar in downtown Washington. Andrew had made the “mistaken” call two hours ago.
The bar was dark and cheap and gaudy, with booths in the back that afforded a clear view of the entrance. Andrew sat in a booth by the back wall, toying with his bourbon, not interested in it. He kept looking up at the entrance fifty feet away. Whenever the door opened, the morning sun burst through briefly, a harsh intruder on the interior darkness. Greene was late; it wasn’t like him to be late.
The door opened again and the silhouette of a stocky, muscular man with broad, thick shoulders was arrested in the glare. It was Marty; he was out of uniform, dressed in an open white shirt and what appeared to be plaid trousers. He nodded to the bartender and started toward the rear of the bar. Everything about Greene was powerful, thought Andrew. From his thick legs to the shock of bright-red hair, shaped in a bristling crew cut.
“Sorry it took me so long,” said Greene, sliding into the booth opposite Andrew. “I stopped off at the apartment to change. Then I went out the back way.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Last night I took the car out of the garage and thought I picked up surveillance—a dark-green Electra. I reversed directions; it was still there. I went home.”
“What time was it?”
“Around eight thirty, quarter to nine.”
“It figures. It’s why I called you. They expect me to contact someone in your section; set up a meeting right away. They probably had half a dozen others followed.”
“Who?”
“One of them’s my brother.”
“He’s a lawyer. He’s working with—”
“I know exactly who he is,” interrupted Greene, “and who he’s working with. They’re about as subtle as jackals.”
“You never mentioned him to me. How come?”
“There was no reason to. They’re a bunch of hotheads over at Justice. They were organized by a Black named Nevins. We keep close tabs on them; they mess around with hardware contracts more than we’d like. But they haven’t got anything to do with us.”
“They do now. It’s why I called you. One of the six in Nam broke. They’ve got a deposition. A list. Eight officers, seven identified.”
Greene’s cold eyes narrowed. He spoke slowly, quietly. “What the hell are you saying?”
Andrew told him. When he finished, Greene spoke without moving an inch of his powerful body.
“That Black son of a bitch, Nevins, flew to Saigon two weeks ago. The matter wasn’t related.”
“It is now,” said the major.
“Who has the deposition? Are there copies?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is the subpoena being delayed?”
“Again, I don’t know,” said Andrew.”
“There must be a reason! For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you ask?”
“Hold it, Marty. Everything came as a shock—”
“We’re trained for shock,” interrupted Greene icily. “Can you find out?”
Andrew swallowed part of his bourbon. He had not seen the captain like this before. “I can’t call my brother. He wouldn’t tell me if I did.”
“Nice family. May the brothers live and be well. Maybe I can do better. We’ve got people at Justice; procurement covers itself. I’ll do what I can. Where are our files in Saigon? They’re the bottom line.”
“They’re not in Saigon. They’re in Phan-thiet on the coast. In a fenced-off area of a warehouse, I’m the only one who knows the location. A couple of cabinets among a thousand G-Two crates.”
“Very smart.” Greene nodded his head in approval.
“I’ll check them the first thing. I’m flying out this afternoon. A sudden inspection trip.”
“Very nice.” Greene nodded again. “You’ll find the man?”
“Yes.”
“Check Barstow. He’s a smartass. Too many decorations.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know the way he operates,” said Greene.
Andrew was stung by the similarity of words. His brother had applied them to Eye Corps. “He’s a good man in the field—”
“Bravery,” interrupted the captain, “hasn’t got a goddamn thing to do with it. Check Barstow first.”
“I will.” Andrew smarted under Greene’s pronouncements. He had to get some of his own back. “What about Baltimore? I’m worried about that.”
The envelopes in Baltimore were picked up by Greene’s twenty-year-old nephew.
“He’s perfect. He’d kill himself first. I was up there last weekend. I would have known.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not worth discussing. I want to know more about that goddamned deposition. When you crack Barstow make sure you get every word he put down. They probably gave him a copy; see if he’s got a military lawyer.”
The major drank again, averting Greene’s narrow eyes. Andrew did not like the captain’s tone of voice. He was actually giving orders; he was out of line. But on the bottom line Greene was a good man to have around in a crisis. “What can you find out over at Justice?”
“More than that Black bastard would ever guess. We’ve got funds set up for the mavericks who interfere with armaments contracts. We don’t care who makes a few extra dollars, we want the hardware. You’d be surprised how the lowly paid government lawyers take to Caribbean vacations.” Greene smiled and sat back in the booth. “I think we can handle this. The subpoena won’t mean a damn thing without our records. Line officers bitch all the time, what else is new?”
“That’s what I told my brother,” said Andrew.
“Him I can’t figure,” said Greene. And then the captain leaned forward. “Whatever you do in Nam, think it out. If you use prejudice, get your facts and do it by remote.”
“I think I’ve had more experience in those areas than you.” Andrew lighted a cigarette; his hand was steady in spite of his increased irritation. He was pleased with that.
“You probably do,” said Greene casually. “Now, I’ve got something for you. I figured it could wait till our next meeting, but there’s no point in holding it.”
“What is it?”
“A congressional tracer came in last Friday. From a pol named Sandor; he’s on the Armed Services Committee. It concerned you, so I pulled it.”
“What did they want?”
“Limited. Your rotation schedule. How permanent you were in Washington. I inserted a routine response. You were high-echelon material, War College candidate. Very permanent.”
“I wonder what—”
“I haven’t finished,” interrupted Greene. “I called this Sandor’s aide and asked why the congressman was interested in you. He checked his papers and said the request came from a friend of Sandor’s, a man named Dakakos. Theodore Dakakos.”
“Who is he?”
“A Greek shipper. In your family’s class. He’s got millions.”
“Dakakos? Never heard of him.”
“These Greeks are pistols. Maybe he wants to give you a present. Like a small yacht or your own battalion.”
Fontine shrugged. “Dakakos? I can buy a yacht. I’ll take the battalion.”
“You can buy that, too,” said Greene, sliding across the seat out of the booth. “Have a prosperous trip. Call me when you get back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out everything there is to know about a Black son of a bitch named Nevins.”
Greene walked rapidly past the booths toward the entrance. Andrew would wait five minutes before leaving. He had to get to his apartment and back. His plane left at one thirty.
Dakakos? Theodore Dakakos.
Who was he?
Adrian got out of the bed slowly, one foot after the other, as quietly as possible so he would not wake her. Barbara was asleep, but her sleep was fitful.
It was barely nine thirty in the evening. He had picked her up at the airport shortly after five. She’d canceled her Thursday and Friday seminars, too excited to lecture detached summer students.
She had been awarded a grant to assist the anthropologist Sorkis Khertepian at the University of Chicago. Khertepian was in the process of analyzing artifacts taken from the site of the Aswan Dam. Barbara was exhilarated; she had to fly down and tell Adrian all about it. She was intensely alive when things went right in her world, a scholar who would never lose her sense of wonder.
It was strange. Both he and Barbara had entered their professions in a sense of outrage. His was traced to the acid streets of San Francisco, hers to a brilliant mother denied her rightful place in a midwest college because she was a mother. A woman who had no place in the higher offices of a university. Yet each had found values that far outweighed the anger.
It was part of the bond between them.
He walked quietly across the room and sat down in an armchair. His eyes fell on his briefcase on the bedroom desk. He never left it in the sitting room at night; Jim Nevins had cautioned him about being careless. Nevins was at times a little paranoid about such matters.
Nevins, too, had come to his profession in outrage. It was the outrage that often sustained him. Not merely the frustrations of a Black man climbing over the barriers erected by a skeptical white establishment, but the anger of a lawyer who saw so much illegality in the city where laws were made.
But nothing outraged Nevins more than the discovery of Eye Corps. The idea of military elitists suppressing evidence of massive corruption for their own ends was more dangerous than anything the Black lawyer could think of.
When Major Andrew Fontine’s name appeared on the list, Nevins had asked Adrian to remove himself. Adrian had become one of his closest friends, but nothing could stand in the way of prosecuting Eye Corps.
Brothers were brothers. Even white brothers.
“You look so serious. And so naked.” Barbara swept her light-brown hair away from her face, and rolled on her side, hugging the pillow.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Heavens, no. I was only dozing.”
“Correction. Your snoring could be heard on Capitol Hill.”
“You lie through your legal teeth.… What time is it?”
“Twenty of ten,” he answered, looking at his watch.
She sat up and stretched. The sheet fell away to her waist; her lovely, full breasts separated, their slow expansion, the movement of the nipples holding his eyes, arousing him. She saw him watching her and smiled, pulling the sheet over her as she leaned against the headrest.
“We talk,” she said firmly. “We have three days to wear ourselves to a frazzle. While you’re out during the day slaying bears, I’ll preen myself like a concubine. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
“You should do all those things nonacademic ladies do. Spend hours at Elizabeth Arden’s, wallow in milk baths, eat bonbons with your gin. You’re a tired girl.”
“Let’s put me aside,” said Barbara smiling. “I’ve been talking about me all night—almost. How’s everything down here? Or shouldn’t you say? I’m sure Jim Nevins thinks the suite is bugged.”
Adrian laughed, crossing his legs. He reached for a pack of cigarettes next to a lighter on the armchair table. “Jim’s conspiracy complex remains undaunted. He refuses to leave case files at the office anymore. He keeps all his important papers in his briefcase, which is the biggest damn thing you ever saw.” Adrian chuckled.
“Why does he do that?”
“He doesn’t want copies made. He knows the crowd upstairs would take him off half the cases if they knew how much progress he was making.”
“That’s astonishing.”
“It’s chilling,” he said.
The telephone rang. Adrian got out of the chair quickly and crossed to the bedside table.
It was his mother. She could not hide the anxiety in her voice. “I’ve heard from your father.”
“What do you mean, you’ve heard from him?”
“He flew to Paris last Monday. Then he went on to Milan—”
“Milan? What for?”
“He’ll tell you himself. He wants you and Andrew here on Sunday.”
“Wait a minute.” Adrian’s mind raced. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“You must.”
“You don’t understand, and I can’t explain right now. But Andy’s not going to want to see me. I’m not sure I want to see him. I’m not even sure it’s advisable under the circumstances.”
“What are you talking about?” His mother’s voice was suddenly cold. “What have you done?”
Adrian paused before answering. “We’re on the opposite sides of a … dispute.”
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter! Your father needs you.” She was losing control. “Something happened to him. Something happened to him! He could barely talk!”
There were several clicks on the line, followed by the urgent voice of a hotel operator. “Mr. Fontine, I’m sorry to break in, but there’s an emergency call for you.”
“Oh, God.” His mother whispered over the line from New York. “Victor—”
“I’ll call you back if it’s got anything to do with him. I promise you that,” said Adrian swiftly. “All right, operator. I’ll take—”
It was as far as he got. The voice now on the line was hysterical. It was a woman, crying and screaming and barely coherent.
“Adrian! My God, Adrian! He’s dead! He was killed! They killed him! Adriannnnnnn!”
The screams filled the room. And the terror of the screams filled Adrian with a shock he had never felt before.… Death. Death that touched him.
The woman on the telephone was Carol Nevins. Jim’s wife.
“I’ll be right there!”
“Call my mother,” he told Barbara, as he dressed as fast as he could. “The North Shore number. Tell her it’s not dad.”
“Who is it?”
“Nevins.”
He raced into the corridor and down to the elevators. He kept his finger on the button; the elevators were slow—too slow! He ran to the exit doors, crashed them open and leaped down the angling staircase to the lobby. He sped to the glass doors of the entrance.
“Excuse me! Pardon me! Let me through, please!”
Out on the curb he ran to his right, to the lighted sign of an empty taxi. He gave the address of Nevins’s apartment.
What had happened? What in God’s name had happened?! What did Carol mean? They killed him! Who killed him. Jesus! Was he dead?!
Jim Nevins dead? Corruption, yes. Greed, of course. Mendacity, normal. But not murder!
There was a traffic light at New Hampshire, and he thought he would go mad. Two more blocks!
The cab plunged forward the instant the light flickered. The driver accelerated, then halfway down the block came to a sudden stop. The street was jammed with traffic. There were circling lights up ahead; nothing was moving.
Adrian jumped out on the street and began threading his way as fast as possible between the cars. Across Florida Avenue police cars blocked the entrance. Patrolmen were blowing whistles, signaling with iridescent orange gloves, funneling the traffic west.
He ran into the blockade; two police officers several yards away at either side yelled at him.
“No one goes past here, mister!”
“Get back, buddy! You don’t want to go in there!”
But he did want to go; he had to go! He ducked between two patrol cars and raced toward the swirling lights near a mass of twisted metal and shattered glass that Adrian instantly recognized. It was Jim Nevins’s car. What was left of it.
An ambulance’s rear doors were open; a stretcher on which a body lay strapped, covered completely with a white hospital blanket, was being carried from the wreckage by two attendants. A third man, holding a black medical bag, walked alongside.
Adrian approached, pushing away a policeman who held out a prohibiting arm. “Get out of the way,” he said firmly, but with his voice trembling.
“Sorry, mister. I can’t let—”
“I’m an attorney! And that man, I think, is my friend.”
The doctor heard the desperation in his words and waved the officer away. Adrian reached down for the blanket; the doctor’s hand shot out and held his wrist.
“Is your friend Black?”
“Yes.”
“With identification that says his name is Nevins?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead, take my word for it. You don’t want to look.”
“You don’t understand. I have to look.”
Adrian pulled back the blanket. Nausea swept over him; he was at once hypnotized and terrified at what he saw. Nevins’s face was half ripped off, blood and bone more apparent than flesh. The area of the throat was worse; half his neck was gone.
“Oh, Jesus. My God!”
The doctor replaced the blanket and ordered the attendants to continue on. He was a young man with long blond hair and the face of a boy. “You better sit down,” he said to Adrian. “I tried to tell you. Come on, let me take you to a car.”
“No. No, thanks.” Adrian suppressed the sickness and tried to breathe. There wasn’t enough air! “What happened?”
“We don’t know all the details yet. Are you really a lawyer?”
“Yes. And he was my friend. What happened?”
“Seems he made a left turn to go into the apartment driveway and halfway across, some outsized rig rammed him at full speed.”
“Rig?”
“A trailer truck, the kind with steel gridwork. It barrelassed down like it was on a freeway.”
“Where is it?”
“We don’t know. It stopped for a couple of moments, its horn blasting like hell, then pulled out. A witness said it was a rental; it had one of those rent-a-truck signs on the side. You can bet the cops have APB’s out all over the place.”
Suddenly, Adrian remembered, amazed that he was able to do so. He grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “Can you get me through the police to his car? It’s important.”
“Please. Will you try?”
The young doctor sucked air through his teeth, then nodded his head. “Okay. I’ll take you over. Don’t pull any shit, though.”
“I just want to see something. You said a witness saw the truck stop.”
“I know it stopped,” replied the blond-haired doctor enigmatically. “Come on!”
They walked over to the wreck. Nevins’s car was caved in on the left side, metal stripped everywhere, windows shattered. Foam had been sprayed around the gas tank; white globules had drifted through the smashed windows.
“Hey, Doc! What are you doing?” The policeman’s voice was tired and angry.
“Come on, kid, get back. You, too!” A second patrolman yelled.
The young doctor raised his black bag. “Forensic washout, fellas. Don’t argue with me, call the station!”
“What?”
“What forensic?”
“Pathology, for Christ’s sake!” He propelled Adrian forward. “Come on, lab man, take the samples and let’s get out of here. I’m beat.” Adrian looked into the car. “See anything?” asked the doctor pointedly.
Adrian did. Nevins’s briefcase was missing.
They walked back through the cordon of police to the ambulance.
“Did you really find anything?” asked the young doctor.
“Yes,” answered Adrian, numbed, not sure he was thinking clearly. “Something that should have been there, but wasn’t.”
“Okay. Good. Now I’ll tell you why I took you over.”
“What?”
“You saw your friend; I wouldn’t let his wife see him. His face and neck were blown apart with broken glass and metal fragments.”
“Yes … I know. I saw.” Adrian felt the wave of nausea spreading over him again.
“But it’s a pretty warm night. I think the window on the driver’s side was rolled down. I couldn’t swear to it—that car’s totaled—but your friend could have taken a short blast from a shotgun.”
Adrian raised his eyes. Something inside his head snapped; the words his brother said seven years ago in San Francisco seared into his brain.
“… There’s a war out there … the firepower’s real!”
Among the papers in Nevins’s briefcase was the deposition taken from an officer in Saigon. The indictment of Eye Corps.
And he had given his brother five days’ warning.
Oh, God! What had he done?
He took a cab to the precinct police station. His credentials as an attorney gained him a brief conversation with a sergeant.
“If there’s foul play involved, we’ll find it,” said the man, looking at Adrian with the distaste the police reserved for lawyers who followed up accidents.
“He was a friend of mine and I have reason to believe there was. Did you find the truck?”
“Nope. We know it’s not on any of the highways. The state troopers are watching for it.”
“It was a rental.”
“We know that, too. The rental agencies are being checked. Why don’t you go home, mister?”
Adrian bent over the sergeant’s desk, his hands on the edge. “I don’t think you’re taking me very seriously.”
“Fatality sheets come into this station a dozen an hour. Now, what the hell do you want me to do? Suspend everything else and put a whole goddamned platoon on one hit-and-run?”
“I’ll tell you what I want, sergeant. I want a pathology report on all cranial injuries sustained by the deceased. Is that clear?”
“What are you talking about?” replied the police officer disdainfully. “Cranial—”
“I want to know what blew that man apart.”