Diamondhead (18 page)
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
When he saw Mack, Harry’s face lit up, and he walked over to the big SEAL combat commander and said, “Hey, Mack, I heard you were home. I’m very glad to see you and really look forward to a nice long chat in the next few days. We got a lot of catching up to do. How ya been?”
Harry was so delighted to see Mack he clean forgot about Anne, and when he suddenly saw her standing just behind her husband, he exclaimed, “Oh, gosh, Anne, I’m so sorry—how are you? I was so thrilled to see Mack I lost sight of the most important member of the family! How’s young Tommy?”
Harry Remson was a man in his early sixties. He was five-foot-ten with thick, prematurely white hair. He was never seen without an immaculately pressed suit. Like Mack Bedford, he had the rugged features of a genuine Down-Easter. But they had been softened by a family fortune of tens of millions of dollars, centered around the acres and acres of waterfront land the Remsons owned on the east side of the Kennebec River estuary. In the coming years, even if the shipyard declined, the land, with its sweeping views down to the estuary and marvelous high tides, would always appreciate in value, probably for one of the huge vacation development programs currently threatening this wild and glorious coastline.
Anne Bedford smiled at the lifelong family friend and said, “Good morning, Harry. It’s nice to have Mack back, but Tommy is not so good and he doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
“God, that’s a real worry, Anne,” said the shipyard owner. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do—hey, I’m seeing you both later this afternoon, aren’t I? At least I hope I am. Let’s find time for a talk.”
This particular Sunday afternoon had been on everyone’s calendar for three months, the afternoon of the Remsons’ summer party held on the lawn outside the biggest house in town, four hundred yards up the bay from the yard. The Remsons always threw a first-class affair, providing champagne, fresh seafood, and a couple of jazz bands from four o’clock until eight in the evening. No one ever needed dinner afterward.
“We’ll be there, Harry,” said Mack. “Looking forward to it.”
By this time there were several local people lining up to shake Mack Bedford’s hand and welcome him home. No one knew quite where he had been, but everyone knew Navy SEALs serve only in areas where there is optimum danger. And that meant either Afghanistan or Iraq. Hardly a day went by without television and newspapers reporting the death of American servicemen, but now Mack Bedford was home. Everyone knew he was one of the lucky ones.
Although there was no confirmation that he had left the United States Navy, rumors abounded that he was finished in dark blue and had returned home permanently. No one, of course, had one inkling that Mackenzie Bedford had been court-martialed and effectively forced out of the navy.
Mack and Anne stayed and talked to old friends for another twenty minutes, beneath the tall, white church spire that rose above the doorway to a point some twenty feet above the roof, where it then tapered into a high point with a cross at its pinnacle.
They walked home and found Maureen and Tommy sitting on the porch reading, and in Tommy’s case trying not to go to sleep. They all helped prepare lunch, just soup, cold cuts, and Italian bread, before putting an exhausted Tommy back to bed.
The last thing on earth either Mack or Anne wanted to do was to attend the Remsons’ party. But this was a duty. Harry was the most important man in town, and Mack could yet end up working for his company, as his father and grandfather had done. He would be too badly missed, and there was no question of skipping it. Mack and Anne had to report to the great-columned white colonial house on the banks of the river as close to four o’clock as they could. It was too far to walk, so Anne fetched the car from the garage before they changed.
Harry always stressed jackets, no ties, for this somewhat spiffy occasion around midsummer, but Mack always wore a tie as a mark of respect to the man who was responsible for keeping the town of Dartford alive.
They arrived a little after four to find there were already fifty to a hundred people on the lawn. Harry Remson and his wife were out there shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and speaking to people they had known for years, as if every family problem was theirs alone. The Remsons’ attitude to their workers and fellow citizens had been ever thus for decades.
Anne and Mack found a quiet bench overlooking the water as a respite from the central area of the lawn where upwards of thirty people had come to talk to Mack, some merely to welcome the big naval officer home, others to thank him, sincerely, for everything he was doing for the country. Mack found it a bit wearing, as a matter of fact, and escaped to the bench with a plate of Maine lobster claws, which he did not want but could not resist. He used it as a shield from Dartford’s chattering classes. Anne sat to his right, closest to the gathering, shielding him from the rest. Those who knew them well could sense the worry that pervaded their every expression. There were already rumors that the illness diagnosed by Tommy Bedford’s doctors was not a trivial matter.
The dance floor, set up for the jazz band, had a wide canopy above to provide shade on this warm, sunlit early July day. George Bedford had just come over to ask Anne for the honor of a dance when Harry Remson arrived, put his arm on Mack’s shoulder, and said, “Do you have a little time for a chat with your old friend?”
Mack looked up, grinned, and allowed himself to be steered across the lawn and over to the great house that had been built by Remson’s grandfather Sam a hundred years before. They walked through open glass doors, across a bright, elegant drawing room, and into a darker green-painted, book-lined study. Harry poured them both a stiff glass of single-malt Scotch whisky and said, “Here you are, old buddy. You’re going to need this.”
Mack accepted the glass and sat down in front of Harry’s wide antique desk with its polished red-leather top, a gift from the United States Navy for a destroyer built on time and under budget. Past times were ever-present at Remson’s home.
Harry took a sip of his Scotch and said, “Mack, you have no doubt heard the rumors that the French may pull the frigate order, the one that’s kept us going for close to fifteen years.”
Mack nodded, and Harry continued. “You probably heard how serious this is. Not to put too fine a point on it, it could be the end of us. I can’t keep running a shipyard with a thousand-strong workforce if we ain’t building any ships, right?”
Mack nodded again.
“Guess you heard the reason they may pull the order?” asked the shipyard owner.
“Guess I did,” replied Mack. “Some French guy. An ultraconservative Gaullist who will not allow any order for major military hardware to go abroad.”
“You got it,” said Harry. “He’s a real hard-liner, and there are rumors he has big holdings in the French defense industry. In the upcoming presidential elections he’s got a winning ticket, swearing to God French industry is for French workers, not foreigners. He’s even ranting and raving about France buying inexpensive coal and steel from Romania. He makes it sound good, too. When he talks about military hardware, he never mentions he’s almost certainly got a vested interest, as a major shareholder in one of the biggest arms factories in France.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Mack. “That sounds serious. France for the French, right?
Viva la France
and all that bullshit.”
Viva la France
and all that bullshit.”
“Correct, and it ain’t bullshit. I don’t expect to receive another order from the French Navy. Ever.”
“What’s this bastard’s name?”
“He’s Henri Foche, a politician from Brittany. He has not yet started his campaign, but every political commentator in Europe is saying France is finished with left-wing government. Whoever carries the flag for the Right is a goddamned shoo-in, and this Foche character is like a French version of Ronnie Reagan or Margaret Thatcher, especially in the field of economics.”
“Is there another runner for the Gaullists?”
“Yes, a kind of mild, intellectual Paris banker named Barnier. Jules Barnier, a man with no interest whatsoever in the defense industry and a great friend of the United States. He used to be head of Lazard Frères on Wall Street. Barnier’s field is strictly economics, and he’ll never tamper with an order for one navy frigate from us, from the French Navy. Especially if it might mean upsetting some powerful senator from the great state of Maine. But the commentators say he hasn’t got a prayer against Henri Foche.”
“Then I guess there isn’t anything we can do,” said Mack. “If the next president of France wants to cut us out of the game, he holds all the cards. We’re like Barnier—haven’t got a prayer either. I suppose there is no chance the U.S. Navy will give us another order for a warship?”
“I’ve been asking them every six months for more than ten years, and every time they tell me they are going to consider it, and every single time we hear nothing. One of the biggest problems is that Senator Rossow is thick as thieves with the chairman of Bath Iron Works. And God knows I understand their problems. BIW has a big workforce. Probably three times the size of ours. And every time the Senate Arms Procurement Committee in Washington even considers reducing the size of their ship orders in favor of anyone else, Rossow goes bananas and starts talking about layoffs in the shipyard that saved the U.S. in World War II. And it’s a persuasive argument. Rossow always wins it, which kind of leaves us out in the cold. We lose the French frigate, and we’re all done.”
“That’s a pretty morbid scenario in the middle of a beautiful party,” said Mack. “And it feels like checkmate, which makes it worse.”
Harry Remson took another sip of his Scotch and said, “Mack, I had a long talk with my dad today, and as usual he went on and on about what the yard means to the town and how its closure would destroy almost every family who lives here. He talks to me as if I don’t understand that. I’ve only been running the place for thirty years since he retired. But just as I was leaving, he told me something that has stuck in my mind. He said, ‘Remember, Harry, the simplest way is usually the best way.’ I keep thinking about that sentence.”
“Well, what do you think is the simple way?” asked Mack.
“I guess he means I gotta get rid of this Henri Foche,” said Harry quietly.
“Get rid of him!” exclaimed Mack. “Get rid of him! You mean rub the bastard out?”
Harry Remson was silent for almost a half minute. And then he said, more of a murmur than a spoken sentence, “Yes, I guess that’s what I do mean.”
Mack Bedford puffed out both cheeks and blew air noisily through his lips, the universal expression of outright amazement. “Harry,” he said, “I have known you all of my life. I have sometimes thought you were a bit rough with people, a bit hasty. I have often thought you were one of the funniest men I’ve ever met, and my dad swore to God you were the best boss a man could ever have. But I never thought the day would come when I thought you were totally fucking nuts. And here we are sitting in this old familiar house while you tell me you’re considering the possibility of assassinating the next president of France!”
“Then you better raise your sights, Lieutenant Commander, because if I can’t, this town is gonna die, and I don’t want that on my conscience. As for rubbing out this French prick, I don’t plan to do it myself, but I have the money to pay someone else. And I want you to help me.”
Mack almost shouted, “Help you! What do you want me to do? Hold the ammunition? Carry the bomb? Anything to help!”
“Mack, I’m deadly serious. It may seem a wild outside chance. But people do get assassinated; it happens all over the world. And mostly no one knows who was truly responsible for the killing.”
Mack stood up and paced to the door and back. “I don’t especially want you to end up in the slammer, or worse yet in the electric chair, but I don’t know where this conversation is going.”
Remson looked thoughtful. “I think you’ll find that in France, the assassination of a president comes under the heading of treason against the state. It’s the guillotine, old buddy, and I understand it’s swift and painless, a whole hell of a lot better than death by a thousand cuts watching my shipyard and my town die in front of my eyes after a hundred years.”
“How many of these drinks have you had, Harry?”
“This is my first. And now let me come to the point. The kind of people I’m looking for are not criminals. They are people involved in the international security business. I’m looking for a couple of steel-eyed young guys who will track Foche and gun him down when no one is expecting it.
“I understand he is married, but there is a seamy side to his life, and he frequents certain nightclub establishments in Paris, where the dancers are beautiful but expensive. With a man like that, there is always going to be an opportunity to catch him off guard.”
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