Nature of the Game (58 page)

“Who else is in this?” said Wes.

“I don't know,” said Billy.

Slowly, Wes opened the manila file. Plain sheets of paper, no letterhead. Typewritten on different machines. Precise paragraphs of supposition, analysis of covert operations and intelligence supplied to various agencies from unknown sources. The particulars blurred in his eyes: Iran, Chile, cocaine.

“You've had this all along,” he whispered. He glared at the man in thick glasses. “You knew all along!”

“I
knew
nothing!” Billy leaned toward Wes. “My first recommendation was to let sleeping dogs lie. This is history—Varon is an old man. Sick, I hear. His power all but gone. His exposure in Iran-contra was his second slip and he knows he'll get nailed in a third. I knew no good would come out of chasing phantoms and stirring up ghosts. Jud Stuart might have been important once, but he'd become a broken record of no value to the Agency's legitimate business.

“My superiors disagreed,” he continued. “Fine. That's the way institutions work. But did they follow procedure? Did they pursue their goals through channels? No: they brought in you. They cut me out and brought in you.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“That's
my
file,
my
unofficial speculations. My orders were to stay uninvolved. I bent those orders, offered you help, but you turned it down. Just like Varon and all his people, you were off the books, out of the loop, off the shelf, off the reservation. Cowboy. Not my concern.”

“Well, you're in it now,
General!
You and your institutions! I don't care if you've covered your ass, somewhere out there, you and yours are responsible. There's corpses all across this country and—”

“They appear to be in your trail, Major.”

“That's right!” Wes jammed his forefinger at Billy's desk. “And my trail leads right here.”

Billy took off his glasses, wiped his brow.

“Jud Stuart may be a broken record,” said Wes, “but he's got some song that's worth something to Varon. Something that started this whole thing. Something that sent a sailor who worked in the White House—and who I bet was on Varon's team—from San Francisco to L.A. I don't know why. But Varon does. And whatever it is, it's not about history or institutions, it's about today.”

“Today is my concern,” said Billy. “That file, Varon, Jud: the world has changed out from under all that. The Berlin Wall is gone! KGB headquarters gives tours to American newsmen! But the need for this institution, for my CIA, is just as great: trade wars, terrorists, nuclear proliferation … I don't know where we'll have to go, but if we get torn apart by another scandal, by the sins of good intentions or bad ops that Jud Stuart and Varon represent … today is what will suffer. And tomorrow.”

“Fuck it,” said Wes.

“How noble of you to incur that debt for the country.”

“Let's get out from under all this bullshit,” said Wes.

“How?”

“I'll bring Jud in. You protect him. Immunity, whatever he needs.”

“You're a lawyer, you know I can't give that.”

“Of course you can. One phone call.”

“What else?”

“Whatever Varon's done, nail him for it. I've lost too much to let that son of a bitch slide.”

“You? I thought this was about America.”

“I'm a United States Marine.”

“Who's been operating in a dubious fashion.”

“Prosecute me for what I did. Give me my day in court.”

“There are other remedies.”

“That's a two-way street,” said Wes. “I know a writer with an ax to grind. He's already involved. Lot of ways I can help him.”

“What do you get out of all this?” asked Billy.

“Out of all this,” answered Wes.

“And?”

“That's it.” Wes paused, said, “Anything more, I'm stuck for good.”

Gen. Billy Cochran leaned across the desk. “Major, you are already stuck. The only question is how hard and how deep—and if you screw with me, if you fail …”

“I know my chances,” said Wes.

“Be careful with your choices,” said Billy. “What about Director Denton?”

“You'll finesse him,” said Wes. “You're the inside man, the pro. He wants to stay up there high and mighty and loved, with a spotless record. You'll figure a way to give him that. Or scare him enough so he doesn't mess us up.”

“When can you get Jud Stuart here?”

“As soon as possible,” answered Wes. “If you keep the dogs off my back.”

“I can contain the interest of the federal agencies—if it's no more extensive than I know about and if your sins are no more heinous than you imply. But no group will help you. I can't authorize aid from this agency without Director Denton's approval, which I won't get. Noah will tell him I betrayed them when I lifted the burn notice, conspired against them in this meeting.”

“You can take care of yourself. When this is over, none of that will matter.”

“And you are in your own hands, Major. Remember: Varon is an experienced strategist who deserves his combat medals.”

The Marine shook his head, stood.

“You'll just be doing your job, Major,” said the Deputy Director of the CIA, already spinning a new web in refined light. “The one Denton gave you. Bring in Jud Stuart. And do it quickly. We'll work it out.”

Billy held out his hand. “The file is mine.”

The unlabeled manila file folder was light in Wes's grip, full of notes he ached to study. This was a file folder no subpoena would ever find, a file Billy wouldn't routinely keep in his desk. How many more like it were there somewhere else?

“What were you going to do with this?” asked Wes. “What would you have done if I hadn't uncovered Varon or come to you with this deal?”

“Whatever was necessary and prudent,” said Billy. His hand hung empty in the air. Waiting.

Wes dropped the file on the desk.

THE TUNNEL

A
ll Nick wanted to do was go home.

As he drove through afternoon traffic, the Capitol dome in his rearview mirror, he didn't care about Wes Chandler, USMC. He didn't care about Jud or the CIA or villains who betrayed America's trust. He wanted to go home, hear his wife laugh and feel her embrace, to watch his son toddle across the living room. The dog would lick Nick's hand. He wanted to call his mother in Michigan, hear about hometown weather and her Monday-night bridge game, his crazy aunts. He wished his father were still alive. Nick was drained and battered, and all he wanted to do was go home.

Traffic was tense: cars hurrying to get where they were going before the storm broke and the streets turned slick.

Their Jeep was in the driveway:
Sylvia was home early
.

The dog barked as Nick walked up the sidewalk.
He always barked
. Sylvia opened their front door, a stern look on her face. Nick hurried toward her to say that everything would be all right. He hoped that he wouldn't be lying.

“
He's here!
” she whispered as he bounded up the porch.

“What?”

“
Jud
,” she said. “Inside.”

“Dad'y!” Saul charged behind his delighted squeal, grabbed Nick's knees for balance and love. “Dad'y!”

The dog trotted behind the baby. Made sure it was his master at the door. Looked back into the house.

“I've been calling you all day!” said Sylvia as Nick scooped Saul into his arms.

“I—”

“I told him he couldn't stay.” She felt embarrassed shame equal to the pressure of the paring knife in her back pocket. Nick was here, everything was fine. She smiled weakly at her husband, but his answering gaze was empty of joy or relief.

His son in his arms, his wife by his side, his dog leading the way, Nick walked into the dining room.

Saw Jud sitting at the table. In front of him were a cup of coffee and a banana peel.

“Long time, Bro'.” Jud smiled. His voice was tired.

“How did you get here?” muttered Nick.

“Best I could.” Jud sighed. “There's no one on my tail.”

“Yes, there is,” said Nick.

“Yeah,” confessed Jud. “But nobody followed me here.”

Nick sat at the dining room table, Jud to his right. Sylvia sat to his left. Saul squirmed in his arms, watched the big people, his eyes wide, his head pressed back into Nick's chest.

“You said you had bad news,” Sylvia told Jud.

The two men looked at her; she stared back, unflinching.

“I'm part of this, too,” she insisted.

“Tell me,” said Nick.

“Lorri's dead,” said Jud.

“I know,” said Nick.

It was a toss-up who was more surprised, Jud or Sylvia.

“How did you—” began Jud.

But Nick interrupted, “How did she die?”

“She … Suicide. I found her. In Nebraska.”

“Jesus,” whispered Sylvia. Fear crept into her dining room.

“Are you sure?” said Nick.

“What do you mean is he sure?” The wife stared at her husband.

Who wouldn't look at her; repeated, “Are you sure?”

“She did it herself. Alone.” Jud shook his head. “But I put the razor in her hand a long time ago. Figure I killed her.”

“No,” said Nick. “Not by yourself.”

“No matter. Doesn't clean my slate.”

“What do you two mean?” said Sylvia. “Jud, I never met her, but I'm sorry, I …” Her look expanded to include both men. “What do you mean?”

“How did you know?” Jud asked his old friend.

First Nick, then Jud looked at Sylvia.

“No,” she said.

“Honey—” began Nick.

“
No!
” she insisted. “You're my husband! That's my son you're holding! This is our life and
you two
can't toss it around in some macho bullshit that—”

Mommy yelled so Saul cried. The dog got to his feet.

“Sylvia, let me just … figure out where we are, what—”

“We are in our
home!
With your damn secrets! I'm your wife: that gives me privilege. I can't be forced to testify—”

“I'm not worried about testimony.” Nick rocked his sobbing baby.

“Then what are you worried about?”

“It'll just be better if you give me and Jud some time alone,” said Nick.

“Better for who?” she asked.

“For everyone,” said her husband. “When I can, I'll tell you everything, and it'll be okay. Trust me.”

“Like you trust me now?” she said.

The baby howled.

“That's not the issue,” said Nick.

“No,” snapped Sylvia, standing, bundling Saul into her arms. She nodded toward their son. “He is.”

Sylvia glared at the stranger who'd brought legends of death under her roof; glared back at her husband.

“
Forsaking all others
, right?” she said. “We should have stuck with the traditional vows instead of writing our own.”

The mother picked up her son and headed upstairs. The baby's cries grew fainter. The two men seated at the dining room table could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. The dog stayed downstairs, with them.

“I like her,” said Jud.

“Me, too,” whispered Nick.

“How did you know about Lorri?” asked Jud.

Nick hesitated.

“You have to trust me,” said Jud. “I've never done you.”

Nick told Jud about Jack Berns and the Marine named Wes, about the ambush at Union Station. But he didn't mention Iran-contra, or a retired general named Varon.

“How do you know this guy Wes Chandler is who he says he is?” asked Jud.

“Besides his ID?” said Nick.

“‘ID' stands for ‘Idiot's Deceit.' You know how many people I've been, complete with IDs? So why do you trust him?”

“He had a gun.” Nick didn't mention the ambushed man's revolver, now in his backpack. “He didn't have to let me walk.”

“Wheels within wheels,” said Jud. “Don't you remember what I taught you?”

“That ambush wasn't faked.”

“You mean some hero wouldn't volunteer to take a few punches to establish that Marine's bona fides with you? So he could find out what you know and
then
take you out of the box?”

“He found out enough of what I know,” said Nick. “And he didn't take me out of the box. So I trust him—at least a little.”

“What does he know? What do you know?”

“No,” said Nick. He felt the flow between them change. “All these years, you called the shots. I never demanded answers you wouldn't give. And that was fine, because I was just along to learn the ride. I wasn't part of it. At least, so I thought.

“But not now,” said Nick. “When you called the last time, you tied me up in it. That's how everybody got to me. No matter if I'd done nothing, they'd have come after me to get to you. You made me a player, and I'm not going to just ride along.”