She Walks the Line (2 page)

A job offer followed. The band was a concern to her, though. It was her baby and the crew needed her loyalty. ‘We'll sort something out to accommodate everyone,' the men told her. The president made similar remarks to her and said someone would get back within twenty-four hours. Which they did. Two men in black appeared on the doorstep of the flat she shared with her friend Joan, an older wiser woman who owned other flats throughout the USA; her money management was legendary.

The agents had a solution. The group would be a perfect cover in its travels around the country. She would be trained how to gather information, which might be useful at some future point in time. The group would be compensated for the times when she was in training; they would be told she was a part-time staffer. It appeared to be a very good offer. She was given a number to ring back as soon as she could. Which she did.

‘Agent Martin MacRae speaking. Have you made a decision?' His Arkansas accent was prominent.

‘Yes, I am interested. Can you tell me more, though?'

He was brief. A car would arrive shortly to convey her to the White House.

She put down the phone and felt the rumbling tummy which told her when an important time in her life was on the horizon. On the short journey, she thought about her father and wondered if he had just stumbled into his CIA involvement through something very simple. She knew he had started out as a sniper with the SAS because she snuck into the bedroom one day when her parents
were out and spied a commendation letter signed by a major general at the head of the CIA.

The driver knocked on the door with the engraved sign which said ‘Senior Agent Martin MacRae'.

‘Enter,' came the voice from within. A tall man with rangy build, just like her dad but with much shorter close-cropped brownish hair, stood and offered her a chair.

She saw photos of the man in a marine sergeant major's dress uniform with yellow stripes everywhere and bags of ribbons.

‘Look, Suzie, the job is virtually yours if you accede to what I'm going to tell you, though I have to fill in some spaces.'

She saw the big file marked ‘Top Secret' which he brushed with his strong brown fingers carrying a marine ring.

‘Naturally, we've made some checks and you come up pretty good. Are you aware that your father is one of ours? He's served Australia and this country in many joint operations.'

‘I know but he doesn't know I know.'

Martin studied the five foot eleven-inch girl with the build of a netballer, fresh clean lines and a great posture. Hands not busy, just like her steady eyes, unblinking and searching his face. They were in the kind of no-blinking contest that he usually won but this recruit was different: she was not going to surrender her gaze and within seconds he was forced to look at the file.

‘Have you heard of Brigadier General Jack Curtis?'

‘Yep, but he was a major when he came to our house once. Looks like Gibbs from NCIS.'

Martin smiled in agreement and wondered whether Jack Curtis belted the marines on the back of the head just like Gibbs did. Obviously she knew military ranks. He handed her a page signed by the general. She read it and gasped at the honours her dad had received in the USA.

He concluded by giving her a big tick in the box. But the thought
came into her mind, ‘Am I being embroiled into all this secret stuff and what if I want to get out? How dangerous is it going to be?'

Martin, as if on cue, intruded on her rambling thoughts. He shifted in his big chair and lowered his voice when he spoke. ‘Look, we're not asking you to go out and kill people.'

‘Is that what Dad did?' And when Martin's face took on a serious look she instantly knew she had lurched into a minefield. A sudden change. No more Mr Nice Guy

‘That's classified. So what about the job? Are you interested?' The words had a curt sharpness as a result of her nosey question.

She nodded, having thought it out the night before.

‘Very good, Suzie.' Martin leaned back with a relaxed posture. The nice guy had returned. ‘I'm a fan of you and your great group.'

She raised her right eyebrow and waited for more from him.

‘My accent ought to help. I was born near Kingsland, where Johnny Cash lived. My mother Bea went to his church. She was born in 1925. Ben my dad was born there in 1923.'

‘Do you play an instrument?' She knew this was the killer question which could stuff any operation.

‘The harmonica. Quite well, I've been told.' Martin waited for a follow-up.

‘So I'm told you'll be an undercover agent when we tour, correct? Actually, we need a player so I suppose I'm offering
you
a job as well.' Suzie sat back with a smile, waiting for his response.

‘A good point. Bears thinking about. I may as well tell you a few titbits about my family of good old boys. Never had slaves but they were all Johnny Rebs. Great great grandfather Jess MacRae fought with General Jo Shelby, who never surrendered. And never signed the oath of allegiance to the USA. They shot through to Mexico and helped the Mex rebs under Juarez in their fight against the French. They came back and he married. One son named William died in 1935. He'd fought with Teddy Roosevelt in his charge up
the San Juan Hill. My father Ben went missing when I was two years old. He was an army man, never wounded but broken in spirit. Another chapter there. So the good old boy is in my blood without the hatred of blacks, ‘cos one saved my life in '68 in 'Nam. I'm a godfather to his son. Mum never got over her missing mate but she remained an immaculate woman all of her life. But that's another story. You raised an eyebrow about my father and I can see you're a good listener. One day when we get a moment I'll show you some interesting material about my dad. It's yet another chapter on its own. While I think of it, can I ask you to sign this CD – your latest, I think.'

She cocked her eyebrow and grinned once more when he handed her a pen. She signed the CD.

Martin walked to the gates with her. She turned back and waved with his last words still ringing. ‘We'll be back in twenty-four hours.'

She walked to the small Catholic church a few blocks away and lit a candle for her mother Joan and chatted to her about the coming pivotal moment.

The file marked ‘Top Secret' was closed but not before Martin added a comment:

Suzie Smith is a highly intelligent woman with impeccable credentials who has a keen ear and highly developed observation skills regarding body language. She is able to extract information before the subject knows how much he has told her, which is a great skill. I know this first hand because she trapped me into revealing many of my family memories. Her appointment as a part-time staffer/intell gatherer is recommended.

2

Da Nang, Vietnam

February 1968

The operation order was distributed to the officers of the 27th Marines just before the formal briefing. The time had passed for the comfort of the dug-out, with food, earphones and some illegal weed being smoked to lessen the rising fear of death, or, worse, being blinded, having legs blown off. Time to stand up and be counted, to move off with their buddies alongside and the medics following with their needles. ‘Up, up' was spoken quietly. No banshee charge, just a silent collection of grim-faced men with camouflage paint smeared on shiny spots, gear secured, their useless vests in place and a last smoke.

PFC Victor Bryon Marshall, a southern boy from Arkansas, was expected by his family to do well just like his father, a marine ‘gunny', who survived all the South Pacific landings without a physical scratch, did in World War II. However, his family knew better about the other side of their father. They knew about the brooding man and his rages with the permanent twisted sneer which flooded his face. The sneer was the legacy of a knife wound to the lips in an off-duty knife fight. The bottles of moonshine hidden within an old dank cellar on the run-down farm didn't help his mood when he emerged into the cold from the cellar looking for trouble with his two giant dogs who had taken on their master's habits, nipping and biting the kids if they didn't instantly obey his barked orders.

The children soon learned how to disappear fast into little hiding
spots, happy to be away from the large marine leather belt with the buckle inscribed ‘Semper fidelis'. But the giant dogs always found them, barking with anticipation of the bone they would get from their master. The beltings came and Victor got the worst of it.

Victor knew he would give those dogs a reward one day, one day when he was older and stronger. It would be a quick trip to a dog's heaven. He learned a form of self-protection which expanded over time into an indifference about death, which was an everyday occurrence on the old farm. Best not to get too attached to an animal or a sister who might betray you, best not to care about death or cold. His indifference was extended to most people he knew, though he had a certain amount of affection for his younger brother Mark, who adored him. The only other exception to his rule was himself.

He feared death and the demons which would follow. Death had a smell which he quickly found out and when it came he would cover his head with an old grey greatcoat which belonged to an ancient uncle who had fought under the tigerish General Nathan Bedford Forrest, who also rallied the Ku Klux Klan in 1866.

One hundred and two years later, he sat paralysed with an old coat over his head, away from the smell of nicotine which reminded him of the yellow-stained fingers and breath of his father. Victor had signed up and Parish Island boot camp loomed. Among his last few acts before he left for the marines was the drowning of the two dogs in the dam after he'd lured them there like the Pied Piper. His father suffered the same fate with a quick push of the boot from his son. There was no coroner's inquest. Just a quick burial and peace for the family. Only a few old vets recalled what a good marine he had been.

*

The bullets whizzed around outside the trenches and there were
dull thuds and metallic whistling sounds which sent fear among the men that mortars might pick up the scent of the humans. ‘Just like the dogs,' he murmured. But the stupid officers were blowing whistles and yelling, ‘Out, out.' The artillery barrage had started.

It was different from the training. This was real. He wanted away from it all. Away from the nicotine. A plan came in an instant. The troops lumbered up. He pushed away the old coat and stood with his M16 held out pointing to his head. He pulled the trigger and the sear on his right temple caused him pain, not deep yet enough to cause blood to flow and blackness to follow.

The general walked around the MASH tent shaking hands with the wounded men, taking care if some of them had no arms. He bent down and pinned a Purple Heart on Victor's pyjama coat. He shook his hand and moved on.

Victor smiled to himself in the night at the thought of how clever he was.

However, his foxhole partner PFC Martin MacRae didn't smile when he came to visit when the choppers loaded them all for a flight back home. Victor knew he had not fooled Martin and from that moment a seed of hatred was formed in his mind. Like dogs, nicotine and drugs: they would all be obliterated from his presence, given time.

The less wounded marines were flown to Sydney for R&R leave. Victor met a nineteen-year-old girl in a bar who was dazzled by his uniform and the small purple ribbon. They went to a hotel nearby and had sex. He wrote his name – Martin MacRae – on a piece of paper and laughed as he walked out, soon to be back in the USA.

Yvonne Streeter was sad about the loss of her virginity but treasured the note with his name scrawled on it: she kept it in her small musical jewel box with the ballet dancers circling around. She loved ballet.

Victor never knew that Martin forgot about the minor injury
because of the mounting casualties of the battle scattered about the Da Nang airbase. Martin was not a judgemental person. He was a happy man who entertained his buddies with a harmonica.

Martin stayed happy despite being severely wounded two days later. He lost one testicle and a portion of the other. He maintained a positive disposition though the loss caused him some quiet inner trauma. When the dark thoughts came, he would pick up the harmonica and play it endlessly till the emotion went away. The Silver Star which was awarded to him as a result of his actions in the battle remained sitting quietly beside the hospital bed. Every now and then a high-ranking officer who was visiting asked if he could see the medal. After all, it was the second on the scale of honours given by a grateful government.

Martin was recruited into the Secret Service in 1991 at the age of forty-one after twenty-three years of continuous service in which he rose to the highest NCO rank of sergeant major of marines. At his retirement show, an indelicate marine fuelled with gallons of beer shouted out, ‘He's a Russian, you know. Ivor Knackeroff,' which caused a silence to descend on the hall.

*

Victor wormed his way into the Washington city police and became supposedly intent on destroying the drug trade. He worked close to Martin's workplace but they never met.

4

USA

2006

Martin pondered for some time how to tell Suzie about his war injury. They had at that time not made love, though the prospect was circling in the air and a decision to speak out soon was appropriate. After all, she's young enough to have children and I'm no use in that area, he thought.

‘We're getting along fine, mate,' (he called her mate on many occasions) ‘but we have to be careful. The rules.'

And she would always reply with the same words, ‘Yeah, no fraternising. It's laughable, really, when I think of all the shagging going on in the halls of power, right under the noses of the bosses who made the rules.'

Martin recognised how forthright she was and admired her for it – something to do with the Aussie spirit and he had a fondness for Australians. He looked down deep in thought.