William McGivern - A Matter of Honor

“I don’t care what you gentlemen got planned,” he’d said. “My orders come directly from Karl Malleck in Chicago, and he says no pussyfooting GI’s gonna be delivered back to his barracks by Porsche. He comes in by bus, he goes back by bus...”

Vayetch and Herr Rauch were scheduled to meet with Lasari at the apartment within the hour.

“You want some cocoa or anything, George?” Greta called out from the kitchen.

“No, I’m fine, Greta. That was a great farewell luncheon, by the way. Thanks.”

“You can’t leave without eating something more, George. The PX will be closed when you get to Regensburg. Too bad we don’t have jerky. You know what jerky is? Everybody on the ‘Bonanza’ show took beef jerky with them on trips, remember?”

Lasari put on his socks first, then pulled on khaki undershorts. “You don’t miss a thing, Greta,” he called out then turned as he heard the door pushed open.

Greta was smiling, almost shy. Lasari took a shirt off a hanger, put it on and began to button it.

“Why are you putting your shirt on?” she said. “I thought you were talking to me because you wanted me.” Her eyes clouded. “Ernie is always drunk and you act like I’m not here. You’re putting clothes on. I feel so useless.”

She came to stand close to him and raised one slim leg, running her fingers along the curve of the calf. “Did you ever notice I don’t shave my legs, George? I don’t have to. Blonde ladies are lucky about hair, a nice color. I’m that way all over.”

Lasari took his uniform trousers from the hanger, stepped into them and pulled the zipper into place. “Look Greta,” he said, “if this had happened at another time, if we’d met at a bar or a dance, and were both alone, I’d want to get to know you real well. I mean that. But you belong to Ernie Strasser.” As she began to frown, he held up a hand. “I don’t mean like his goddamn cat or dog, or his motorcycle. Not that. Strasser’s your guy, you’re his woman, and I think he feels for you.”

“Some boy friend,” she said morosely. “He can be sweet sometimes but he’s drinking like this because he’s a born coward. He was always afraid of Malleck and now it’s Eddie Neal and those other men.”

Lasari had taken his tunic jacket in his hand but made no move to put it on. “Here’s how I see it,” he said. “Strasser’s got some problems, sure, but he’s loyal and you’ve got to admire that. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, Greta, I don’t know, but no matter how much I like you and want you, coming between two people who are together, that’s not my style. If you and I were alone here, if there was no Ernie Strasser, who knows what would happen? But this way, three people could get hurt.”

She was smiling again. “What you’re saying, George, is that if it weren’t for Ernie being my boy friend, you couldn’t control yourself, I wouldn’t be safe with you. Isn’t that what you’re saying? You’re crazy and sweet like Brett Maverick when you’re like this...” She stopped short, sniffing the air attentively.

“Damn! You’re right, Greta,” he said. “I smell it, too. You forgot that cocoa on the stove.”

When she left the room Lasari put on his tunic and walked quickly down the hall.

Lasari found Strasser sprawled in an armchair, breathing heavily and seemingly immobile, but with eyes open and wary. “Don’t think I’m drunk, Jackson,” he said. “I just want you off my ass and out of here.”

Sergeant Strasser had finished all the paperwork at his office yesterday, stamping, initialing and certifying the details of Private Jackson’s detached duty time on leave from the Lucky Thirteenth, specifying the assignment for Colonel Warneke in dog training. And he had cut orders for Jackson to rejoin the Lucky Thirteenth outside Kassel in two days.

Greta had prepared a lunch of fruit, headcheese, pumpernickel and canned white asparagus, but Strasser had pushed his half-filled plate away and finished off a bottle of white wine laced with Bols gin.

When the doorbell rang and Greta hurried from the kitchen, Strasser signaled her to go into their bedroom. He turned the radio on the bar to Viennese dance music and opened the front door.

Pytor Vayetch folded his coat over a chair and put his hat on top of it, but Herr Rauch sat with his overcoat on, his big shoulders hunched forward, face impassive, like a man who did not expect to stay long and who had not wanted to make this visit in the first place.

Both men refused Strasser’s offer of drinks and Vayetch began to pace back and forth. When he finally spoke, he talked slowly, picking his words carefully, savoring the tutorial role.

“The background of our operations, the financing, contracts, who’s who, none of that is relevant to your contribution to our project, Mr. Jackson. Everything is planned to move as smooth as honey, and you have to know only your function, your responsibilities, nothing more.” He paused and looked expectantly at Lasari.

“Goddamn it, soldier! Answer the man!” Strasser snapped.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Vayetch, yes, sir.”

“Even though you and I are not users, we share mutual knowledge. From your experience in Vietnam, I know you are well aware of how dependent servicemen can become. And our civilian users, too, of course. Worldwide, it is a seller’s market. Take Thailand, for instance. It used to be a major export country in our market. But the Thais began to enjoy their own product. Now that country imports more heroin than it exports. There are continuing shifts in both demand and supply.

“Some time ago the reliable Marseilles connection was permanently interrupted. That created a real hardship, especially in the United States, we learned. There are supposedly five hundred thousand heroin users in your country, but I believe that estimate is low by more than one hundred percent. Without Marseilles, the suppliers tried to fill their clients’ needs with Mexican brown and whatever medium-quality stuff they could get from South America. My partner and I were not idle,” He nodded formally at Herr Rauch. “It took time, but we were able to get our hands on a steady source of white, the finest there is, pick of the world market, worth top dollars. It is a quantity of this excellent product that you will be kind enough to take into the United States for us.”

Lasari glanced at Strasser, standing near the bar, and noted the tremor in his hand as he poured gin over ice cubes.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Vayetch,” he said again.

“Here is how you will proceed. In about two hours you will be taken to the bus station and boarded. You will be met in Regensburg. Tomorrow, at first call, you and a group of servicemen, regular NATO troops on assignment, will be flown by Army plane to Kassel in West Germany, a few kilometers from the Czech border. Sergeant Strasser has made all the necessary paper arrangements. You will be expected, there will be no surprises.

“The sergeant has requested you be put on the duty roster starting at ten tomorrow night. Your battery, a guard unit, moves out to grid coordinates A-12, a forward observation post. There are nine nations represented in the maneuvers, and one extra soldier in the area will be next to invisible. All you’ve got to do is keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and follow the scenario we’ve laid out for you.”

He turned suddenly to Strasser. “Turn off that music, sergeant, if you please. We are men of business here, not senile fools in wigs and waistcoats.”

When the gemutlich strains had faded away, he turned again to Lasari. “At 2:00 a.m., you’ll get an order for a cigarette break. You use that break to take a nature call. The latrines will be five hundred yards south of your positions, approximately at grids A-14.