M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

“I prefer to think of the people that have listened to my program as an interested and informed audience; the word fans is a little too theatrical. Don’t worry, Dan, I won’t mention that the “Bob” Mitchell thing has anything to do with this,” Andrew offered graciously.

“Thank you for that.” Dan was standing now and had placed a hand on Andrew’s departing shoulder, “I’m very sorry it has ended this way, but since you’ve made up your mind, I guess all I can do is wish you all the best. Whatever you do, Andrew, you’ve got my vote.”

They shook hands and Andrew headed to the broadcast booth and his last commentary for KGM.

Later he called Father Ben to tell him the news.

6:30 PM

Jack was waiting in the lobby of the WAC when Andrew arrived.

“Thanks, Andy; I got a nice room using your name; I got some sleep and now I need some food,” he said patting his stomach.

They chose a table in a quiet part of the dining room, and ordered a drink. Jack noticed Andrew seemed quiet. “How was the show?” he asked.

“Funny you should ask—it was my last. I quit today.” Andrew stated without emotion.

“Well, well,” Jack leaned back in his chair trying to assess the mood of his friend. “Shall we drown the pain or shall we drink to the future?” he asked, raising his glass.

“I think we should drink to the future,” smiled Andrew, and raised his glass in response. “It’s scary as hell… but what a rush!” he declared lightheartedly.

“Did you plan to do this when I saw you this afternoon?” Jack took a drink and eyed Andrew coolly. “Was it amicable?”

“Yes, it was amicable, and no, I didn’t plan to do it when I went to the station today, but it seemed to follow the natural course as things played out.” Andrew then explained the dilemma he had faced in dealing with the Mitchell interview and his ultimate decision, then pausing, he told Jack, “And I feel good!”

“So what now? Are you going to take my advice and finally concentrate on your journalistic future or are you going to continue to “tilt at windmills” here in the Great Northwest? You’re a good journalist, Andy; but you could do so much more. You should break out of here!” Jack urged.

“Maybe, but, you know,” Andrew said cautiously, “I’ve always thought about running for public office someday and the idea of building a political base to do that is right here, in this Washington. I’m not ready to do it now, but I will be in the not too distant future. I’ve already made some very good contacts that I will need when the time is right so… hey, my glass is empty,” he complained.

Jack echoed, “Mine too. We’ll talk more about your future later, right now we need a refill and some food and I want to know about your contact with Kelshaw.”

During dinner Andrew talked about Kelshaw coming to the Seamen’s Center, and his subsequent murder. He told Jack about the packet and the strange letter that followed mentioning Hubbard as the person directing him to Andrew. He talked of Father Ben’s and his visit to the hospital and the letter for Charlene Thayer, delivered by Andrew.

Over coffee, Andrew leaned forward, arms folded on the table and said, “Okay, it’s your turn—tell me how you got hooked up with George Kelshaw.”

Jack began by saying, “I’m really sorry that George bought it; I liked him, I liked him a lot,” Jack repeated almost sadly. “He really was one of the ‘good’ guys.”

Andrew nodded, “Looks like it from what I’ve learned. When and where did you meet him?”

“Well, let me see—the last time you and I saw each other was 1972 or 73, remember? I had flown in from Guam on my way back to New York. It was before South Vietnam had totally unraveled. I was taking a break from covering that miserable, damned war that was getting increasingly worse.

“You know, Andy, I had been in war zones all over Southeast Asia off and on, since 1968.” Jack shook his head. “I’m amazed that I lasted. I guess my editors were too, the next thing I knew they assigned me to cover the so-called peace negotiations.

“ So where did they send me?” He asked and answered his own question, “First to Paris and then, to Laos. Even though there was technically a cease-fire as a result of the Vientiane Agreement, when I arrived in Vientiane things were pretty hot. The Pathet Lao were already putting on lots of pressure.

“The press corps was housed at a hotel not far from the U.S. Embassy. I was having a drink in the bar one night, when I noticed this guy watching me. My intuition told me maybe I should talk with him. So I bought him a drink and introduced myself. I wasn’t really sure why he singled me, out but as I got to know George Kelshaw, I realized that his intuition was much stronger than mine.”

Jack’s gray eyes narrowed as he talked, remembering the first meeting. He recalled the conversation vividly.

“My name is George Kelshaw,” he had said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard of you, Hubbard, and read a lot of your work. Some of it I agree with and some of it is very naïve…”

“You think so, Mr. Kelshaw?” Jack had asked half amused at the blatant evaluation of his reporting.

“I know so; I suppose you can’t help it since you only get a portion of the whole story,” George stated flatly, “But I trust you; for the most part, because I believe you’re honest and not out to make a name for yourself at the expense of the truth.”

Jack responded, “Every writer wants to make a name for himself, Mr. Kelshaw, it’s part of our persona.”

“You see, you are an honest man,” George said smiling. “Can we meet somewhere tomorrow and talk? Perhaps I can give you some insights into another side of the story; and you may be able to help me as well.”

Jack looked at the man across the table from him and queried, “Why can’t we talk here and now?”

George shook his head and said softly, “This is not as private as we need to be. There is an old monastery near here. Meet me there tomorrow at 1500.”

“All right,” Jack had answered, “I know the place and I will be there, but whether or not I help you will depend on what you tell me and what it is you need. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” George had responded.

Andrew was remembering the year of the letter from Paul Thayer as 1971, and interjected, “it took him awhile, where was he from ’71 to ’73?”

“It’s quite a story,”

“I want to hear it.”

“How much time do you have, Andy?”

“I’ve got all night.”

“Good! Let’s get out of here, what have you got to drink at your place?”

“Just about anything you want; beer, scotch, gin and a few other things. I think there’s enough to keep us going.”

“Jack responded, “Good! It’s going to be a long thirsty night.”

They arrived at Andrew’s apartment about 10:00 PM. “Make yourself comfortable,” he directed.

“Nice place, Andy; good view,” he said as he opened the balcony door and walked to the railing. The night was cool and clear, and the reflection of city lights shimmered on the waters of Lake Union. He drew a deep breath and offered, “I understand why you like this town. It’s like a little jewel; lights hit it and you see different facets all clean and sparkly.”

“Thanks, Jack; considering that you’ve probably been in some of the most beautiful spots in the world, I’m surprised to hear you say that about Seattle. What’ll you have to drink?”

“Scotch will be fine—on the rocks, please,” Jack ordered. Then responding to Andy’s comment, “Most of the places I’ve been were places where you spent a lot of time looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone had you in their sights.”