Charles Mccarry: The Tears Of Autumn

“You’re a good psychologist, Manuel.”

“Fair. Oswald was easy material.”

Ruiz rose from his chair and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt away from his body. He reached under the table and brought out a bottle of beer. When he struck off the cap, placing its lip against the edge of the table and striking downward with the heel of his hand, the beer spurted. Ruiz put the neck in his mouth to prevent waste, then filled Christopher’s cup. It was a bitter local brand, heavily carbonated. Ruiz belched and shook his head rapidly in apology.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Christopher said. “Oswald did enter history, but he never had any idea who he was killing for, did he?”

“Not a clue. That was the beauty of it. I wondered at the time, just as you did, why Do had let me give him this pathetic queer, why he imagined this man would have the balls to do it. Do had it planned down to the day and the hour and the exact intersection of streets. He seemed to think the plan was so foolproof that any fool could fire the rifle. It goes to show you how clever these Vietnamese are, and how we underestimate them. The Americans are going to learn a lot over there.”

Christopher lifted his canteen cup. “I hope so,” he said.

Ruiz had told his story with nonchalance. Now his face collapsed into an expression of comical urgency. He slammed the beer bottle on the tabletop and rushed out of the hut. Christopher followed and saw Ruiz, tearing at his belt, running toward the bamboo screen that hid the latrine. He heard the Cuban’s bowels open in a loud burst of gas and liquid. Ruiz groaned and retched, squatting astride the ditch with his arms wrapped around his own body.

Christopher, a pace behind the crouching man, drew the.22 pistol from his belt and fired two rounds of birdshot into the base of Ruiz’s neck; the pistol’s weak report could barely be heard above the drums. Ruiz emitted a groan, full of breath as if he had been kicked in the stomach, and fell forward into the ditch.

A mile down the path, Christopher found Nsango sitting in the Jeep, listening to the drums.

“The Cubans may follow,” Christopher said. “Manuel won’t be good for much when he wakes up, but he’ll be able to send the others.”

“The drums will tell me,” Nsango said, “the savage heartbeat of the Congo.”

His teeth shone in the darkness. He held up a finger for silence and turned on the headlights. Behind them in the camp, the drums stopped. They heard four long bursts of fire from the Kalashnikovs. After each burst, Nsango held up another finger.

“Only Manuel is left,” he said. “Send me a postcard, Paul, when he’s no longer needed.”

When Christopher arrived at Patchen’s house on M Street, the others were already there. Foley still wore a black tie, but he had taken off his PT-109 tie clasp. He spoke in a louder voice and his handshake was rougher. He had begun to take on some of the mannerisms of the new President, but he hadn’t yet perfected the style. Foley was between personalities; though his language was stronger, he was pale and less alert than he had been. It was apparent that he counted for less in the White House. He deferred to another man, a stranger to Christopher, who stood with his back to a fire of birch logs in Patchen’s fireplace. Patchen introduced Christopher.

“J. D. Trumbull,” said the man. Trumbull had a disarming smile and a chuckling Texas accent. He wore Western boots and a brown suit, beautifully tailored but unpressed, apparently, since the day it was bought. When Trumbull shook hands, he grasped Christopher’s forearm with his other hand and squeezed.

“Old David tells us you’ve been through one hell of a lot in the last few weeks,” Trumbull said. “We appreciate it.”

When Trumbull said “we” he managed to sketch a likeness of Lyndon Johnson in the empty air over his shoulder. Christopher looked into the man’s ruddy, open face for an instant before stepping backward to free his arm.

Patchen filled four glasses with ice, poured scotch into them, and passed them around. “I don’t have any soda,” he said.

“This’s just fine,” Trumbull said. “Tastes better but it’s worse for you.” Trumbull sipped his whiskey and turned his eyes to Patchen. “Now,” he said.

“I’ll assume Dennis has briefed you on the background to Christopher’s report,” Patchen said.

Trumbull nodded.

“I’m not Christopher’s best salesman,” Foley said. “But I told J.D. what his suspicions were.”

Christopher realized that Foley had not addressed him directly since the night they met in Webster’s apartment.

“In the past week or so,” Patchen said, “Christopher has been to Vietnam, to Europe, to the Congo. He’s talked with the people involved. He’s put his life in hazard, and it’s still in hazard.”

As he spoke the last sentence, Patchen shifted his unblinking eyes from Trumbull to Foley. Foley returned the stare, tapping his nose with a forefinger.

“Now wait a minute,” Trumbull said. “As I understand it, Paul is no longer with us.” He turned to Christopher. “You’ve been doing all this on your own?”

“Yes,” Patchen answered. “He wasn’t operating under our auspices, nor did he have our support. He ceased to be our employee before he started out. What he has to report to us he’s reporting as a courtesy to the government. Bear in mind that this information belongs to Christopher, not the government.”

“All right,” Trumbull said. “Let’s have it.”

Patchen took Christopher’s report, a bundle of typed sheets with several photographs attached, out of his briefcase and handed it to Trumbull. “You’ll have to take turns reading it,” he said. “There are no copies, and I think you’ll agree there shouldn’t be any.”

“Who’s read it so far?” Foley asked.

“I have. The Director refused to read it.”

J. D. Trumbull put on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and settled back into his easy chair. He read rapidly, wetting a forefinger as he turned the typed pages. He went through the photographs and the attached documents slowly; when he saw Frankie Pigeon’s confession and Glavanis’s photographs of the naked gangster he gave a series of soft snorts. When he was finished, he closed the folder with care and handed it to Foley. There was no jollity left in Trumbull’s face. He passed his eyes over Christopher once, then crossed his legs and stared at the tip of his boot while Foley read the file.

The four men faced each other, Foley and Trumbull in chairs on one side of a coffee table, Christopher and Patchen on a sofa on the other side. Christopher watched Foley. As he read, his face tightened. Once or twice he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. He finished the last page, closed the folder, and tossed it on the coffee table. A photograph fell to the floor, the picture of the dead gunmen by the paddy in Saigon. Patchen picked it up and put it back into the file folder.

“That’s pretty rough reading,” Trumbull said. “David, what’s Paul’s background?”

“Christopher has been decorated twice for his work. He is a very senior officer. Within the outfit, his skill and his accuracy have never been questioned.”

Foley cleared his throat. “He’s also Patchen’s best and oldest friend,” he said.

“That’s irrelevant,” Patchen said. “The question before us is this report.”

Trumbull peered over his glasses. “Paul,” he said, “I’d like a little more flavor before I make a comment. Tell us how you see this.”

“It’s all there, in the report.”

“I mean in your own words.”

“Those are my own words, Mr. Trumbull.”