Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

Like his codes, Bonson’s home was plain. The furniture was spare but luxurious, mostly Scandinavian and leather, but it was not the home of a man whose pleasures included pleasure. It was banal, expensive, almost featureless. One room was a designated office, with a computer terminal, awards and photos on the wall that could have been of any business executive except that they showed a furiously intense individual who could not broadcast ease for a camera but always seemed angry or at least focused. He was usually pictured among other such men, some of them famous in Washington circles. His house was clean, almost spotless. A University of New Hampshire bachelor’s and a Yale law degree hung on the wall. Nothing indicated the presence of hobbies except, possibly, a slightly fussy fondness for gourmet cooking and wines in the kitchen. But it was the house of a man consumed by mission, by his role in life, by the game he played and dominated. No wife, no children, no relatives, no objects of sentimentality or nostalgia; seemingly no past and no future; instead, simplicity, efficiency, a one-pointed existence.

Bob poked about. There were no secrets to be had, nothing that could not be abandoned. The closet was full of blue suits, white shirts and red striped ties. The shoes were all black, Brooks Brothers, five eyelets. He appeared to have no casual wear, no blue jeans, no baseball caps or sunglasses or fishing rods, no guns, no porno collections, no fondness for show tunes or electric trains or comic books. There were huge numbers of books — contemporary politics, history, political science, but no fiction or poetry. There was no meaningful art in the home, nothing soiled, nothing that spoke of uncertainty, irrationality or passion.

Bob sat and waited. The hours clicked by, then the day itself. It turned to night. It got later. Finally, at 11:30 p.m., the door opened and the lights came on. Bob heard a man hanging up his raincoat, closing the closet. He walked into the living room, took off his suit coat, loosened a tie and unbuttoned his collar. He had his mail; which included some bills and the new issue of Foreign Policy. He turned on a CD stereo player, and light classical oozed out of the speakers. He mixed himself a drink, went to the big chair and sat down. Then he saw Bob.

“W-who are you? What is this?”

“You’re Bonson, right?”

“Who the hell are you!” Bonson said, rising.

Bob rose more pugnaciously, pushed him back into the chair, hard, asserting physical authority and the willingness to do much harm fast and well. Bonson’s eyes flashed fearfully on him, and read him for what he was: a determined, focused man well-versed in violence. He recognized instantly that he was overmatched. He got quiet quickly.

Bob saw a trim fifty-seven-year-old man of medium height with thinning hair slicked back and shrewd eyes. The suit pants and shirt he wore fit him perfectly and everything about him seemed unexceptional except for the glitter in his eyes, which suggested he was thinking rapidly.

“The false alarm; yeah, I should have figured. Do you want money?”

“Do I look like a thief?”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“You and I have business.”

“Are you an agent? Is this something over a vetting or an internal security report or a career difficulty? There are channels and procedures. You cannot do yourself any good at all with this kind of behavior. It is no longer tolerated. The days of the cowboys are over. If you have a professional problem, it must be dealt with professionally.”

“I don’t work for your outfit. At least not for thirty years or so.”

“Who are you?” Bonson said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he tried to click back to his file on thirty years ago.

“Swagger. Marine Corps. I done some work for y’all up near Cambodia, sixty-seven.”

“I was in college in 1967.”

“I ain’t here about 1967. I’m here about 1971. By that time, you was a squid lieutenant commander, in NIS. Your specialty was finding bad boy Marines and having them shipped to the ’Nam if they didn’t do what you said. I asked some questions. I know what you did.”

“That was a long time ago. I have nothing to apologize for. I did what was necessary.”

“One of those boys was named Donny Fenn. You had him shipped from Eighth and I to ’Nam, even though he was under his thirteen. He served with me. He died with me on the day before DEROS.”

“Jesus Christ — Swagger! The sniper. Oh, now I get it. Oh, Christ, you’re here for some absurd revenge thing? I sent Fenn to ’Nam, he got killed, it’s my fault? That is probably how your mind works! What about the North Vietnamese; don’t they have something to do with it? Oh, please. Don’t make me laugh. Another cowboy! You guys just don’t get it, do you?”

“This ain’t about me.”

“What do you want?”

“I have to know what happened back then. What happened to Donny. What was that thing all about? What did he know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think the Russians tried to kill him. I think it was him they were targeting, not me.”

“Ridiculous.”

“There was no Russian involvement?”

“That’s classified. High top-secret. You have no need to know.”

“I’ll decide what’s ridiculous. I’ll decide what I need to know. You talk, Bonson, or this’ll be a long evening for you.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Bonson.

“Finish your drink and talk.”

Bonson took a swallow.

“How did you find me?”

“I shook your Social Security number out of your service records. With a Social Security number you can find anybody.”

“All right. You could have made an appointment. I’m in the book.”

“I prefer to talk on my terms, not yours.”

Bonson rose, poured himself another bourbon.

“Drink, Sergeant?”

“Not for me.”

“Fair enough.”

He sat down.

“All right, there was Russian involvement. Tertiary, but definite. But Fenn could not have known a thing. He knew nothing that would make him valuable enough for the Russians to target. I went over that case, over and over it. Believe me, he could not have known a thing.”

“Tell me the fucking story. I’ll decide what it means.”

“All right, Swagger, I’ll tell you. But understand I am only doing so under what appears to be threat of physical duress, because you have threatened me. Second, I prefer to tape this conversation and the terms under which it took place. Is that fair?”

“It’s already being taped, Bonson. I saw your setup.”

“You don’t miss much. You’d make a good field man, I can tell.”

“Get to the fucking story.”

“Fenn. Big handsome kid, good Marine, from Utah, was it?”

“Arizona.”

“Yes, Arizona. Too bad he got hit, but a lot of people got hit over there.”

“Tell me about it,” said Bob.

Bonson took a drink of his bourbon, sat back, almost relaxing. A little smile came across his face.

“Fenn was nothing. We were after someone much bigger. If Fenn had played his part, we might have gotten him, too. But Fenn was a hero. I never counted on that. It didn’t seem there were any heroes left at that time. It seemed it was a time where every man looked after his own ass. But not Fenn. God, he was a stubborn bastard! He really ripped me a new asshole. I could have had him up on charges for insubordination! He might have spent the next ten years in Portsmouth instead of — well, instead.”

Bob leaned forward.

“You don’t say nothing about Donny. I won’t listen to any lip on Donny.”

“Oh, I see. We can’t tell the truth, we just worship the dead. You won’t learn anything that way, Sergeant.”