The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [110]
“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.”
“I know that, boy. What I want you to do is talk us through it.