The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [117]
Trumbull riffled the pages of Christopher’s report. “You’ve got to be careful who you let change history,” he said. “You’re sure that this is the only copy of this thing?”
“There’s a photograph in Christopher’s head,” Foley said.
Trumbull gave Christopher a smile of great sweetness. It was the last time he looked at him.
“I’ve grown a lot of gray hair, son,” he said, “but I’ve never seen anyone do the things you say you’ve done. I want you to know I believe you did it all. And I wish you luck—I mean that, Paul.”
Trumbull stood up and went to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and stirred the logs. Kneeling with an apologetic, arthritic groan, he fed Christopher’s report into the flames, sheet by sheet. Bits of charred paper, lifted by the draught, flew up the chimney.
4
Patchen went to the door with Trumbull and Foley. Neither man said anything more to Christopher. He watched through the window as Trumbull, smiling at his driver and making a joke, got into his car. Foley opened the back door of his Cadillac for himself, brushing past the chauffeur. The two black cars rolled away down the quiet street, under the leafless trees.
When Patchen came back from the hall he wore his topcoat and carried Christopher’s over his arm. “I guess there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have dinner together,” he said.
They ate a bad meal, cooked with contempt and served with scorn, in an expensive restaurant in Georgetown that was going out of fashion. In the men’s room there were lewd jokes in French painted on the wall. They spoke very little; Patchen did not finish his food.
Outside, on the sidewalk, Patchen, with an abrupt movement, held out his hand to Christopher. He was exceptionally strong on the good side of his body, and he tightened his grip until he caused pain.
“You think they’re coming after you, don’t you?” he asked.
“The Vietnamese? Yes. But maybe not right away. They’ll know I’ve told you. When nothing happens, they may postpone. It’s a matter of waiting—everything is.”
“Maybe they’ll conclude the damage has been done. They may decide they’ve done enough.”
“Do you think so?” Christopher asked. “They’ve had two sons murdered—three, if you count Ngo Dinh Can. The generals will shoot him eventually.”
Patchen buttoned the collar of his coat; the wind, smelling of winter rain, was blowing down Wisconsin Avenue.
“So?”
“Only one Kennedy has been shot,” Christopher said.
FIFTEEN
l
Molly came into the room with snow in her hair. When she saw a man standing by the window, she went silent and stopped, frozen, like a cat that scents something strange in a familiar house. Then, seeing that the man was Christopher, she fell back against the door and put her hands to her cheeks: she wore all the rings Christopher had ever given her.
“Ah,” she said. “Ah, Paul—it’s you.”
Molly had been on the ski runs and the wind had gone into her clothes; she smelled as clean as the snow. The mountain sun had browned her face and bleached her lashes, so that her eyes seemed a darker green. They didn’t kiss. Christopher stood by the window with snow falling beyond the glass; Molly leaned against the door, her bright clothes reflecting in the varnished pine.
Christopher said, “Nothing has happened?”
“Nothing. We’ve spent the whole time on the slopes, or eating fondu.”
“Then you’ve had a good week?”
“Oh, yes,” Molly said; she moved across the room and touched his face, tracing the line of his eye and mouth. “But there’s been a certain lack.”
Later, she sat up with the bolster folded behind her and brushed her hair. It crackled and sailed after the brush in the cold air; Molly parted it into two long streams and brushed hard, biting her lip as she counted the strokes. Christopher arranged her hair, still alive with electricity, so that it covered her breasts. Molly threw back the featherbed and examined