asking why this deranged ex-serviceman shot an admiral, committed two homicides in Fairfax County, and tried to kill two federal officers, all because two staffies in Saigon were afraid to tell their boss that one of their skippers had abandoned a guy in the Rung Sat zone?”
Carpenter seemed to shrink. He started to say something but then shut his mouth. Mccarty was glaring at his boss.
Train picked up the unspoken question. “How did the file get changed back after you altered it? Well, see, you didn’t keep your end of the bargain, did you? You told those people that you’d keep your two operatives out of the way. If it had been just Galantz and Jack in that house, they could have just nuked it or something. But once the two of us were involved, not to mention Sherman, well, that was too many people in the loop. So the guy who helped you alter this file came back and did this super undo routine.”
“Why?” Carpenter whispered, his face gray- “Why would they do that? They wanted to keep-this this thing quiet more than we did.”
“What thing is that, Admiral?” Karen asked.
“Galantz was theirs.”
Train shook his head. “Who’s Galantz, Admiral? If you bring up Galantz, they’ll say he was an ex-Navy man, and that he was shot and killed in a hostage-rescue operation up on Slade Hill. Their guy Mcnair, in his capacity as a Fairfax County homicide cop, will corroborate that, and you better believe Fairfax County, who wants no part of this tar baby, will back him up. No, sir: The only question remaining is why this all happened. And I believe you and perhaps the vice admiral down the hall will be called front and center directly. Of course, he being a three-star, he may just ask you to explain it.”
“We’re leaving now, Admiral,” Karen said. “We’re going over to Bethesda.’ Carpenter sagged into a chair, looking even more bewildered.
“Sherman?” he said. “He’s in a coma.”
“Which the docs say he should come out of. As his lawyer, I want to be there.
Train and Karen left them there, the admiral and his EA, looking at each other.
MONDAY Two weeks later, Train pulled down the windshield visor to block out the sun setting over the West Virginia hills. They were headed west on Route 50, straight out of Washington, in Karen’s Mercedes. Karen was dozing in the passenger seat. He glanced over at her and felt that familiar flutter.
The past two weeks had not worked out quite the way they had predicted to Carpenter. The Chief -of Naval Operations had cobbled up a quick joint intelligence commission and had convinced the other players that this was one of those times when the national interest might best be served by a fully coordinated version of events. Train mused on the subsequent fun and games. The joint commission had been chaired by Admiral Vannoyt, of all people, who, speaking for the Navy, emphasized that incidents involving special operations in a war long ago and far away were, in the judgment of the highest levels of the Navy, matters best left to history. The Navy would therefore, however reluctantly, interpose no objections to closing the files on this matter at the earliest opportunity. And the slab-faced lady who spoke for those people made the point that sometimes the human resources best suited for certain kinds of extremely difficult operational situations become occupationally dysfunctional over time, especially as changed circumstances arose. She had actually said that without reading from any cards, which had impressed the rest of the joint commission members no end. The FBI sent over a smuglooking associate director, who sat through the entire proceedings, saying almost nothing, serene in the joyful knowledge that the FBI was going to be able to blackmail those people into all sorts of interesting modalities of intragovernment cooperation for years and years to come after this little fiasco, or at least until all the principals were safely retired, their pensions intact.
With this level of understanding achieved on the first morning, the rest of the week had been devoted to layering enough investigatory paperwork on the problem so as to ensure its total obfuscation. Train had been approached by the deputy director of the NIS during the first coffee break of the second day to sound out his level of understanding of what was supposed to be taking place here. Just for the hell of it, Train speculated aloud on his prospects for getting a year’s leave of absence, with pay, of course, to explore some continuing educational opportunities, and the deputy director allowed as to how that should present no problem whatsoever. The deputy director then speculated on how the NIS party line might possibly evolve with respect to this matter, a homily to which Train paid rapt attention.
Train had spent several hours explaining to Karen how the dance was going to come out and why a restoration of various federal glossy surfaces was probably in everyone’s best interest. Karen finally agreed, remarking on the irony of Galantz’s comment to them in the basement about whether or not they would tell the truth when this thing was over.
The good news was that Sherman was recovering from his head wound. Upon Karen’s advice, he had asked the Navy for early retirement, provided it was in the grade of rear admiral, in return for two concessions. The first was his silence, which was, of course, the most important thing.
The second was that he be allowed to supervise his son’s rehabilitation, under whatever circumstances a court might think appropriate. The joint commission had taken just under ten minutes to endorse that deal.
Carpenter and Kensington had met a less-generous fate. Carpenter had lied about telling the CNO, leading necessarily to. one of those surprises of which the CNO was not so fond. The two admirals were going to join Sherman on the retired list, each minus a star.
Train looked over at Karen again. Soon to be Commander, USN (Retired) Lawrence-now on preretirement leave until the clock ran out at twenty years. During dinner one nigh4, she had reiterated her intentions to go away for a while, and, after about thirty seconds of serious thought and mental girding of loins, Train had worked up the nerve to ask if she might like some company on her walkabout.
Karen found an unusually expressive way of answering his question, actually managing to embarrass Hiroshi, Kyoko, and even Gutter.
The only loose end was Galantz. Mchale Johnson had called Train two days before they left town to get his version of the story. There were, he said, some utterly fascinating rumors circulating around the various agency grapevines.
But one question caught Train’s attention.
“Did you see a body?” Johnson had asked.
“Never did, actually,” Train replied. “Lots of activity around what I thought was a body, but no, I never did.”
“That sort of confirms what I’m hearing,” Johnson said.
“Oh man. You mean he’s still alive?”
“Well,” Johnson said, “better than that, really.”
“What do you mean? I should think they’d-“
“They’d what? Execute him? Why should they? Don’t you see-now he’s twice dead. Once in-Vietnam, again on Slade Hill. That’s what I would call really deep cover, wouldn’t you? Those people would never waste an asset like that.
Karen stiffed in her seat and made a small noise in her throat. Train reached over and took her hand. If Galantz was still alive, he might be back, although he had achieved what he wanted. Some loose ends will just have to stay out there, he thought. Small faceless terrors back there along the Potomac River, among the many degrees of purple.
