'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.'
'Go on, goddammit. You are pissing me off.'
'Fenn. Yes, I used Fenn.'
'How?'
'We had a bad apple named Crowe. Crowe, we knew, had contacts within the peace movement, through a young man named Trig Carter, a kind of Mick Jagger type, very popular, connected, highly thought of.'
The name sounded familiar.
'Trig was bisexual. He had sex with boys. Not always, not frequently, but occasionally, late at night, after drinks or drugs. The FBI had a good workup on him. I needed someone who fit the pattern. He liked the strong, farmboy type, the football hero, blond, Western. That's why I picked Fenn.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'It worked, too. Fenn started hanging out with Crowe and in a few nights. Carter had glommed onto him. He was an artist, by the way. Carter.'
