question we all know should not be raised, but we’ll do it because we’ve taken enough flak. We’ll cut it off wherever we can. Be happy you survived and got out. Now, get out
.
At that moment, Converse had been as close to consciously throwing away his life as he would ever have thought possible. Physically assaulting that panel of sanctimonious hypocrites had not been out of the question, until he studied the face of each man, his peripheral gaze taking in rows of tunic ribbons, battle stars on most. Then a strange thing had happened: disgust, revulsion—and compassion—swept over him. These were panicked men, a number having committed their lives to their country’s practice of war … only to have been conned, as he had been conned. If to protect what was decent meant protecting the worst, who was to say they were wrong? Where were the saints? Or the sinners? Could there be any of either when all were victims?
Disgust, however, won out. Lieutenant Joel Converse, USNR, could not bring himself to give a final salute to that council of his superiors. In silence, he had turned, with no military bearing whatsoever, and walked out of the room as if he had pointedly spat on the floor.
A flash of light again from the boulevard, a blinding echo of the sun from the Quai du Mont Blanc. He was in Geneva, not in a North Vietnamese camp holding children who vomited while telling their stories, or in San Diego being separated from the United States Navy. He was in Geneva, and the man sitting across the table knew everything he was thinking and feeling.
“Why
me?
” whispered Joel.
“Because, as they say,” said Halliday, “you could be motivated. That’s the simple answer. A story was told. The captain of your aircraft carrier refused to put his planes in the air for the strike that Delavane demanded. Several storms had moved in; he called it suicidal. But Delavane forced him to, threatened to call the macho White House and have the captain stripped of his command. You led that strike. It’s where you got it.”
“I’m alive,” said Converse flatly. “Twelve hundred kids never saw the next day and maybe a thousand more wished they never had.”
“And you were in the captain’s quarters when Mad Marcus Delavane made his threats and called the shots.”
“I was there,” agreed Converse, no comment in his voice. Then he shook his head in bewilderment. “Everything I told you—about myself—you’ve heard it before.”
“Read it before,” corrected the lawyer from California. “Like you—and I think we’re the best in the business under fifty—I don’t put a hell of a lot of stock in the written word. I have to hear a voice, or see a face.”
“I didn’t answer you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“But
you
have to answer
me
—
now
. You’re not here for Comm Tech-Bern, are you?”
“Yes, that part’s true,” said Halliday. “Only the Swiss didn’t come to me, I went to them. I’ve been watching you, waiting for the moment. It had to be the right one, perfectly natural, geographically logical.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Because I’m being watched.… Rosen did have a stroke. I heard about it, contacted Bern, and made a plausible case for myself.”
“Your reputation was enough.”
“It helped, but I needed more. I said we knew each other, that we went way back—which God knows was true—and as much as I respected you, I implied that you were extremely astute with finals, and that I was familiar with your methods. I also put my price high enough.”
“An irresistible combination for the Swiss,” said Converse.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“But I don’t,” contradicted Joel. “I don’t approve of you at all, least of all
your
methods. You haven’t told me anything, just made cryptic remarks about an unidentified group of people you say are dangerous, and brought up the name of a man you knew would provoke a response. Maybe you’re just a freak, after all,
Elizabeth Amelia Barrington