Broken Honor (2 page)

“Not Grandfather,” she whispered, remembering the battle of wills they'd engaged in. Her mother had died when she was entering her teens, and she'd been sent to her grandfather. They'd detested each other on sight.
She
was the bastard daughter of a flower child who had run away from home.
He
was a martinet who tried to run his family as he'd run a regiment.

It had taken them years to come to an accommodation. She'd ended up loving him—perhaps more for his flaws than for his virtues. He'd died at eighty-three of a bullet he'd put in his own head, and it had broken her heart.

He had flaws. Many of them. But dishonesty was not among them.

“No,” she said, hearing her own outraged whisper. “No, I don't believe it.”

Bo whined, feeling tension in the room. He didn't like tension. He didn't like a break in the routine. He didn't like strangers. He was afraid of everything, including a leaf blowing in the wind. After finding the sad-sack dog in the animal shelter, she had named him Bojangles for the dog in her favorite song, hoping it would give him a bit of self-esteem. It hadn't.

But she loved him for that, for all the insecurities that resided inside him.

“It's okay,” she whispered to him, and he collapsed in relief at her feet. When she left, he would, no doubt, go and wrap himself around the toilet, his place of safety when he was alone. Like the ostrich who hid his head, he thought himself invisible there. He'd be deeply distressed to know that both his tail and his nose were visible.

She tore out the article. She would research it later. If nothing else, she owed it to the man who had half-raised her.

She made sure that Bo had his sock, which, like Linus's blanket, was his security, locked the back door, then grabbed the papers she'd graded the night before. She paused at the front door. Bo had already left for the bathroom, the sock hanging forlornly from his mouth, his tail drooping.

“Ah, Bo,” she said. He turned, a hopeful look on his face.

“I'll play ball with you tonight,” she promised, absolutely positive that he understood her. He did like to chase balls. It was the one thing in which he excelled, and he knew it.

His tail lifted and wagged. Amy felt better.

Now if only she could solve her other problems that easily. She turned the lock on the front door, the tone of the article nagging at her. She had never liked the military. In truth, she despised it. Its rigidity, she'd always believed, had driven her mother away from home and had made her grandfather a humorless, stiff man who thought he must always be obeyed.

But he would never betray his trust. She knew that as well as she knew how to breathe. “I won't let them do this to you,” she promised, only barely aware that she uttered the words out loud.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State Dustin Eachan had known the story was coming.

He'd been warned days earlier by a friend who had attended Harvard with him. He had hoped against hope that it would be lost, ignored. After all, the incident had taken place more than fifty years ago.

But the recent flurry of news about Swiss banks and sales of art masterpieces known to be stolen by the Nazis had made this a good story. The fact that American servicemen, including high-ranking officers, might have looted Jewish possessions would be just too juicy for the newspapers to ignore.

He'd been waiting for the ax to fall. It fell today.

He knew that some, if not all, of his fast-track success in the State Department came from his family connections. His grandfather had been a two-star general and then a Washington lobbyist for defense contractors. He'd known everyone worth knowing, and the fact that the talented Dustin Eachan was Edward Eachan's grandson had sped his progress.

He'd worked damn hard for it, too. He wanted to be the first career State Department official to become Secretary of State. He had the political, family, and professional credentials to do it. He was close now to selecting the perfect wife.

He was perfectly positioned. If nothing went wrong.

And now the goddamn story implied his late grandfather might have committed grand theft.

And Sally
. God, Sally would be devastated. He remembered the painting that she treasured as she cared for no other possession. Could it have been one of the stolen items?

He picked up the phone. He would cancel an engagement and take her to dinner tonight. She would need him. Hell, she always needed him.

He hesitated for a moment. He had tried to keep a distance. He cared far too much for her, and he had to be careful. She was his cousin; they had the same grandfather. He had been madly in love with her as a young man until it had been made plain that he could not marry a cousin.

His feelings for her had been one reason he hadn't married yet. He hadn't found anyone else he wanted to marry. But now a wife was essential to his career, and he liked, if not loved, Patsy Sandiford, the daughter of an administration official. For the past few weeks, he had been thinking about asking her to marry him.

He looked at the receiver in his hand, then dialed Sally's number.

two

C
OLORADO

Irish rode his favorite horse up into the hills, relishing the exercise and the time to think. He also needed to dissipate the frustration that knotted his stomach. He'd spent the last two days in a fruitless search for clues. He'd crawled through the attic of the ranch house and peered like a peeping Tom through decades of old papers.

He couldn't help but feel guilty. He was an investigator, used to digging into the dark recesses of people's lives. He hadn't wanted to do it to the person he'd loved and respected above all others. It made him feel dirty. Even treacherous.

It didn't matter that he was doing it to save his grandfather's reputation, not to destroy it. The simple fact was, he might be intruding into places best left alone. But if he didn't, others might. And those others might not have his care in doing so.

He'd hoped to find a diary, papers, journal. Anything.

But there had been nothing, and that was far more suspicious than documents would be.

Could there be any place other than the ranch house where the General might have left papers? Or had someone been there before him?

He wished now he had taken the time after his grandfather's death to go through his files. It hadn't seemed necessary at the time. A meticulous man in all things, his grandfather had put all his important papers—the deed to the ranch, a few minor investments, and insurance policies—in a safe deposit box and had left exact instructions with his attorney as to their disposition.

At the time of the General's death, Irish had been in Special Services, on an overseas assignment. He had flown in for the funeral but then had to leave immediately. His subsequent visits to the ranch had usually been working vacations, trying to keep the ranch viable. He hadn't had time to go through piles of paper. Or maybe he'd avoided it to avoid the reality of his grandfather's death. Sam Flaherty had been the only person who'd ever accepted him for who he was.

There had always been dozens of details to go over with Joe Mendoza, the ranch foreman. Irish had planned to retire here, once he got his twenty years. Now he was a few years past that mark. A steady string of promotions had kept him in the army, along with a hesitancy to give up the only life he'd ever known. He'd wondered whether he could ever relinquish the adrenaline that coursed through him when he neared the end of a hunt.

After reading the article about the commission report and making several phone calls, to little avail, Irish was determined to prove his grandfather innocent. There had to be something. His grandfather was known for his attention to detail. He'd even dictated every part of his memorial service. Irish had found journals written through most of World War II. They had stopped, however, in June 1944, the date of the European invasion.

Nothing after that. Not so much as a letter. It was as if every piece of paper relating to the final campaign had been eliminated. Had his grandfather expunged everything from those years? He couldn't quite believe that. But there had been no evidence of a break-in over the years.

Oh, he'd realized his grandfather had never wanted to talk about World War II. He'd wondered about it, then credited it to modesty, although modesty was not usually a virtue of general officers. Perhaps the events had been too painful. Irish did know something about that. He'd lost his best friend in an investigation. He couldn't imagine losing hundreds, even thousands of men. In truth, he'd never wanted that kind of responsibility. He'd liked the lone wolf role he'd perfected over the last few years.

His grandfather had certainly been loquacious enough about other topics, particularly about his earlier years in the army and western novels. But he'd always been reticent about what everyone called the “Greatest War.”

Had there been an ominous reason behind that silence? The feeling of uncertainty had clawed at Irish all day. Could there possibly be something?

He watched the sun disappear behind a snow-covered mountain. He gloried in a sky that was clear and so blue it hurt. The first few stars were just barely visible, and a silver disk of a moon appeared translucent. Another thirty minutes and it would be dark.

He started back toward the ranch house. The ride had served the purpose of clearing his mind. He'd made his decision, one he knew he'd really made days ago. He would ask for an extended leave. He sure as hell deserved one.

Irish knew he had to get to the bottom of the charges. The investigator inside him was raging. The absence of any records or memoirs had raised the hackles of every instinct he had. It was uncharacteristic of the General. Someone must have taken them.

He had to do something about the commission report and its implications. He had to do it for the General. And for himself.

He'd read the public part of the report. He'd thought about picking up the phone and contacting the commissioners, accusing them of character assassination. He'd even dialed the first three numbers after locating the office. But then he wouldn't get
any
cooperation.

No, he had to get his facts straight first, compile evidence. That meant securing top-secret information, and that might be difficult, even for him.

Perhaps he would start with the other officers named in the report. The names were imprinted in his mind. Brigadier General David Mallory and Colonel—later General—Edward Eachan.

M
EMPHIS

Amy Mallory grabbed a quick lunch with her teaching assistant, Sherry Machovitz, who had become both friend and valued ally. She had also been her house sitter when Amy did an occasional visiting lecture, a necessity to gain her tenure.

The last few days had been so busy she hadn't had time to think of her grandfather, or of the article that had been shoved back on her desk. Once the tenure hearing was over, she would think about it.

Like Scarlett O'Hara, she thought, then grinned at the idea. She was as unlike Scarlett O'Hara as poor Bojangles was unlike the fearless Lassie.

But she was a devotee of old movies, and
Gone with the Wind
was her all-time favorite despite its skewed history. She knew she
shouldn't
like it. She had a doctorate in history, and her colleagues scorned such mindless entertainment. But she harbored a deep rebellious streak, something she suspected she inherited from her mother.

Her mother had been a hopelessly idealistic and extremely impractical romantic. Amy thought of herself as a practical idealist with a touch of romanticism. As long as it was from a distance. She wasn't sure she believed, as her mother had, that she was destined for any great romantic love. She was, in fact, quite convinced otherwise.

She liked to believe in the abstract that there were knights on white horses, but for herself … there were only mules.

And while she might like mules, she did not want to marry one.

“I found two of your people,” Sherry said with a wide grin. “They are husband and wife. I even have their phone number. Now getting them to talk to you … well, I leave that in your experienced hands.”

Amy gave her a rueful smile. “They didn't want to talk?”

“Nope,” Sherry said. “They are now fine, upstanding Republicans.”

Amy chuckled. She had done her dissertation on the protest movements of the twentieth century, arguing that the protests of the sixties and early seventies against the Vietnam War and segregation—they became linked in the minds of many people—comprised the first national American protest completely free of economic interest. The abolition movement also was moral in nature, but she'd contended it was far smaller and less national in scope.

Perhaps because her mother had been a part of protests, she was interested in their leaders and what had happened to them in the years since the protests ended. Although her dissertation had centered on the protests themselves, she'd continued to study the effects of those years on the people who led the movement, and planned a book on the subject. There was, she'd found, no common denominator. Some had wasted their lives, unable to survive productively without a cause; others had continued their activism in both governmental and private roles; and still others had turned into what they had once despised the most: their parents.

This, she often thought, was
her
romanticism: the mysteries and contradictions of history, even modern history.

And it was safe.

Emotional and physical safety meant a lot to her. Her childhood had been chaotic—she'd moved from one city to another, often as a member of an extended family where drugs flowed freely. She was the one who insisted on going to school, on trying to bring some order to their lives. She had been the parent.

Her attention turned back to Sherry. “Good work,” she said. “I'll call them tomorrow and try to make an appointment.”