Ben sat in a leather chair next to the polygraph; it looked like a laptop computer. The leather was cool on his bare back. Agent Randall stepped in front of him.
“This is an electrode,” Agent Randall said.
He took Ben’s hand and slipped a small sleeve onto the tip of his right index finger.
“And this is just an ordinary blood-pressure cuff, like at the doctor’s.”
The agent wrapped the cuff around Ben’s upper right arm and stepped back.
“Okay, I, uh, I guess we’re ready.” Agent Randall sat in a chair behind the machine and to Ben’s right. “Mr. Brice, I’m going to ask you several basic questions, just to get you comfortable so I can establish a baseline. Please breathe steadily, remain calm, and don’t take deep breaths. And answer each question truthfully with a yes or no. Okay?”
Ben nodded.
Agent Randall’s first question: “Is your real name Ben Brice?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Gracie Ann Brice’s grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever taken a polygraph exam, commonly known as a lie-detector test?”
“No.”
That was a lie.
Ben closed his eyes and recalled his first lie-detector test: he is naked, his arms and ankles are strapped to a wood chair, and his eyes are tracking two wires taped to his testicles and running along the concrete floor to a battery-powered field telephone with a hand crank manned by a grinning sadist. The small room reeks with the smell of urine and feces.
The North Vietnamese Army officer administering the test is determined to discover whether Brice, Ben, colonel,
32475011, 5 April 46, is lying about American troop presence in North Vietnam; certainly an American officer of his rank was not operating alone this close to Hanoi. He thought the American colonel would have succumbed to the beatings with the fan belts. Big Ug, as the Yanks called Captain Lu, is an artist with a fan belt; he carved up the colonel’s broad back like a woodcarver cutting designs into a block of wood. But, to his great surprise, the colonel revealed only his name, rank, serial number, and date of birth.
However, this test has proved particularly effective at convincing the reluctant Americans to reveal their secrets; the prisoners call it the Bell Telephone Hour. They enjoy their gallows humor, these Yanks. Fortunately, prior to his untimely demise, Uncle Ho had advised his officers that the Geneva Convention did not apply to the American prisoners; since there is no declared war between the United States of America and the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, there are no American prisoners of war, Ho Chi Minh had said. Only American war criminals. Who will never forget their stay at the San Bie prison camp, if Major Pham Hong Duc has anything to say about it.
He nods at Lieutenant Binh, who cackles as he turns the crank, sending an electrical charge racing through the wires and into the colonel’s genitals. The American’s body snaps taut as the charge surges through him. That’s odd, the major thought. Most of the Americans scream like banshees and lose control of their bladder and bowels when the charge hits them—hence the hole in the chair and the bucket beneath—but the colonel only grits his teeth and takes the pain, his arms and legs straining mightily against the leather bindings—
“Mr. Brice! Mr. Brice! Are you okay?”
Ben’s eyes snapped open. His teeth were clenched, he was sweating and breathing hard, and his fingers were digging into the leather arms of the chair. Agent Randall was standing over him.
“Your respiration’s off the chart!”
“They’re clean,” Agent Randall said.
FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux was chewing on the earpiece of his reading glasses. He and Agent Randall were standing in the command post next to Devereaux’s desk.
“Didn’t figure this to be family related. But headquarters said to follow the protocol.”
“The grandfather,” Randall said, “his back looks like someone carved him up with a steak knife.”
“He was an Army colonel. Must’ve been a POW.”
“In Vietnam?”
“Yeah.”
“They tortured American prisoners?”
Devereaux chuckled. “They still teach history in college?”
Randall was looking at him like a kid who didn’t know what he had done wrong.
“Yeah, the NVA tortured our guys, and none of that Guantanamo Bay kind of torture, making them listen to Barry Manilow twenty-four/seven. NVA beat our guys, electrocuted them, broke their arms and legs …”
Randall was now looking past Devereaux to the door. “Here he is,” he said, and he walked off.
Devereaux turned. The lean blond man walking toward him was maybe six feet and one-eighty, but he now seemed bigger in Devereaux’s eyes.
“Colonel Brice—”
A momentary pause.
“You’ve done some homework.”
“Part of the job, sir.”
The colonel nodded. “No need to address me as colonel. Or sir.”
“You earned it, sir. I was a lieutenant, ROTC, Texas A&M. Course, drilling on a practice field didn’t exactly prepare me for Vietnam.”
“Neither did West Point.”
They both smiled, sharing a thought private to combat soldiers who had lived to try to forget it. Devereaux put on his reading glasses, reached across the desk, and picked up the blow-ups.
“The coach couldn’t ID the men from these blow-ups,” Devereaux said. “And this tattoo … I’ve never seen anything like it in the military, thought maybe you might’ve. Top half is covered by his shirtsleeve, but what’s showing looks like Airborne wings, except for the skull and crossbones.” He held the blow-up of the tattoo out to Colonel Brice. “I’m running it through the Bureau’s gang database. Could be a biker tattoo. Says ‘viper.’ ”
The colonel abruptly snatched the blow-up from Devereaux’s hand then stared at the image as if it were the face of Satan. The blood drained from his face. He dropped down hard in a chair. His hand released the blow-up; it floated to the floor. He leaned over and covered his face with his hands.
“Colonel, you okay?” Devereaux retrieved the blow-up. “You seen this tattoo before?”
Colonel Brice ran his fingers through his blond hair, then he slowly sat up. He inhaled and exhaled like a doctor was checking his heart. He spoke without looking at Devereaux.
“It’s not a biker tattoo.”
“How do you know?”
The colonel’s jaw muscles clenched and unclenched several times. He unsnapped the cuff of his left sleeve and began rolling it up his arm. He was wearing a black military style watch. His forearm was tanned with sun-bleached blond hair; his upper arm was pale where the sun had not done its damage. The distinctive feature of his upper arm, however, was the Airborne eagle wings etched in black ink in his white skin; but in the center of the wings where the open parachute was supposed to be, signifying a soldier’s survival of jump school, was a skull and crossbones instead. Arched above the wings were words in an Asian script, and below that, in English,
SOG-CCN;
and below the wings, in quotes,
VIPER
. Devereaux leaned down and held the blow-up against the colonel’s arm; the portion of the tattoo visible in the blow-up matched up precisely with the bottom portion of the colonel’s tattoo.
Devereaux rose, removed his reading glasses, and waited for the colonel to speak. He didn’t press him; he couldn’t. This man was a real goddamn American hero. When Colonel Brice finally spoke, his eyes remained on his boots.
“SOG team Viper conducted those covert operations presidents lied about. SOG was Studies and Observation Group, CCN was Command and Control North. We conducted cross-border operations in Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam. Our mission was to disrupt shipments on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, assassinate NVA officers, recon for air strikes … none of which officially happened. We operated off the books.”
Devereaux pointed to the Asian script on the colonel’s arm.
“These other words, they’re Vietnamese?”
The colonel nodded.
“What do they say?”
The colonel hesitated a moment, then he said, “ ‘We kill for peace.’ The unofficial Green Beret motto.” He now turned his eyes up to Devereaux. “Damn hard thing to get rid of, a tattoo.”
Devereaux handed the blow-up of the big man to the colonel.
“This is the man with that tattoo. Do you recognize him? Be kind of hard to forget that scar.”
The colonel stared at the photo of the big man; Devereaux thought he saw a hint of recognition cross the colonel’s face. But Colonel Brice finally shook his head slowly and said, “No.”
“How many men got this tattoo?” Devereaux asked.
“Viper was a twelve-man heavy recon team, operated for four years before I joined up. Casualties were high. Maybe twenty-five men got that tattoo, maybe more. I only knew the eleven men I served with.”
“So we’ll pull SOG records—”
“You’ll never get those records, if they even exist.” The colonel stood and rolled his sleeve down. “Agent Devereaux, my wife knows what I did over there, but my son doesn’t. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I understand, sir.”
Devereaux thought,
Only a Vietnam war hero would feel obliged to keep his heroism from his own son
.
“He’s seen the tattoo,” the colonel said, “but he doesn’t know what it means. And he knows nothing about Viper team.”
“What about Mrs. Brice?”
“Elizabeth? No. She knows I served in Vietnam, nothing more. She wouldn’t understand. Anyone who wasn’t there, they just can’t understand.”
“Amen to that.”
The colonel snapped the buttons on the cuff of his sleeve and said, “Agent Devereaux, I’d consider it a personal favor if you didn’t mention that man’s tattoo in front of my family.”
Devereaux studied the colonel a moment and said, “All right, Colonel, we’ll keep it between us for now. Just as well, I don’t want to go public with the tattoo anyway, in case I can get the names of those Green Berets.”
The colonel stared at Devereaux but it was as if he were looking straight through him. Eugene Devereaux had been Army infantry in Vietnam. A grunt. Green Berets were the Army’s elite, trained in the art of killing. Ben Brice did not have the look of a trained killer. He was not a physically intimidating man, as were the Green Berets Devereaux had seen in the Army. Nor was he the macho commando stereotype. In fact, he seemed almost too gentle a man to have done what Green Berets did in Southeast Asia four decades ago. But there was something in his eyes that told Devereaux otherwise.
His blue eyes betrayed him like a cheating wife.
Gracie was in pain, scared and crying and praying to be saved. And her father wasn’t doing a damn thing to save her. He didn’t know how.
Instead, Little Johnny Brice was staring at a life-sized image of his daughter’s soccer photo attached to the side of the concession stand under a banner with WE LOVE YOU, GRACIE painted in big letters; stacked below were pink ribbons, cards, fancy balloons, and hundreds of flower arrangements and teddy bears. The concession stand was now a memorial to his daughter.
Gracie was gone because her father wasn’t much of a man.
John had not wanted to attend this vigil, but the FBI said it was important to appeal to the abductor’s sympathy—if he saw on television the pain he was causing her family, he might let her go. But John could think only of Gracie’s pain.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. John turned and looked into the eyes of his father, this man he had called colonel and now Ben but never father or dad, who once was a hero with a family but who now was a drunk with a dog. His mother had told him that his father was a good man destroyed by a bad war; that terrible things had happened to him in Vietnam; that the war had ended but Ben Brice had never found his peace.
John Brice had never allowed himself the slightest sympathy for his father.
“Come on, son,” Ben said, gently pulling John away from the makeshift memorial.
His son’s eyes remained locked on Gracie’s image. He said in a whisper, “I didn’t tie her shoe.”
Ben turned John away, and they walked past the local mayor giving a TV interview—“A safe place, a wonderful place to build your dream home and raise your children”—and around to the front of the building where a young priest was leading the crowd in prayer. Ben and John stood among hundreds of parents and children wearing Gracie buttons and tee shirts with Gracie’s picture on the back and holding candles flickering in the night. Mingling with them were FBI agents; several were inconspicuously videotaping the candlelight vigil with palm-sized camcorders. Agent Devereaux said it was not out of the question that the abductor might show.
“Mr. Brice.” A young blond man and a pregnant woman had come up to John, who turned and looked at them but did not seem to see them. “Mr. Brice,” the young man began again, “I just want to say how sorry I am. We’re having a baby and … I mean …” He glanced at Ben; he was at a loss for words.
“Thanks for your thoughts,” Ben said to the young man.
The couple left. Up front, a young girl stood and sang:
“A-ma-zing Grace, how sweet the sound …”