The Devil on Chardonnay (38 page)

The rain had let up, but the wind hadn’t.  Not a steady gale like the Azores, this was a soul-numbing breeze off the Potomac that made its way through the light jacket and summer uniform Boyd wore.  Pausing on the bridge, Boyd looked across the river.  The Washington Monument seemed to be holding up the sky, as its peak was just into the low clouds.

            Boyd looked at his watch.  Pam and Donn would be closing on their bank in Wewoka, Okla.  The exuberance of their plans had brightened the trip back from Culpepper the afternoon before.

            “I’m gonna be a bank president,” Pamela had confided to him. “Turns out Donn is a lot smarter than I thought.  He explained it to me.  Me, the lawyer and CPA. He had 800,000 bucks in clean, taxes-paid money.  It was legal compensation for work he did before he was arrested and, since it wasn’t money from the savings and loan that went under, it is not recoverable by the Resolution Trust Fund.”

            “You sure?”  Boyd had asked.  It was Donn who’d taught him how dreams were the surest conduit for a scam.

            “I’ll have to test it, of course, but it’s him putting up the money, not me.  If he’s trying to pull something, he’s going to lose his pouncing privileges, and I don’t think he wants to risk that,” she said with a happy laugh.

            In the weeks Boyd was in isolation on Corvo, they’d returned to Oklahoma and convinced the Bank Board they were legal, and their deal had been approved and should be closed by midafternoon.  It made Boyd feel better.  So much was gone, something, at least, should start.  He crossed the bridge and found the marina. 

            It was past dark when Ferguson boarded his boat, the Granite Mistress, with Boyd’s clothes, a pizza and a case of Bud longnecks.  Curled up in a blanket, asleep, Boyd was disoriented and grumpy.  He was still on Azores time, which is five hours later than D.C.  He finished a beer and a piece of pizza listening to Ferguson go on about some Pentagon intrigue.

            “Sir, I really appreciate your letting me stay here.  I’ve grown rather fond of the feel of water under my bed,” Boyd said, smiling blandly.

            “I can see you’re going to need some time off,” Ferguson said. “We’ll cut the debrief.  I pretty much got the story as it happened.  I’ll write the final report for the Joint Staff.  Tomorrow, you’ll go to the White House for your Air Force Star.  We have 10 minutes with the president.  Be pleasant.”

            “Yes, sir.”  Boyd tried to smile.

            Ferguson pulled a manila envelope out and laid it on the table between them.  For a moment, Boyd thought it might be another mission.  He fought back a wave of nausea.

            “Two months convalescent leave. Here’s the paperwork.”  Ferguson laid the paperwork down.   “You’re medically grounded, of course.  I’ve leaned on the Surgeon General’s Office.   They’ve agreed to wait until the summer to do a full eval at the Aeromedical Consultation Service at Brooks City, Texas, before deciding about your flying.  They’ve as much as agreed you could go back to flying, it’s the high-performance stuff that’d be the problem – ejection seat aircraft. 

            “In the past 18 months, you’ve had a fractured skull, two collapsed vertebra, three broken ribs, a gunshot through the lung breaking another rib, and a near-death brush with Ebola.  They wonder that you’re still alive.”

            “Sir, flying fighters is all I ever wanted to do,” Boyd said, looking down at the envelope.  He wasn’t angry, he knew the rules.

            “How old are you,” Ferguson asked, sternly.

            “Twenty-eight.”

            “Two years below the zone for major, with two Air Force Crosses and a commendation letter from the Chief of Staff of the Air Force and two from the president of the United States.  Buy some oak leaves.  Second, how many majors over 30- do you know flying front line fighters?”

            “A couple.”

            “Promoted below the zone and waiting for orders to Air Command and Staff College, or back from there and flying as the squadron ops officer and waiting for the Lt. Colonel Board,” Ferguson said, softening his tone a bit.  “The pyramid is getting steeper. We’ve got fewer high-performance aircraft and a steady stream of young jocks to fly them.  Flying fighters isn’t a career, it’s a phase, and not a job for anyone over 30.  Look ahead.”

            “Yes, sir,” Boyd said, feeling worse.

            “Boyd, I’d like to have you on my staff.  I need you on my staff, but I know you want to fly.  So, the Chief of Staff makes the final decision on return to flying.  We’ll keep you flying, don’t worry.”

            “Yes, sir,” still looking down. 

            “Now, I have a letter from Clyde Carlisle.”

            Boyd opened the letter and read the first paragraph.

            “Eight Ball has lost some weight, but he can knock down brush for four hours straight chasing quail, without a rest.  He’s primed for the season.”

            Ferguson said, “Here’s a South Carolina and a Georgia hunting license, and a letter from the commanders at Fort Jackson and Fort Stewart putting you on their lists – and they’re very short lists – to hunt quail on the military reservations there.”  

            “That sounds great,” Boyd said, warmth flooding him as he thought about how excited the black lab got with an exploding covey of quail.

            “Got some billeting reservations here for the quail trips for you and a guest at the DV suites at Fort Jackson and Fort Stewart.”

            “Well, uh …” Boyd struggled somewhat, his friend meter was nearly on empty.  “I could use some of that.” 

            His mind wandered. Maybe Clyde Carlisle could get some time to go hunting, or he could call Patsy Burke, the waitress he’d met in Sumter. Pulling himself soberly back to the moment, he said, “There’s one more thing.”  He leaned elbows on the table and hesitated, looking at Ferguson.

            Very slightly, the boat rocked, and water lapped at the dock.

            Ferguson’s eyes shifted, alert.

            “You guys are gonna call me again,” Boyd said. “We both know it.  Some shit storm is gonna come along, and you’re gonna call.  I can’t work this way if you hold back.  You owe me the whole story.”

            “Sure,” Ferguson said, looking right at him, but he said nothing else.

            “Charles Meilland.”

            He wasn’t afraid; Ferreira was there to back him up, and Wolf, and Neville, and Angela.  They all wanted to hear it, deserved to hear it.  Were going, by God, to hear it. 

            “OK,”  Ferguson said and let out a sigh. He leaned into the table.

            “We didn’t tell the Joint Chiefs, because they have no need to know,” Ferguson said. “This is Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmented Information.  You’ll have to be read into it tomorrow, so when you come by the office, that’s another bunch of papers for you to sign.  When we put a filter on Meilland’s computer, we found out he was sending emails to Israeli Intelligence.  The CIA confronted them.  He’s been a Mossad agent since 1962.  Charles Meilland conned the Arabs into sending their hothead jihadists into a death trap in Sudan.”

            “Why didn’t you interrogate him?”

            “Oh, I didn’t tell you?  He died in his sleep two weeks ago.”