I Am God (31 page)

‘I’m following a lead, but I’ve come up against a brick wall and I don’t see any way of getting through it. Maybe with your help I could.’

‘Go on.’

Russell approached the desk. From his pocket he took the photograph of the young man and the cat. Before handing over the original to Vivien he had scanned it and printed a spare copy for himself. He had felt a little guilty at the time, but now he was glad he’d done it.

‘It’s something connected with the Vietnam war. From 1970 onwards. I have the name of a soldier called Wendell Johnson and this photograph of an unknown man who fought with him. I think both of them were involved in something unusual, something that’s still classified. I need to know what it is. And I need to know as soon as possible.’

Jenson Wade thought about it for quite a while, pretending to look at the images. Russell did not know that it wouldn’t be his words that convinced his father, but the tone in which he had said them. That impassioned tone that only the truth possesses.

He saw his father indicate the armchair in front of the desk. ‘Sit down.’

When Russell was seated, Jenson Wade pressed a key on the telephone.

‘Miss Atwood, get me General Hetch. Now.’

While waiting, he put the call on speakerphone. It occurred to Russell that there were two reasons for that. The less important was to allow him to hear the subsequent
conversation
. The other, the main reason, was that he was about to give Russell yet another demonstration of what his father’s name meant.

After a while, a rough, slightly hoarse voice floated into the room. ‘Hi, Jenson.’

‘Hi, Geoffrey, how are you?’

‘Just finished a game of golf.’

‘Golf? I didn’t know you played golf. One of these days we’ll have to have a game.’

‘That’d be good.’

‘You can count on it.’

At this point, the courtesies were over. Russell knew his father spent huge sums every year to keep his phones safe from tapping, so he was sure this would be a call in which both men said what they meant.

‘Good. What can I do for you?’

‘I need a big favour, something only you can do for me.’

‘Try me.’

‘It’s really very important. Do you have pen and paper handy?’

‘Just a moment.’

General Hetch was heard asking someone near him for a sheet of paper and something to write with. A moment later, he came back on the phone and into the office. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Write down this name. Wendell Johnson. Vietnam War, 1970 or later.’

The silence indicated that the general was writing.

‘Johnson, you said?’

‘Yes.’ Jenson Wade waited a moment before continuing. ‘He and another soldier were involved in something that’s still classified. I want to know what.’

Russell realized that his father, in telling the general what he wanted, had used almost the same words with which he had earlier formulated his request.

That little touch put him in a good mood.

From the other end of the phone came an energetic protest – ‘Jenson, I can’t just go rummaging around in—’ which was strangled at birth by Jenson Wade’s harsh voice.

‘Yes, you can. If you think about it, you’ll see you can.’

That phrase was full of innuendo, allusions to things only the two of them knew.

The general’s tone changed abruptly. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Give me twenty-four hours.’

‘I’ll give you one.’

‘But, Jenson—’

‘Call me as soon as you have anything. I’m in New York.’

Jenson hung up before the general had time to reply. He got up from his chair and threw a distracted glance out the window. ‘Now we just have to wait. Have you eaten?’

Russell realized he was starving. ‘No.’

‘I’ll tell my secretary to bring you something. I have some people to meet with in the conference room. I’ll be back by the time Hetch calls.’

Without saying another word, he went out, leaving Russell alone to breathe the air in the office, which smelled of expensive cigars, wood, and secret passages. He went to the window and stood there for a few moments looking out at that endless horizon of roofs, with the East River in the middle like a street of water glittering in the sun.

After a while the door opened and the secretary entered with a tray. There was a plate covered with a silver lid, and next to it a half bottle of wine, a glass, bread and flatware. She put the tray down on a small glass table in front of the couch.

‘Here you are, Mr Russell. I took the liberty of ordering your steak rare. Is that OK?’

‘Perfect.’

Russell walked towards the woman, who was standing there, looking at him curiously. And somehow suggestively. With a smile on her lips, her head tilted to one side, and her long hair tumbling over her shoulders.

‘You’re very famous, Russell,’ she said. ‘And very handsome.’

‘Do you think so?’

She took a step forward. In her hand she clutched a business card. With a smile, she slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘I’m Lorna. This is my number. Call me if you like.’

He watched her as she walked to the door. Before going out she turned one last time, invitation still in her eyes.

Russell was alone. He sat down and started eating his steak, without touching the wine. He went and got a bottle of water from the minibar hidden in a cabinet opposite the couch. He remembered a moment of sun, sea, wind and closeness.

With another woman.

But
seeing
as
how
you’re
with
me,
we
can
both
consider
ourselves
on
duty,
so
no
alcohol
…

Recalling Vivien’s advice, he forced himself to finish the food. He didn’t know when he’d next get the chance to eat.

He stood up and went back to the window. He spent a long time looking out, trying to overcome his impatience and to get Vivien’s face out of his mind. He didn’t succeed in either.

His father’s entrance took him by surprise. Russell checked his watch and realized that almost an hour and a half had passed since his father had gone out.

‘The general’s called back. I asked for the call to be put through to here.’ He walked quickly to the desk, sat down and activated the speakerphone. ‘Jenson here. Found anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what are we dealing with?’

‘Just your common or garden cover-up.’

‘Meaning what?’

There was the sound of paper being crinkled.

‘Here it is. Wendell Johnson, born in Hornell, 7 June 1948. He was living there when he was drafted. He was part of the 11th Mechanized Cavalry Regiment stationed at Xuan-Loc. Status 1Y.’

Russell made an impatient gesture, opening and closing his fist.

‘Get to the point. What happened to him?’

‘All I was shown were his personal details. For the rest I’m telling you what I remember, because I couldn’t get direct access to the papers. I had to go about it in a roundabout way, which is why I can only report what was said to me.’

‘All right, but for Christ’s sake do it.’

The general’s voice picked up Jenson’s urgency. ‘In 1971, Johnson’s platoon took part in an operation in the north of Cu Chi District, an operation that intelligence had advised against but that went ahead anyway. They were all wiped out, apart from Johnson and one other soldier, who were taken prisoner and later used by the Vietcong as human shields against a bombing raid.’

Russell would have liked to ask questions directly to the general. He took a notebook and pen from the desk and wrote

Then?

and put the sheet in front of his father, who nodded to say he’d understood.

‘And then?’

‘The person who ordered the aerial incursion, Major Mistnick, knew from the reconnaissance that they were there but pretended he didn’t. The planes went in and spread napalm over the whole area. The major had already given signs of being unbalanced on a number of occasions, which was why he was removed and the whole thing covered up to avoid
embarrassment. It was a time when public opinion was turning against the war, so I’m not surprised by what they did.’

Russell wrote another phrase:
The
two
soldiers?

This time, too, Jenson Wade gave voice to Russell’s thought. ‘What happened to the two soldiers?’

‘Johnson suffered severe burns and was taken care of by the troops who arrived there soon afterwards. They saved him by a miracle, and he spent some time in a military hospital for rehabilitation, I don’t remember where.’

Another note.

The other man?

‘And what about the other man?’

‘He burned to death.’

His hand trembling, Russell wrote the thing that most interested him.

Name?

‘Do you know what his name was?’

‘Wait, they told me that, too. Here …’

A sound of papers being leafed through. Then, at last, a name.

‘Matt Corey, born Corbett Place, 27 April 1948, lived in Chillicothe, Ohio.’

Russell quickly wrote down this information, threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of elation, then gave his father a thumbs-up sign.

‘That’s good, Geoffrey. Thanks for now. Don’t forget that game of golf.’

‘Any time you like.’

Jenson Wade pressed a key and eliminated the presence of General Hetch from the office, leaving his last words hanging in the air. An incredulous Russell was clutching in his hands the name he had pursued for so long.

‘I have to go to Chillicothe.’

His father looked at him for a moment, evaluating this new person he found himself confronted with. Then he pointed up at the ceiling. ‘This is an office building. We don’t have a swimming pool on the roof, but we do have a landing strip. If you go up now, I can have you picked up by our helicopter in ten minutes.’

Russell was even more incredulous. This unhoped-for offer of help filled him with an energy and a clear-headedness he didn’t think himself capable of. He looked at his watch. ‘It must be about five hundred miles to Ohio as the crow flies. Can I make it before dark?’

A shrug that was worth a few billion dollars. ‘No problem. The helicopter will take you to La Guardia, where we keep the company jets. One of them can land you at whichever’s the closest airport to Chillicothe. While you’re in the air, I’ll ask my secretary to make sure there’s a car waiting for you when you arrive.’

Russell was speechless, standing there in front of the desk looking at the man he had most feared in his life. He said the only thing that came into his head. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You have a way.’ From the inside pocket of his jacket, Jenson Wade took the paper on which Russell had made his commitment. He leaned forward, placed it in the centre of the desk, then sat back in his leather armchair with a smug expression on his face. ‘You’re going to be working for me for the next three years, remember?’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

Russell woke up, wondering who the fuck …

A haggard face, cheeks covered with a sparse beard, hung a few inches from his face. Two bleary little eyes were looking at him. A tattoo poked out of a dirty shirt collar near the left ear. The man’s breath smelled of alcohol and rotting teeth.

‘What?’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

Russell suddenly realized where he was. He sat up, feeling his joints creaking. Spending a night on a bunk in a cell wasn’t the most comfortable position for the body. When he had been arrested the previous night, this skinny, down-
at-heel
guy hadn’t been there. They must have brought him to the jail while he was sleeping. He was so tired he hadn’t heard a thing.

Clearly more desperate than ever for a smoke, the man said in a hoarse voice, ‘So, do you have that cigarette or not?’

Russell stood up. The man instinctively took a step back.

‘You can’t smoke here.’

‘I’m already in jail, boy. What can they do, arrest me?’

His cell companion underlined his joke with a catarrh-filled laugh. Russell didn’t have any cigarettes, and he wasn’t in
any mood to continue this conversation.

‘Leave me alone.’

Realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere the man walked away, muttering an incomprehensible oath, and lay down on the bunk against the wall opposite. He turned his back to Russell and lay there with his jacket rolled up under his head as a pillow.

A moment later he was snoring.

Russell approached the bars. Facing them was a wall, part of a corridor that disappeared to the left. To the right, he assumed there was another cell, but no noise came from it. Maybe the honest folks of Chillicothe didn’t give the authorities much reason to use these cells. He went back to his bunk, lay down and looked up at a ceiling that seemed recently repainted, thinking about how he had come to spend yet another night in jail.

His father had been as good as his word.

Five minutes after he had come out onto the roof of the building, a helicopter had appeared out of the sky. The pilot must have been informed how urgent this all was, because he had not turned off the engines. A man had emerged from the passenger seat and walked towards him, stooped over to withstand the displacement of air by the helicopter blades. He had taken him by the arm, gesturing to him to walk the same way, and accompanied him to the machine.

No sooner had he closed the door and fastened his seat belt than they were in the air. The city passed below them at high speed, soon becoming the runway reserved for private flights at La Guardia Airport. The pilot brought the
helicopter
down next to a small Cessna CJ1+ bearing the insignia of Wade Enterprises.

The engines were already on. A stewardess was waiting for him at the foot of the staircase, a blond girl in a
tobacco-coloured
uniform and a light blouse, recalling the colours of the company logo. As Russell walked towards her, he heard the helicopter take off.

‘Good evening, Mr Wade. I’m Sheila Lavender. I’ll be your attendant during the flight.’ She pointed to the inside of the plane. ‘Please.’

Russell went up and found himself in an elegant sitting room with four comfortable seats. Two pilots were sitting in their places in the cabin.

Sheila indicated the seats. ‘Please sit down, Mr Wade. Can I get you something to drink?’

Russell went and sat down on one of the seats, and felt the soft embrace of the leather envelop him. He had decided not to drink, but maybe he deserved one after all. It occurred to him that the rules governing what he could do ‘on duty’ were much less constricting than Vivien’s.

‘Is there a bottle of whisky from my father’s reserve on this plane?’

The stewardess smiled. ‘Yes, there is.’

‘Good. Then I’ll have a drop of that. With a little ice, if possible.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

The stewardess walked away and started bustling about in front of a drinks cabinet.

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Mr Wade, I’m Captain Marcus Hattie. Good evening and welcome on board.’

Russell returned the greeting with a gesture in the direction of the cabin.

‘We chose this plane for its size, which will allow us to land and take off from the runway at Ross County Airport.
Unfortunately we have a problem with heavy air traffic right now. We’re being kept in a holding pattern and I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait a few minutes before we get the go-ahead for take-off.’

Russell took this news on board. It was disappointing. Sheila’s return with a glass appeased him a little. Looking out the window, he sipped the whisky as calmly as he could. After an interminable quarter of an hour, they at last moved onto the runway. A powerful thrust of the engines, a sense of emptiness, and they were in the sky, turning until the front of the plane was directed towards Chillicothe, Ohio.

Russell looked first at his watch, then at the sun on the horizon, trying to estimate the journey time. The answer came from the pilot, when he next spoke.

‘We plan to reach our destination in just under two hours.’

During the journey he tried a couple of times to call Vivien on the plane’s telephone, but her cellphone was always engaged. And with everything that had happened he wasn’t even sure she would want to talk to him.

The
captain
gave
you
his
word.
I
didn
’t…

At the memory of those words, the taste of the whisky suddenly turned bitter. The only thing that would improve that taste would be revenge, the revenge he would have when he revealed to her that he had found by himself what the two of them had pursued together in vain.

After another couple of drinks, the pilot’s voice informed him that they had begun their descent towards their
destination
. Again, as on that earlier journey a few days before, darkness had overtaken them during the flight.

The landing was perfect and the plane was skilfully guided to the terminal. When finally the door was opened and he set
foot on the ground, he found himself in a place almost identical to the small airport at Hornell.

Next to the long, low terminal building a man was waiting beside a black Mercedes sedan that looked shiny and clean under the lights. His father had clearly spared no expense. Then Russell remembered that he would be paying for these luxuries with the sweat of his brow.

He walked to the car, and was greeted by a tall thin man who looked more as though he was in the habit of renting hearses than automobiles.

‘Mr Russell Wade?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Richard Balling, from Ross Rental Services.’

Neither of the two held out his hand in a friendly gesture. Russell suspected that Mr Balling was a little contemptuous of someone who came out of a private jet and found a Mercedes waiting for him. Even though he himself had supplied it.

‘This is the car that was reserved for you. Do you need a driver?’

‘Does the car have GPS?’

The man gave him an outraged look. ‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll drive.’

‘That’s your choice.’

He waited for the man to fill in the documents with his details, signed them and got in the car.

‘Could you give me the address of the sheriff’s office, please?’

‘Twenty-eight North Paint Street. In Chillicothe, of course. Could you give me a ride into town?’

Russell gave him a conspiratorial smile and started the engine. ‘Of course not.’

He pulled out, wheels skidding on the gravel, heedless of Mr Balling’s legitimate concern for his vehicle. As he drove, he programmed the GPS. There was the road, and there was his destination, some nine miles away, with a journey time of about twenty-one minutes. He allowed the soothing female voice of the GPS to guide him until it advised him to turn right onto Route 104. As he neared the town, he started to think about his next move. He didn’t have a specific plan. He had a name. He had photographs. He would ask the sheriff for information, then decide what to do on the basis of that. He had reached this point by following his instinct and improvising. That seemed like the best way to continue. Without his realizing it, the long straight road had led him to press his foot down hard on the accelerator. Suddenly, a flashing light and a sharp sound behind him brought him up short.

He pulled up on the right and waited for the inevitable. He lowered the window just in time to see the officer touch his hat in greeting.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Good evening, officer.’

‘Would you mind showing me your licence and car registration, please?’

Russell handed the rental certificate and licence through the window. The officer, who bore the insignia of Ross County, examined them, but did not give them back. He was a thickset man, with a broad nose and pockmarked skin.

‘Where are you from, Mr Wade?’

‘New York. I just landed at Ross County Airport.’

The grimace he received in return made him realize his mistake.

‘Well, Mr Wade, I’m afraid there’s a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘You were going along like a bat out of hell. And from your breath, I’m pretty sure I know why.’

‘I’m not drunk, officer.’

‘We’ll soon see. All you have to do is breathe into a balloon, just like you did when you were a kid.’

He climbed out of the Mercedes and followed the officer to his car. He did as he was asked, but unfortunately the result wasn’t the same as when he was a kid, thanks to Jenson Wade’s personal whisky reserve.

The officer looked at him with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You’ll have to come with me. Will you come quietly or do I have to put cuffs on you? Don’t forget, resisting arrest is an aggravating factor.’

Russell knew that only too well. He had learned it the hard way. ‘You don’t need cuffs.’

With no thought for Mr Balling, he left the Mercedes in a lay-by and climbed in the patrol car. As he was getting out at 28 North Paint Street, he realized there was one bright spot in all this. He had been looking for the sheriff’s office and now here he was.

Hearing footsteps in the corridor, he got up from the bunk and approached the bars. A moment or two later, a man in uniform stopped in front of the cell door.

‘Russell Wade?’

‘That’s me.’

Unceremoniously, the officer made a sign with his nearly bald head. He looked like the good brother of the guy who was sleeping – and snoring – on the other bunk.

‘Come on, your backup’s here.’

After the snap of the lock and the clatter of the bars, he
found himself following the man along the corridor. They stopped in front of a wooden door. A sign on it indicated that Thomas Blein was the sheriff of Ross County. The officer knocked, and immediately opened. He motioned to him to enter and closed the door behind him.

In the office were two men and a vague smell of cigars. One was sitting behind a desk piled high with papers. It was obvious he was the Thomas Blein mentioned on the door. He was tall with thick white hair, and a calm but resolute face. His uniform both emphasized his slender build and conferred the right degree of authority.

The man sitting on the chair just in front of the desk was a lawyer. He didn’t look like one, but the fact that he was there, plus the officer’s words, made it seem likely. Confirmation came when the man, who had an easygoing air but sharp eyes, stood up and held out his hand.

‘Hello, Mr Wade. I’m Jim Woodstone, your lawyer.’

The previous evening he had taken advantage of the one call allowed him to call the plane on the number the stewardess had given him. After explaining the situation he was in, he had asked that his father be contacted and brought up to date. Sheila Lavender hadn’t sounded at all surprised.

Russell shook the lawyer’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Then he turned to the man behind the desk. ‘Good morning, sheriff. I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience. That wasn’t my intention.’

In the light of what they knew about him, this submissive attitude seemed to surprise both men, who for a moment found themselves on the same side of the barricades.

Blein simply nodded at him. ‘Are you Russell Wade, the rich guy?’

‘My father’s the rich guy. I’m the wild guy who got disowned.’

The sheriff smiled at this brief but comprehensive
self-description
. ‘You get yourself in the news a lot. Quite rightly, I think. Would you agree?’

‘I think I would, yes.’

‘What do you do in life?’

Russell smiled. ‘When I don’t spend my time getting arrested, I’m a journalist.’

‘What paper do you work for?’

‘I don’t work for any at the moment. I’m freelance.’

‘And what brought you to Chillicothe?’

Woodstone intervened, with professional shrewdness. After all, he had to justify the bill he’d be sending Wade Enterprises. ‘Mr Wade, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

Russell made a gesture with his hand that meant that everything was fine and he would satisfy the sheriff’s curiosity. It was easy – all he had to do was tell the truth. ‘I’m doing an article about the Vietnam war.’

Blein raised an eyebrow, in a vaguely cinematic manner. ‘Is anyone still interested in that?’

More
than
you
might
imagine
…

‘There are certain things still unresolved that I think the public has a right to know about.’

He noticed a heavy brown envelope on the sheriff’s desk. It looked like the one in which they’d placed the contents of his pockets the previous evening, just before they
photographed
him, took his fingerprints, and threw him in the cell.

‘Are those my meagre belongings?’

The sheriff took the envelope and opened it. He extracted
the contents and put them on the desk in front of him. When Russell looked closer, he saw that nothing was missing. Watch, wallet, the keys of the Mercedes …

The sheriff’s eyes fell on the photograph of the young man with the cat. There was a puzzled look on his face as he moved forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. ‘May I?’