The Henderson Equation (14 page)

His antenna went up. "Any specific shots?" he
asked.

She hesitated a moment. "Never could understand your
ex's scrawl. It looks like Rockefeller and Henderson."

"When did she give you that assignment?" Nick
asked.

"She gave it to Judy yesterday. I just pulled it out
of the files."

"I see."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. But it had been too
late. He knew her curiosity had been aroused.

"Anything I should know about, Nick?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing you say is ever nothing."

"You overrate me."

"Is that possible?"

"Not really," he said laughing, hoping he had
placated her innate curiosity. He pecked a kiss lightly into the phone, feeling
silly. "See you later, alligator."

"Oh, Christ. You are an anachronism."

"Be careful. I'm sensitive about my age."

"You'd never know by me." She hung up, leaving
him vaguely suspicious. Surely not Margaret. He shrugged it off. He was reading
things into things, overreacting. He continued with his review of the major
news pages, losing himself again in the minutiae. He made further angry
corrections in Bonville's editorial with heavy penciled strokes. His thoughts
returned to his conversation with Jennie; not Margaret, he assured himself--or
was he getting paranoid?

As he worked he could sense the ebb of energy in the city
room, the phased disappearance of the reporters, deskmen, news aides,
secretaries; the lowered din as the telephones rang only sporadically. Looking
out, he saw the room strewn with debris, Styrofoam coffee containers, potato
chip wrappers, wastebaskets overflowing with cast-off soggy copy paper,
ashtrays choked with crushed butts, the residue of a frenetic life. And so, he
thought, staring into the emptying room, remembering the old daytime radio soap
operas, we leave the
Chronicle
now, having created another day in the
life of the world, another fantasy on which souls might masticate, another
moment in time, frozen, cast into a preconceived shape, mostly of his vision.
He could not understand why his mind was suddenly thrashing about in this
groping way. Perhaps he was trying to think through what seemed to be
happening, as if it were essential to his future movement through an untracked
trail on a now frozen pond. Where lay the thin ice?

If he were to believe the writers who polluted the
"with-it" parasitic rags with their voluminous outpourings, he, and
all the hierarchy of the
Chronicle,
stood at the pinnacle of a kind of
"mediacracy," a new elite of mythmakers. They had replaced the
creators of the other fantasy arts, the authors of books, plays, and movies.
Perhaps conscious of that, he had carefully avoided the company of these
so-called peers, avoiding at all costs the little "in" parties, the
private entertainments held mostly by the frantic group of sages who wrote
syndicated columns, many of which appeared in the
Chronicle,
and the
stars of the new personal television. Intermingled with the mythmakers were
their creations, the power seekers who knew themselves to be media happenings,
like Henderson. Handsome Burton Henderson, master of both hard and soft news.
Here he was today, for example, galloping into print in the news section and
already on deck for a picture in Lifestyle. All this happening right under
Nick's nose. What kind of monsters had they made? If he was only vaguely sure
before, he was now becoming more and more convinced that something was
radically wrong with the system that he had helped create. Upstairs, sitting in
her manicured office, holding court for the high and the mighty, Myra was
actually beginning to believe her own invulnerability, the ultimate power trap.
Her father's whole thesis of objectivity was crumbling under the weight of the
new media power. It had long passed objectivity. Personality had won and he,
Nick Gold, had smoothed the way for its final victory. Was it possible that the
Chronicle,
in whose maw so many lives had been chewed up, was wrong?
Wrong in the way it showed people their world, wrong in the way it brought the
fantasy into focus? Wrong in the expectations it offered? Wrong because they
had been so sure they were right? Wrong because somehow they were the only eye
left on the top of the mountain?

He could not tell how long he had sensed that this was
happening, or even understand why he had pulled away from the self-serving
cluster of mediacrats, who saw themselves as the keepers of the holy grail or,
at the very least, enjoyed the idea that other people thought so. Perhaps this
was why he determined to keep his affair with Jennie secret. He could
rationalize his breaking away, turning down invitations to the little soirées,
the private pool parties, the silly tennis tournaments, the dinners for eight
in Myra's town house, the "oh-so-with-it chic-talk," the
behind-the-scenes revelations of the secretaries of State and Treasury and, of
course, the power handlers at the White House. It dawned on him now why Myra
had asked him to bring Jennie "out" to the Redskin games, have her be
part of the gang, a regular attendant at the royal box. He'd no longer have an
excuse to hide. Myra would draw him back to their orbit, immerse him, smoother
him.

The vibrations of the big presses began to be felt and he
waited expectantly for the first copy of the street edition, which always
arrived in tandem with a sinking heart, the terrible possibility that the
stories would all be different from those that had been sent down to the
composing room. It was a recurrent expectation, always frightening, and it was
with a sense of deep relief that he viewed the familiar front page, exactly as
it had appeared in proof.

When he had given it a final going over, he left the city
room with a wave at the "lobster" crew who had settled into their own
special ambience, waiting for morning, some hoping that the night might be
eventful, others content with inactivity, using the time for activities like
writing books, now the
Chronicle
's major occupational disease.

The November chill signaled the first stirrings of a
Washington winter, as erratic as its political environment. Nick walked
swiftly, his ears alert, listening for footfalls at his rear, a habit he had
developed but felt was reprehensible, in the light of the
Chronicle
's
avowed position that crime was an aberration resulting from a deprived
environment--a noble thought which offered little comfort for a mugged victim.
He had felt it politically important to maintain that stance, as if to breach
it would open a huge cleavage for the law-and-order superconservatives to pour
through, destroying the
Chronicle
's credibility in the liberal
community, its carefully nurtured constituency.

In front of the Mayflower he hailed a cab and watched
Connecticut Avenue recede. Swinging around Dupont Circle, the cab rolled
swiftly down Massachusetts Avenue, past Embassy Row into the land of the
powerful, the magic ZIP code 20016 where lived the movers and makers, the
privileged sanctuary of the elite that bridged the gap between Georgetown and
Chevy Chase, through to Potomac, the last stronghold of the close-to-town
landed gentry.

The cab dropped him in front of 4000 Massachusetts Avenue
where he walked through the security maze. He could actually feel the
television cameras watching him. Despite the fact that the
Chronicle
had
one of the most sophisticated security systems in town, the act of
surveillance, especially in what could be described as a social context, was
repugnant to him. He wondered if any such devices had, as yet, found their way
to Warren, Ohio. Properly announced through the switchboard, he went up the
elevator, through the corridor smelling faintly of cabbage, the eternal symbol
of apartment living, to the waiting pimpled face of Harold Gunderstein standing
in the doorway of his apartment.

Gunderstein, his tie awry, his shirt puffed out of his
belt, two sizes too big, the pants stained and creased, seemed to be the
embodiment of the cabbage smell, the source of its emanation. But inside the
apartment, other odors assailed Nick. Books and papers were piled everywhere,
in little mounds Stonehenge-like, on every available surface. Remnants of food
were everywhere, stale sandwich bits, dried pickles, milk-crusted glasses,
empty beer cans. Considering the high rent, a sop to his newfound riches,
Gunderstein's apartment interior seemed incongruous, a nest of poverty. It was
a fitting complement to his image. Where else could a rich slob live?

"God, what a shithouse!" Nick said, as if it were
the expected social grace.

"The maid comes tomorrow." Gunderstein shrugged
apologetically. He was wearing glasses now, the cosmetic of the office
discarded, and he looked as Nick remembered him years ago. Nick followed him
into the living room where a paunchy man sat on a brightly colored couch,
holding a tumbler of whiskey.

"This is Carter Allison," Gunderstein said. The
paunchy man held out his hand, showing brown teeth and dimpled cheeks. He had
once been boyish, now gone to seed.

"Sounds like a stage name," Nick said, conscious
of ingratiation.

"I can assure you that it's my legitimate baptismal
name. The middle name is Blandish. There was once a Lord Blandish, I'm told,
but I spring from Maine potato farmers."

"I've filled Mr. Gold in on all you've told me,
Carter." They had obviously reached some plateau of relationship. It was
odd how Gunderstein would evolve so quickly into a first-name basis with a news
source; as if he had merged into the information.

"You don't believe me," Allison said, glaring at
Nick. One couldn't tell whether it was a question or an answer.

"I didn't say that," Nick answered, assuming it a
question, watching Allison's growing anxiety. Gunderstein poured another drink
into his glass from a nearby opened Johnny Walker Black.

"Well then, why don't you run the story? It's the
truth. I know it's the truth."

"It's just that we haven't been able to confirm it to
Mr. Gold's satisfaction," Gunderstein said. "The
Chronicle
has
a two-source policy."

"You'll never confirm it. They're too clever. Besides,
the men who gave the order are dead."

"He means the Kennedy brothers," Gunderstein
interrupted.

"That's pretty heavy stuff."

"It didn't seem so at the time," Allison
continued. "Just a routine action. It was almost fun. I was actually just
a garden-variety CIA analyst posing as an embassy clerk, low on the totem pole
at that. But I did know the language and in those days there were few of us
around. My mother's"--he paused, perhaps recalling some rare
sentiment--"second husband was a French businessman. I grew up in Saigon
and could speak fluent Vietnamese and French, a perfect mark for the CIA
recruiter who found me at Berkeley." Gunderstein poured more whiskey into
the man's glass. "I met him only twice. Both times in the public lavatory
of a broken-down Saigon hotel."

"Real cloak and dagger," Nick said sarcastically.

"It didn't help my career one way or the other,"
Allison said sadly, the stink of his bitterness like a hot gust in the room.
"I was simply told by my superior to provide information. It was hardly
intelligence. Most of the stuff could be found in the newspapers and on the
street. Any pimp or bar girl could supply it."

"What kind of information?"

"Diem's enemies. Believe it or not, all I did in my
two years of official duty in Viet Nam was to keep track of the enemies of the
Ngu brothers. It was quite simple, really. They had so many. They were horrible
people, turds, both of them. I could have given it to him over the telephone,
but they thought that was too dangerous. What was the name he used? Mr.
Marshall. These military types have absolutely no imagination. I might have
suggested Smith. That at least has some authenticity to it. Or Jones." He
laughed, showing his bad teeth.

It was easy to define the man's motivation, Nick concluded:
frustration, empty dreams, a life unfulfilled, translated now into jealousy and
hatred--a classic case.

"It was dark in the lavatory," Allison continued.
"We sat in separate stalls whispering. I can still smell the place. All I
could think of was getting out of there."

"You didn't see his face?" Nick looked at
Gunderstein.

"Not the first time, although his voice made a special
imprint."

"Go on."

"He was quite clever and I didn't really know what he
was looking for until a few days later. By then, of course, it was over."

"You mean the assassination?"

"Of course. You see, he was searching for someone who
could pull the trigger, probing possibilities. Apparently he had some
preconceived profile. He wanted someone who had enough motive, hatred, to pull
the trigger. Someone who could be tipped off to the Ngu brothers' exact whereabouts
at a preset time, with enough balls to do the job."

"And you found the man?"

"I said it was easy. I found many. You could have
thrown darts at a wall of names. It was almost an honor. I found him a good
prospect. A commander of an armored unit, not very high up. No paper passed
between us, just words. He was a persistent cuss."

"But you never saw him?"

"Let me finish. I said I met with him twice."
There was a well of belligerency in the man, as if he had withdrawn into
himself, within some mental fortress. Perhaps he saw the challenge to his
credibility as further humiliation, new evidence of his manipulation by unseen
forces. "It was during the night of the actual coup. There was fighting
still going on in the Palace. This time he used the telephone. He knew spook
talk and I understood him. It was quite clear: same station. Off I went to the
fleabag hotel, directly to the shithouse, sitting down in the foul place. I
could hear him breathing beside me and could see his shoes from under the
partition. Apparently the first name I had given him had fallen through and he
probed for another, a similar profile. I tell you it was easy. I came up with
another name quickly. He made me spell it again and again until it sunk in. I
knew by then that it had something to do with the Diem thing. It's funny how
silly this sounds in retrospect. Grown men sitting on the crapper plotting a
killing. It's hilarious when you think about it."

"I'm sure it's given you great moments of
nostalgia," Nick said. There was something grating, offensive, unclean,
about the man.

"I was sitting in the stall nearest the sink,"
Allison continued, "and someone had come in and was waiting, which made it
impossible to continue talking. The man told me to stay where I was and he got
out instead. I heard the water in the sink begin to run and splashing noises.
There was a crack in the thin wood of the stall and, in the dull light of the
small electric bulb over the sink, I could see the outline of his profile quite
clearly. His collar was open and he was washing his neck. I was so close to him
I could almost touch him and somehow his dog tag got loose and, by the glint of
that light, I could actually see his name, Burton Henderson, as clearly as I
can see your face. He turned toward me only once and I could also see his eyes,
incredibly blue. He was a handsome bugger. When the man who was using the other
crapper left, he got in the stall again, and I had to repeat the prospect's
name. It was getting unbearable in there. I remember pleading with him to let
me get the hell out of there. Finally, I left. As far as I know he was stiff
sitting there in that Oriental stink."