Point of Contact

75

Jack stood at the guest book in the foyer of the old Lutheran church, patting his pockets.

“Lose your pen?”

Jack turned around, surprised. “Yeah.”

President Ryan handed Jack his own Zebra F-701 stainless. “Do I want to know how?”

Junior didn’t say a word, but Senior recognized the look. Jack took the pen and signed his name on the register. He turned back around and held the pen out to his dad.

“Keep it, son. In case you need it.”

“I saw Mary Pat inside. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Security wouldn’t let me tell you,” Senior said, nodding at the two Secret Service agents standing behind him.

“It’s usually a three-ring circus when you come to town. How’d you manage to keep this quiet?”

Senior smiled as he signed the register. “The press plane was accidentally delayed a few hours by an unexpected mechanical inspection.”

The first few notes of an old Hammond organ began to play in the sanctuary.

“It’s time,” Senior said.

The pastor concluded his brief homily and introduced President Ryan, seated in the front row, along with DNI Mary Pat Foley, CIA director Jay Canfield, Gerry Hendley, John Clark, and Jack Junior.

Junior recognized several other retired dignitaries from the IC community farther back in the chapel. He was surprised at their turnout. Was it just a courtesy to his dad?

The doors were closed and guarded inside and out by Secret Service agents as helicopter rotors beat the air above the small country church, keeping overwatch. The President’s handlers weren’t taking any chances after Mexico City.

President Ryan stepped forward. He paused briefly, laying a hand on the closed casket that stood in front of the altar before ascending the three short steps to the pulpit.

He glanced out over the small gathering of fifteen or so people, mostly gray-haired farmers and dairymen with their sturdy wives, all dressed in their Sunday best. They stared at the President, skeptical and surprised.

Junior felt underdressed in his short-sleeved shirt and tie, but with his arm in a cast and a sling, he couldn’t manage a suit. His bruises had all turned to purple and yellow, and his scratches had scabbed over. He looked like he’d fallen through a hay baler. He wondered if these farmers thought so, too.

“It is my honor and privilege to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of Paul Brown with you today,” the President began. “You all knew Paul better than I did, but I doubt that anyone here owes a greater personal debt of gratitude to him than me and my family, and I wanted to express that publicly.” He turned toward the casket. “Thank you, Paul.”

Senior gave the slightest nod to his son, who returned the same.

“Paul Brown was a brilliant, modest, hardworking man who rendered a quiet and selfless service to his country and his friends. Our nation was built on the shoulders of such men and women, and our greatness will be sustained by them as well.

“It may surprise some of you to know that I am not the first American President to praise the name of Paul Brown in a closed-door meeting among family, friends, and colleagues. In 1985, President Ronald Reagan awarded Paul Brown the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the CIA’s equivalent of the Medal of Honor. It is usually only awarded posthumously, but Paul Brown was not usual by any measure. Those that knew him tell me that he never spoke about the honor or the sacrifice that earned it. We only know about the events that transpired so many years ago thanks to the testimony of the only living witness, former Senator Weston Rhodes—”

Ryan glanced over at his son.

“—who unfortunately, owing to personal circumstances, couldn’t be with us today. However, I think it’s important for you, his family and friends, to better know the kind of man Paul Brown really was.

“Let me begin by reading the text of the speech Ronald Reagan gave when he awarded the DIC to Paul.”

Senior removed a sheet of paper from his suit coat and laid it carefully on the pulpit, then put on a pair of reading glasses, perched them on his nose. He glanced up at the audience over the top of them. “I can’t imitate the Gipper’s voice, but I’m sure you all remember it well enough.” He allowed himself a smile, looked back down at his notes, and began to read.

“‘My fellow Americans…’”