The Asian Mantrap

Epilogue

I parked my car in the lot set aside for tourists visiting Lee’s Mansion. The pre-Civil War home stands at the top of a gentle slope in Arlington National Cemetery and faces southeast toward the Pentagon Building and the Potomac River.

Six black horses drew the caisson with its flag-draped coffin. It rolled slowly down Sheridan Drive. The honor guard marching in full dress uniform to the beat of muffled drums and the saddled black horse carrying spur-clad black boots reversed in the stirrups were solemnly impressive.

Willow and I hung back. We stood next to a full-leaved oak tree. Nearby, the perpetual torch marking President John F. Kennedy’s grave flicked orange in the gloom of a cloudy, humid afternoon. Further down the hill, the newly-dug grave was made less obvious by a blanket of over-bright, artificial green grass spread around it. The sides were lined with rows of folding metal chairs. Seated in them were senior military men, government officials, and priviledged representatives of veterans’ groups wearing American Legion, Amvets, VFW and other pseudo-military headgear. Behind the official mourners stood ranks of everyday individuals whose grief was probably the most sincere of all those present.

As the pallbearers lock-stepped uphill with the casket, I felt a hand touching my arm. I turned my head. David Hawk was standing beside us. “Do you recognize the first two men?” he asked me. I narrowed my eyes to sharpen their focus. The men on either side of the coffin had almost identical stony faces. Their dark blue, ribbon-bedecked tunics and lighter blue trousers with the infantry stripe down the outer seam gave a clone effect to the six sergeants of the Fort Myer honor guard. I examined the faces of the lead men closely. “Yes,” I answered. “The one on the right is Sergeant Layton.”

“And the one opposite him is Sergeant Wyler,” Hawk said.

“I thought they were under arrest?”

Hawk rolled an unlit, misshapen cigar between the fingers of his left hand. “All charges against them have been dropped, unless you want to press a personal suit for assault. With no witnesses, though, it might be hard to make stick.”

I was tired of the whole affair. My thoughts were as dull as the sullen sky. The submarine voyage to Subic Bay in the Philippines and the subsequent military air travel with the escort returning Martin’s body to Washington left me unrested and with a strange sense of foreboding. The past three days had been rough. Willow and I had been kept separated, in seclusion, and subjected to interrogation. It was something of a concession for us to be permitted to view the formal funeral proceedings from a distance. I was keenly aware of the two men who kept constant vigilance over us. They were standing within effective pistol range even now.

My unhappiness must have showed. “Looks like the weather is going to clear,” intoned Hawk.

Hawk never wastes words. He had just said something important. I glanced around to look into his face. One corner of his mouth was higher than the other. I also saw that our two bodyguards were no longer in sight.

“You sent our buddies away?” I led off.

“No need for them any longer.”

“We never did need them. We’re capable of looking after ourselves.”

“You know that. I know that. The president—” Hawk shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he felt obligated.”

“So how come we’re suddenly on our own again?”

“Word out of Hanoi. From a contact we know only as Maurice.” Hawk lifted the other corner of his mouth as he looked gratefully at Willow. “Your tracks are covered. Bu Chen said nothing. He never got the chance. His body was found in a sand pit about a mile from Phu Thone’s villa. Killed by the men who took him in custody for stealing a bicycle.”

“For stealing a bicycle?” Willow repeated.

“No, for having six thousand dollars in British gold pounds wrapped around his middle. The soldiers killed and robbed him as soon as they discovered he was carrying a small fortune. So Hanoi can only suspect he might have known something. They’re frustrated. What they can put together is too fragmentary to produce any clear picture. They’ll never uncover the truth.”

“And the documents?” Willow asked.

“Invaluable!” Hawk replied with one of his rare displays of enthusiasm. He immediately restrained himself. “Of course, we’ll have to keep them under wraps for a while, but in time their full impact will be utilized. I needn’t say how pleased a great many people are.”

I looked back to the grave site. The rifle squad was at ramrod attention, receiving orders from a saber-holding officer. At his command, the soldiers brought their weapons up sharply. Tilted at a precise thirty degree firing angle, the guns loosed a volley over the casket.

The procedure was repeated three times.

As the bark of the last blank cartridge volley echoed off the low hill to our rear, a break appeared in the clouds overhead.

For a brief instant, a shaft of bright, golden sunlight slanted down and rested on the flag covering the remains of Keith Martin.