The Man Who Heard Too Much Page 12

  “The last night, Martin.” Ray’s voice was low and barely audible as he bent toward Martin’s ear and repeated the phrase three times. “The important thing happened that night … you remember … I know you do.”

  “Yes … yes … the last night.”

  It was a cool evening, and a brisk fire crackled in the fireplace immediately behind Rutledge. The flickering flames seemed to accent his cream-colored suit and make him appear ten feet tall as he stood before the seated men.

  “American warships, while peacefully cruising in South American waters, will be maliciously attacked by foreign torpedo boats. There will be a minor loss of life, but the audacity of the act will cause an uproar of disgust in the United States Senate. The Baxter Amendment will be introduced and overwhelmingly passed.”

  “Exactly what will this so-called amendment say?” Robert Turngood asked brusquely.

  Martin, in his usual place at the rear of the room, recognized the man. He knew from a previous day’s meeting that Tumgood was the owner of the Turngood newspaper chain and one of the most influential men in the media.

  Rutledge nodded at the question. “In essence, the Baxter Amendment will give the president of the United States the right to use military force to protect all national interests in our Southern Hemisphere.”

  “You can pass all the amendments in the world and that doesn’t mean the president will utilize the power,” Turngood pressed.

  “He will be forced to do so. A public outcry and the voice of the Senate will force him to land troops in certain threatened countries.”

  “Sounds like the Gulf of Tonkin ploy to me,” Turngood said.

  “It is similar in intent and execution,” Rutledge agreed. “If you will recall, that gave the legal cloak for Viet Nam.”

  “I’d like to hear the exact details,” another voice added. “This could be an awfully vague plan without cooperation from the navy and other forces.”

  “The details, gentlemen, have been worked out down to the position of the last sailor. Captain Newmark, if you will elaborate.”

  Rutledge stepped aside and beckoned to a naval officer to take his place at the front of the room.

  Captain Newmark was dressed in tennis shorts and a bright tee shirt. He seemed slightly flushed as he took his place at the front of the room. He started to speak and then abruptly stopped and turned to talk to Rutledge in a low voice. “I assume this is the final group and everyone here is entitled to know full details?”

  “You assumed correctly, Newmark.” Rutledge beamed his most boyish smile. “Those of us in this room tonight are the final selection—no one else will be brought into this, no one will leave, and security will be maximum from tonight on.”

  “Very good,” the naval officer said briskly. “Operation Barbados will begin when two naval missile cruisers sail for routine training in the South Atlantic. On September seventeenth they will be attacked by three torpedo boats. Heavy damage will be inflicted on our vessels.”

  “Exactly where will this incident take place?” Turngood’s voice boomed out.

  Newmark looked slightly flustered. “Naturally I have the map coordinates written down, but the exact location is not important to the discussion.”

  “I think the location is important. You mean you don’t even know the damn map coordinates?” Turngood seemed irritated at the lack of specific information.

  There was silence in the room.

  Martin took two paces forward. “Coordinates 34 degrees, 17 minutes, 12 seconds latitude, 58 degrees, 30 minutes, 5 seconds longitude.”

  The men in the room turned to stare at. Martin. Rutledge, for probably the first time in his military and political career, looked dumbfounded, while Captain Newmark seemed pleased to be off the hook concerning his own lack of information.

  “The torpedo boats,” Martin continued, “flying the Peoples’ Liberators flags, will approach on a compass azimuth of 250 degrees and make a flanking attack against the lead cruiser.”

  “Thank you, Martin,” Rutledge interrupted. “Now if you please. Captain Newmark, continue.…”

  The living room was a shambles. Ashtrays overflowed, and half-finished drinks seemed piled on every available open space. Martin picked up the silent butler and began to empty ashtrays into its interior. He could hear the low voices of Senator Baxter and Billie in another room.

  He was pleased with himself as he methodically cleaned. He had listened carefully and provided the information they needed when it was necessary. He could only hope, now that their stay at the camp was ending, that the senator would give him a good report.

  “Martin.” It was a low but commanding call.

  He looked up to see Rutledge Baxter in the doorway to the bedroom. “Yes, sir?”

  “Just leave that mess for a minute. Come in here and have a drink with Billie and me.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I don’t drink.”

  “Ever had one?”

  “No, sir.”

  Rutledge smiled and in that moment Martin knew why men followed him. “If you say so, sir.”

  “Billie, mix the man a drink—a good one,” Baxter yelled over his shoulder.

  “Coming up, Colonel.”

  “Sit down, Martin, sit down.”

  Martin sat stiffly on the edge of one of the twin beds. “I hope what I said was all right?”

  “Well, you certainly stepped in when the good captain was at a loss for his map coordinates.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Martin replied as Billie thrust a tall glass of dark liquid into his hand.

  “Drink her down, Marty. That’s good bourbon in there—the best. The colonel only serves the very best.”

  Martin looked at the dark drink dubiously. “Well, okay.” He took a large drink, gagged, nearly choked, and felt the warmth of the liquor as it spread across his abdomen.

  “Finish her off. Two gulps, now,” Billie insisted.

  Martin did as he was ordered and the empty glass was snatched from his hand and replaced with another full one.

  Rutledge Baxter sat only inches from him, his hands clasped between his knees as he smiled at Martin. “Let me ask,” the senator said, “do you still remember those map coordinates?”

  “Yes, sir. Thirty-four degrees, 17 minutes, and 12 seconds latitude and 58 degrees, 30 minutes, and 5 seconds longitude.”

  “Very good,” Rutledge said exuberantly.

  “Drink her down, Marty,” Billie commanded as his arm draped over Martin’s shoulder.

  “Let me ask you something else, Martin,” Rutledge said. “Do you remember the men who were at the meeting here tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve been in and out of the cottage all week long.”

  “Let me see how many of their names you can get.”

  “Well, there’s Captain Newmark of Naval Operations, and Mr. Robert Turngood of the Turngood Communications Group. Then there’re Senators Willard and Webster. They work with you, right, Senator Baxter?”

  “Yes, that’s right. There were others—can you remember who they were?”

  “I’ll try.” Martin took another gulp from the drink in his hand and stared at the ceiling. He could see the faces of the visitors before him. It was only a question of putting the faces together with the names he had overheard. He began to speak and give the recitation of names and occupations.

  When he had finished, Rutledge stood, walked over to the bureau, and slammed both fists down on its surface. “Damn! Double damn!”

  “Something wrong, sir?” Martin asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong with the colonel,” Billie Bamburg said as he replenished Martin’s drink.

  “I think I could pretty well outline and repeat everything in Operation Barbados,” Martin continued.

  “That’s quite all right, Martin,” Rutledge said in an extremely low voice. “You’ve said enough. Quite enough. I am very impressed.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be a goddamn dummy,” Martin heard Billie whi
sper to Rutledge.

  “He must be an idiot savant. One of those rare individuals of subnormal intelligence who has an immense capacity to memorize facts and figures that are totally unrelated to his knowledge.”

  “Then it can’t hurt anything. He can’t put it together and hurt you.”

  Rutledge slowly turned and surveyed Martin on the bed. He spoke half to Billie and Martin and half to himself. “There will not be another opportunity like this for five more years. If I can’t pull it off this time, how will I ever get agreement from the group again? It’s now or never.…”

  “You want me to take him out?”

  Martin was desperately trying to follow the conversation, but he felt dizzy and his thoughts lacked coherence. He lay back on the bed and discovered that by putting one foot on the floor, he could steady the revolving room.

  “Colonel, you want me to take him out?” Billie repeated.

  “I heard you the first time,” Rutledge snapped.

  “I still don’t see how he can hurt you.”

  “He’s going to tell other people and someone somewhere is going to appreciate the significance of what he knows. The details are so damn specific, map coordinates, the call numbers of the ships.… They’re all there and he knows everything. Also, the security lid is on the group we’ve put together. There’s no way to change all those details. The only alternative would be to call the whole damn operation off.”

  “I get your gist, Colonel.”

  “I’m a man among men,” Martin said aloud. “I hid away too damn long in that place.”

  “What in hell is he mumbling about?” Rutledge asked irritably.

  “I’ll fix him another drink. A short one but potent.”

  Rutledge crossed to the door as Billie forced another drink on Martin. “You know what to do, Billie. I’m going to scare up a drinking, card-playing crony and make sure I’m accounted for during the rest of the night.”

  “The lake, sir?”

  “That seems a valid spot.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I can’t breathe! I’m drowning!”

  The leather chair slammed back against the wall as Martin catapulted from its seat. Ray quickly leaned over and simultaneously snapped off the light and depress the button on the cassette player.

  Martin cowered in the corner. His hands were over his head, his chest heaved in convulsing gasps.

  Ray put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and felt the flesh quiver. “You’re awake, Martin. You are awake! Do you hear me?”

  “Can’t breathe … water … hands and feet tied … pushed over the side … sinking … slime oozing around me.…”

  Ray shook him with both hands. “Wake up! Damn it, wake up!”

  They stared into each other’s eyes, their heads inches apart. Ray saw the deep fear within the other man as Martin’s eyes slowly focused and his tremors began to subside.

  “I was drowning. It was very real. They pushed me over the side again and I sank.”

  “It’s over now. You remember it all?”

  “Yes. Every godawful moment of it.”

  “I think it’s time for us to have a cup of coffee.” He led Martin from the room. He noticed that his charge walked like an automaton as if he were still unable to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. The session had been too vivid, too traumatic.

  Ray poured coffee and sat across the kitchen table from Martin. They both drank silently, knowing that now that they had left the study, Sara would be listening to the recording of the session.

  They were staring into empty coffee cups when Sara finished and came into the kitchen. She stood over the sink and looked out the window. Her arms, braced on the counter edge, seemed to be supporting a heavy weight. She slowly turned. “I heard it. How did you escape?”

  Martin shrugged. “Billie made two small mistakes and I was very lucky.”

  “Tell me,” she said softly.

  “It was dark and there wasn’t any moon that night. Billie rowed out to what he thought was the middle of the lake. I found out later we were closer to the far side than he realized.”

  “You said he made two mistakes?” Ray asked.

  “The spot where he dumped me was his first—the second was that he didn’t weight me down. He tied my feet together and my hands behind me, but in the water I was able to pull my feet through my arms and bring my hands forward.”

  “What else?”

  “When I was under water I was able to push myself to the surface and dog-paddle.”

  “It’s a goddamn miracle you got out alive.”

  “If your hands and feet were tied; how did you get back to the school?” Sara asked.

  “I cut through the ropes with a sharp rock and walked back.”

  “Damn!” Ray’s fists came down and thumped the table top. Sara and Martin involuntarily started. “I should have known,” Ray said. “The others came back on the bus that day, but Martin wandered in hours later looking a mess. He wouldn’t speak and we just assumed he had wandered off and gotten lost.”

  “It would seem that you make a great many assumptions at the school,” Sara said.

  “Easily said in retrospect. Now it all fits,” Ray continued. “A week after Martin returned we got the word on further funding for Meegan House. The donation specifically stated that certain of the educable that were at Camp Mohawk would be assigned to Meegan House.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sara said.

  “The new funding for Meegan halfway house was from a private donor. When he gave us the money Meegan said that he had been at Camp Mohawk and observed the work done by the students. He wanted to further our program, and he even attached a list of those he insisted go to the halfway house.”

  “And that list included Martin’s name.”

  “But of course,” Ray answered.

  “And this Meegan is … Meegan Toiletries?”

  “A very wealthy man.”

  “It’s possible then that the new donation to the halfway house was only an excuse to get Martin out in the open where they could reach him.”

  “And kill him,” Ray added.

  “And they won’t stop trying,” Sara said. “They will come after him and keep coming until he’s destroyed.” Her increasing agitation was becoming more and more apparent. “Eventually they will find out that Martin’s here.”

  “I’ll leave before they do,” Martin said flatly.

  “Like hell you will,” Ray retorted immediately. “I have a responsibility for you.”

  “I’m a grown man.”

  “Yes, you are,” Ray agreed, “but you’ve also been cloistered for most of your life. Right now you don’t have the necessary tools to exist on your own. You’ll get them and we’ll help you to get them, but at this moment you aren’t prepared to make it on your own.”

  “We’re losing sight of the information Martin has. People have to be told,” Sara said.

  “About what?” Ray snapped. “You don’t mean that political crap about Operation Barbados?”

  “I sure in hell do. They’re going to push us right into another Viet Nam.

  “Rutledge Baxter is one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Senate. And he’s not alone in this. According to Martin’s list there are some of the most powerful people in the country behind Barbados.”

  “Which is why they have to be stopped,” Sara insisted.

  Ray paced the room. “We accidentally posses information that’s none of our business. If we try and tell anyone, it will mean our jobs.”

  “Jobs!” Sara screeched. “Jesus God, jobs! They already have mine and Martin’s and almost killed us both to boot.”

  “Then my job, since I seem to be the only one in this group that’s gainfully employed.”

  “Hey, thanks. Thanks a load.”

  Ray put his arms around her. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean it the way it came out. Damn it all! You know what I mean. If the powers behind this crazy scheme link me into it … I’m ruined.”
>
  She broke from his embrace. “More than fifty thousand men died in Viet Nam. God only knows how many could die if we start waging land wars in South America—and that’s what they want. That’s the end result of Operation Barbados.”

  “Who’s to say they are wrong? Important men like Rutledge Baxter possess information not available to you and me.”

  “I’ve heard that argument before. It doesn’t wash.”

  “You weren’t at Camp Mohawk, Sara. You can’t imagine the entourage of important people parading around up there. Not just congressmen and military leaders, but economists, scientists, multimultimillionaires; men who control corporations, banks, the media. Face it, we’re outnumbered.”

  “The men in agreement with Senator Baxter don’t control all the newspapers.”

  “Just part of them, but that’s enough,” he said.

  “You don’t want to get involved?”

  “It’s not only that. I just don’t see any effective action we can take. It’s Martin’s word … words on the recorder, against power you can’t imagine.”

  “Then why are they so frightened of him? Why have they tried to kill him and ruin me?”

  Ray looked thoughtful a moment. “Because he knows dates, places, names, and numbers on the ships involved, and most importantly—map coordinates.”

  “Exactly,” Sara said with vehemence. “Information so damn specific that if it got out before the day of the operation, they couldn’t go ahead with their plans.”

  “The last I heard, the Joint Chiefs of Staff weren’t accepting my phone calls.”

  “No, maybe not,” Sara agreed. “But there are other senators on the hill, men we know of who would be in disagreement with what Baxter proposes. We could make up a pretty powerful list of our own.”

  “And they won’t believe us,” Ray said.

  “There’re newspapers.”

  “Some controlled by men involved.”

  “And many not.”

  “You want to contact all of them?”

  “Not all,” Sara said. “Just a good sampling of the major papers in the country—The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Los Angeles Times—maybe a couple more contacts with magazines dealing with foreign policy. No, there’s not time for magazines. We should probably try for a columnist like J. J. Sperry.”