Free Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson Page B

where Communism had died. They’d wiped out the Huks here on Luzon, and eventually they’d wipe out every one of them, all the Communists on earth. “Remember the missiles in Cuba? Kennedy stood up to them. The United States of America stood up to the Soviets and backed them down.”
    “At the Bay of Pigs he turned tail and left a lot of good men dying in the dirt—No, no, no, don’t get me wrong, Skip. I’m a Kennedy man, and I’m a patriot. I believe in liberty and justice for all. I’m not sophisticated enough to be ashamed of that. But that doesn’t mean I look at my country through some kind of rosy fog. I’m in Intelligence. I’m after the truth.”
    Pitchfork spoke from the dark: “I knew a lot of good Chinese in Burma. We laid down our lives for each other. Some of those same folks are now good Communists. I look forward to seeing them shot.”
    “Anders, are you sober?”
    “Slightly.”
    “God,” Skip said, “I wish he hadn’t died! How did it happen? Where do we go from here? And when do we get through one day where we don’t say these things over and over?”
    “I don’t know if you know it, Skip, but there’s an element on the Hill thinks we did this. Us. Our bunch. In particular, the good friends of Cuba have come under scrutiny, the folks who ran the Bay of Pigs. Then we have the investigation, the commission, Earl Warren and Russell and the others—Dulles was on it, working to keep any suspicion away. Worked very hard at it. Made us look guilty as hell.”
    Eddie lurched upright. His face was a shadow, but he seemed unwell. “I can’t think of one single palindrome,” he announced. “I’ll take my leave.”
    “You’re feeling all right?”
    “I need to drive the roads with some air in my lungs.”
    “Give him air,” the colonel said.
    “I’ll walk you to the car”—but Skip felt the colonel’s hand on his arm.
    “Not at all,” Eddie said, and soon they heard his Mercedes start up on the other side of the house.
    Silence. Night. Not silence—the dark screeching insect conflagration of the jungle.
    “Well,” the colonel said, “I didn’t think I’d get anything out of old Eddie. I don’t know what they’re up to. And why does he say he worked extensively with Ed Lansdale? He wasn’t out of short-pants around Lansdale’s time. In ’52 he must’ve been a tiny babe.”
    “Oh, well,” Sands said, thinking that when passion stirred Major Eddie’s heart, he tended to speak in a kind of poetry—you wouldn’t do it justice to call it lying.
    “How have you been keeping yourself busy?”
    “Riding around at night with Aguinaldo. And familiarizing myself with the card catalog, as instructed. In the horrible manner instructed. Clipping and gluing.”
    “All right. Very good, sir. Any questions?”
    “Yeah: Why do the files make no reference to this region whatsoever?”
    “Because they weren’t compiled here. Obviously they’re from Saigon. And its environs. And a bunch from Mindanao, which I inherited. Yes, I am the section officer for Mindanao, which has no section. Anything you need?”
    “I’m stacking the duplicates back in the boxes after I get them down to size. I’ll need more of those drawers.”
    The colonel grabbed the seat of his chair between his legs and drew himself close to Skip. “Just use the cardboard boxes, okay? We’re going to ship them out soon.” Again he seemed taken by drink, his gaze was vague, and probably, if it could be seen, his nose was red, a reaction to liquor featured by all the men on his side of the family; but he was brisk and certain in his speech. “Other questions?”
    “Who is this German? If that’s what he is.”
    “The German? He’s Eddie’s man.”
    “Eddie’s man? We had lunch with him today and Eddie didn’t seem to know him at all.”
    “Well, if he’s not Eddie’s man I don’t know whose man he could possibly be. But he ain’t mine.”
    “Eddie said you’d met with him.”
    “Eddie