Read Online The Henderson Equation by Warren Adler - Free Book Online
Authors: Warren Adler
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weeks. At the receiving end it's like a persecution, a terrible
harassment, like a fellow sitting under the guillotine, waiting for the blade
to fall."
Nick watched as he spoke, sensing the discomfort. He had
seen it many times before. He felt Myra's deliberate avoidance of his eyes.
"Either run the story, or get off my back," Henderson said. Surely he had wanted to say: Shit or get off the pot.
"You know the Jews didn't kill Christ, they worried
him to death," Henderson said. Nick pushed aside the offensively heavy
hand of ingratiation. Didn't Henderson know the allusion only made matters
worse?
"I never suspected that you saw yourself in that
role," Nick said. Myra looked down into the poached fish that the maid was
putting in front of her.
"These confrontations are always difficult, especially
from this end," Henderson mumbled. He was right, of course. Nick softened.
The real issue wasn't Henderson at all.
"I know, Burt. The story hasn't run because I have not
been satisfied. It's a one-source story. The pattern is familiar. A subject
grips the public imagination. This year it's the CIA, the spook business. One
thing leads to another. We carried the story of those assassination teams, set
up through CIA, that supposedly rubbed out foreign officials in the sixties. We
hedged on it carefully, despite a leaking sieve within the agency. Then comes
the second wave, the confessions, the compulsion of bottled-up guilt. Now the
lights are on and the clothes off; it's open season on confession. And when
you've got a star bloodhound like Gunderstein, he follows all the scents. He's
got a source. He's tracking down another. The source tells him you were
involved when you were in the army..."
"Involved in what? Specifically what?"
"In the assassination of Diem."
Henderson shook his head and
sighed. He directed the focus of his controlled rage at Myra.
"You see," he said, "it's positively
defamation, irresponsible. I deny it categorically. It is a patent attempt to
destroy my political career. And I resent it." He was emphatic but in full
control. Only a slight flush beneath the winter tan revealed the obvious
internal turmoil.
"The man's name is Carter Allison." Nick searched
Henderson's face for a clue. Nothing stirred to embellish the hint.
"I never heard of the man. Nick, it's like the
McCarthy era. How far does the press have to go to flex its muscles? Really,
Nick."
Myra remained silent, her eyes
still on her plate as she picked at her lunch.
"I told you, Burt, I would not run the story
until"--he checked himself--"unless it's confirmed by another
unimpeachable source."
"Damn it, Nick. Take my word for it."
"Your word?"
"I think my word has credibility. Have you lost all
faith?"
"In the word of politicians? Is that the question
you're asking?"
"No, Nick. My word."
"You know what you're asking?" A danger signal
had gone up in Nick's head. He was clever, this Henderson. He was prodding him
to confess a bias, to articulate it in front of Myra with him as witness. He
saw the looming trap and side-stepped.
"Of course."
"I always start out disbelieving news leads. It's a
habit of newspapering," Nick said, amused at the irony. "But I have
been known to be disappointed."
"What the press will do finally is to run off
everybody with political aspirations. Who the hell wants to submit to your
magnifications? You start off with the built-in bias that every politician's
heart is overflowng with mendacity." Somehow, now that he had
side-stepped, the admonition had lost its sting. "And you proceed from
there. In my case, I am a victim, a speared fish, thrashing about on your
point." He raised his blue eyes to Nick, the sun glistening from their
surface.
"There's got to be some compassion. I'm asking for
mercy, man."
"If I thought in those terms," Nick said,
"I'd go nuts." He looked quickly at Myra, the allusion to insanity
both involuntary and indelicate. Myra had raised her eyes and looked at him
impassively. It was a
harassment, like a fellow sitting under the guillotine, waiting for the blade
to fall."
Nick watched as he spoke, sensing the discomfort. He had
seen it many times before. He felt Myra's deliberate avoidance of his eyes.
"Either run the story, or get off my back," Henderson said. Surely he had wanted to say: Shit or get off the pot.
"You know the Jews didn't kill Christ, they worried
him to death," Henderson said. Nick pushed aside the offensively heavy
hand of ingratiation. Didn't Henderson know the allusion only made matters
worse?
"I never suspected that you saw yourself in that
role," Nick said. Myra looked down into the poached fish that the maid was
putting in front of her.
"These confrontations are always difficult, especially
from this end," Henderson mumbled. He was right, of course. Nick softened.
The real issue wasn't Henderson at all.
"I know, Burt. The story hasn't run because I have not
been satisfied. It's a one-source story. The pattern is familiar. A subject
grips the public imagination. This year it's the CIA, the spook business. One
thing leads to another. We carried the story of those assassination teams, set
up through CIA, that supposedly rubbed out foreign officials in the sixties. We
hedged on it carefully, despite a leaking sieve within the agency. Then comes
the second wave, the confessions, the compulsion of bottled-up guilt. Now the
lights are on and the clothes off; it's open season on confession. And when
you've got a star bloodhound like Gunderstein, he follows all the scents. He's
got a source. He's tracking down another. The source tells him you were
involved when you were in the army..."
"Involved in what? Specifically what?"
"In the assassination of Diem."
Henderson shook his head and
sighed. He directed the focus of his controlled rage at Myra.
"You see," he said, "it's positively
defamation, irresponsible. I deny it categorically. It is a patent attempt to
destroy my political career. And I resent it." He was emphatic but in full
control. Only a slight flush beneath the winter tan revealed the obvious
internal turmoil.
"The man's name is Carter Allison." Nick searched
Henderson's face for a clue. Nothing stirred to embellish the hint.
"I never heard of the man. Nick, it's like the
McCarthy era. How far does the press have to go to flex its muscles? Really,
Nick."
Myra remained silent, her eyes
still on her plate as she picked at her lunch.
"I told you, Burt, I would not run the story
until"--he checked himself--"unless it's confirmed by another
unimpeachable source."
"Damn it, Nick. Take my word for it."
"Your word?"
"I think my word has credibility. Have you lost all
faith?"
"In the word of politicians? Is that the question
you're asking?"
"No, Nick. My word."
"You know what you're asking?" A danger signal
had gone up in Nick's head. He was clever, this Henderson. He was prodding him
to confess a bias, to articulate it in front of Myra with him as witness. He
saw the looming trap and side-stepped.
"Of course."
"I always start out disbelieving news leads. It's a
habit of newspapering," Nick said, amused at the irony. "But I have
been known to be disappointed."
"What the press will do finally is to run off
everybody with political aspirations. Who the hell wants to submit to your
magnifications? You start off with the built-in bias that every politician's
heart is overflowng with mendacity." Somehow, now that he had
side-stepped, the admonition had lost its sting. "And you proceed from
there. In my case, I am a victim, a speared fish, thrashing about on your
point." He raised his blue eyes to Nick, the sun glistening from their
surface.
"There's got to be some compassion. I'm asking for
mercy, man."
"If I thought in those terms," Nick said,
"I'd go nuts." He looked quickly at Myra, the allusion to insanity
both involuntary and indelicate. Myra had raised her eyes and looked at him
impassively. It was a
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