The Seventh Secret by Irving Wallace Read Free Book Online

army. You were in Vietnam two years?" Foster did not hide his frown. "Yes."
    "How old were you when you enlisted?"
    "Twenty," said Foster. "I wasn't particularly patriotic. I didn't even know what Vietnam was about. I just knew I was without purpose or direction, a dumb kid trying to figure out what to do with myself. Vietnam sounded exotic, a filler in time. So I went in."
    "Then what?"
    "Then what—" Foster repeated, his frown deepening. "I was a helicopter pilot attached to an engineer group in the Twenty-fourth Corps under Lieutenant General James W. Sutherland. There was some fighting. Along with the artillery and an MP battalion, we saw action in Quang Tri province near the Laotian border. Took a fair number of casualties. I was grounded by antiaircraft, so I spent more time with my M16 rifle than flying. Eventually I caught some shrapnel in one leg, and after surgery I was discharged. That was late 1971."
    "How's your leg now?"
    "No problem. I jog five miles three times a week. I'm in good shape for thirty-six, well, just about thirty-seven. After the war, I rattled about a little and finally went back to school under the GI bill. The University of California in Berkeley. That's where I became interested in architecture."
    "How come architecture?"
    "Well, my father had been an engineer . . ." He hesitated, and reflected upon it. "No, it was something else. A feeling I had. In the war, I had devoted a couple of years to tearing things down. Now I had the urge to build things up."
    He saw the lady reporter eyeing him closely. She said, "You mean that?"
    "Of course, I mean that. It's what civilization is all about. After each orgy of destruction, it behooves humans to rebuild, to build, to move ahead in an orderly way. Somehow, the war turned me toward architecture. In Berkeley they had a School of Architecture      we called it the Ark. I enjoyed Berkeley and worked hard. After four years, I had my bachelor of architecture."
    "Then you opened an office?"
    "Not so fast. Every graduate must serve a two-year apprenticeship. I did mine with a large firm in Laguna Beach. After that an architectural candidate takes the State Board Examination. One week of exams involving design, drawing, a half-day oral. Rigorous, and in California a bit offbeat. Here we have some extras like the seismic problem, making buildings as earthquakeproof as possible. Anyway, I passed. I became an architect."
    "What were some of your earliest projects?"
    "Easy ones in the beginning. A community center and a neighborhood bank, for example. The designs involve a lot of engineering, but you also learn about practical necessities, important unglamorous ones, like lighting and putting in bathrooms. Eventually I met someone who let me do a beach house, something modest. Finally I was in business. I was on my own."
    Joan Sawyer glanced around her. "And this is your business. How long have you been, as you put it, on your own?"
    "Let me think. This makes six years."
    He observed that the Sawyer woman was extracting something that resembled notes from her purse. She was studying them. "Incidentally—our files say that about four years after you set up your business, you got married."
    Foster hesitated. "Yes. I see you've done your homework."
    "Valerie Granich. Daughter of Charles Granich. Land developer. Billionaire. Bel Air. I have it right, haven't I?"
    "You have it right," he said coldly.
    "Last year you were divorced."
    "Public record."
    Joan Sawyer looked up. "Have you remarried?"
    "No, thanks."
    "Would you mind telling me a bit about your marriage? Your divorce. Human details. Something personal always helps a story. Anything you can tell me?"
    Foster compressed his lips.
    There was plenty he could tell her, but it was not for reader consumption. From the time of the divorce he had vowed never to speak of his short marriage, never, not even mention Valerie's name to anyone, or even think about her.
    Nevertheless, he thought about her