Exile Hunter (7 page)

“Interesting
question,” Linder temporized. He knew well that the fate of missing
veterans from the Manchurian War was a highly charged issue all
across the country and remained a tightly guarded secret, even within
the DSS. If the apartment were bugged as Denniston had claimed, it
would be wise to avoid the topic.

“Sorry, can’t help
you there,” Linder responded with a shrug. “It’s as if any
troops who made it back to Alaska disappeared the moment they arrived
on American soil. Strange.”

“Do you have any idea
why?” Kendall probed. It was a thorny question, and by now Linder
felt he had scored enough points to let it go by.

“Not yet, but we’re
working on it,” he replied.

Before Linder could say
more, the kitchen door swung open and a dark-haired woman backed into
the room, carrying a large tray of sweet oriental pastries of the
kind that had been served at the restaurant less than an hour before.

The instant she turned
around to face them, Linder recognized her as Patricia Eaton, now
Patricia Kendall, Roger’s wife. At thirty-eight, she remained a
stunning beauty. Linder could not resist staring at her glistening
dark eyes, mahogany hair, flawless olive complexion, and her trim
athletic figure. She wore a simple sleeveless linen dress that called
attention to her noble profile and her sleek shoulder-length hair,
which was tied at the nape of her neck with a plain blue ribbon.

Though it had been
nearly two decades since he had seen her last, the sight of her
thrilled him anew and for several long seconds he could not resist
the urge to stare. She must have sensed this, for all at once she
raised her eyes to cast a puzzled glance his way. Could she have
recognized him after all these years, even through his disguise? He
hoped not, for his own safety and hers, yet was disappointed when she
looked away.

Mercifully, Philip
Eaton broke the silence and introduced him to her as Joe Tanner.

All at once, Linder
found himself at a loss for words.

“How thoughtful,”
he stammered while accepting a small plate of pastries.

Patricia acknowledged
the remark with a polite nod and a distant smile, apparently too
preoccupied to pay him further notice. Still, the sight of her had
thrown him dangerously off balance. Why now, he asked himself? He had
not thought of Patricia in years. Why, of all people from his past,
had she surfaced at this moment, stirring up the best and the worst
feelings in him? And now that she had appeared, what would become of
her and her family if he succeeded in the operation he had come to
carry out?

Almost against his
will, Linder’s eyes followed Patricia Kendall’s shapely legs on
her return to the kitchen. As surprised as he was to see her, Roger
seemed even more surprised to find his wife at the flat. Kendall
frowned and pursed his lips as he watched Patricia pass out of sight
through the kitchen door.

Gathering his wits,
Linder set his mind to calculating what changes might be required in
his approach to Philip Eaton now that Patricia and her daughter
occupied the flat. At the same time, he studied Philip Eaton’s
expression for signs of favor or disfavor. His was a difficult face
to read, as Eaton seemed very much the dispassionate judge, fully
immersed in the facts of each case, yet resolved to decide it solely
on the merits. As if to confirm this impression, Eaton took one last
sip from his coffee cup, returned it to the silver tray and spoke as
if rendering a verdict.

“Over the years I
have donated substantial sums to all sorts of resistance groups,”
the old man began. “Many who sought my help were personal friends.
Today, I regret to say, I have little to show for it. As worthy as
your movement may be, Mr. Tanner, I’m going to decline your
request. The truth is, I don’t have faith any longer in armed
resistance to the Unionists, whether mounted from inside or outside
the country. Nor do I believe in negotiating with their kind.”

“Then you’re
willing to give the Unionists free rein?” Linder objected, startled
at being rejected so hastily. With Bednarski and Denniston listening
in, he could not allow himself to accept defeat without a struggle.

“I have no love for
the Unionists,” Eaton replied. “But I think the time for taking
up arms is over. I believe that Unionism, having suppressed the
creative energies of the American people, has no future. I see it
falling into decay until a new generation sweeps it aside with a
fresh supply of talent, energy, and hope for a better life.”

“But where does that
leave those of us who have to live under their tyranny?” Linder
persisted. “Are we to lie down and die until Unionism withers away
of its own accord?”

“Certainly not,”
Eaton replied. “All I can tell you is that, during my years of
supporting the rebellion, I haven’t succeeded at anything except
sending good men to their graves. I realize that I haven’t
discussed this with Roger or Patricia, but I think it’s time for me
to step aside and let others lead.”

Roger Kendall seemed
bewildered by Eaton’s suggestion. Patricia, in contrast, placed her
hands on her father’s shoulders with a smile of approval mingled
with relief.

Linder could sense that
the old man was not to be swayed but, since the conversation was
being monitored by the DSS, it would be unwise for him to give up
without offering at least one last argument. Once his rejection was
complete, he could wash his hands of Bednarski’s and Denniston’s
ill-conceived project, go back to Limassol, and part company with
Denniston once and for all. Best of all, the reproachful spirits of
Philip Eaton and Roger Kendall would not be joining those who came to
torment him in his nightly dreams. And perhaps, one day he and
Patricia… But that was a thought for another time.

“With all due
respect, Mr. Eaton,” Linder resumed after a long pause, “most of
our Movement’s activities are in the humanitarian area. Perhaps if
we earmarked your contributions for relief work and refugee
resettlement?”

Eaton smiled
sympathetically but shook his head.

“In practice, all
funding is fungible. Whatever we gave you for resettlement would free
up funds for military or political action. Please excuse me for
saying no.”

“All the same, sir,
our backers in Europe have a great deal of respect for you,” Linder
persevered. “Even a very small contribution from you would help us
raise money elsewhere. Would you consider a token contribution,
earmarked for relief work…?”

Eaton rose slowly with
an amiable laugh.

“Mr. Tanner, the
issue is closed. But please come with me out onto the balcony for a
moment. There’s something I’d like to share with you.”

He gestured for Roger
Kendall to stay seated. Patricia moved out from behind the couch and
sat by her husband’s side, staring off into empty space. Linder
held the image of her in his mind, knowing that he would not likely
see her again.

Eaton took Linder by
the arm and led him to the edge of the balcony. Though it seemed odd,
Linder felt a thrill at having won a small degree of Eaton's
confidence. Perhaps he could find a graceful way out of this mess now
that he had more time to think and could speak privately.

“Can you smell the
fragrance?” the old man asked, taking a frangipani blossom between
his fingers and inhaling deeply. “Gardening was my late wife’s
hobby. When she died, I made it mine. This spring I’ve begun to
teach what little I know to Patricia and Caroline.”

“A good way for them
to remember you,” Linder noted.

“You have an unusual
accent, Mr. Tanner,” Eaton continued. “Have you ever lived in the
Midwest?”

“Briefly, when I was
a child,” Linder answered, aware that traces of Cleveland remained
detectable in his speech to someone from the area.

“More than briefly, I
think,” Eaton replied. “I suspect you have far more of Ohio in
you than of Utah. And a Latter-day Saint would never smell of
alcohol. And as for Porter Rockwell, I expected someone in your
position would have a bit more to say about the greatest Mormon
guerrilla fighter who ever lived.”

Linder bit his lip and
looked out over the Mediterranean. “Why didn’t you say any of
that indoors?”

“Because I wanted to
make you a counteroffer away from anyone else’s ears. Now, I assume
that you are either an officer of State Security or an agent of
theirs who can pass my offer forward through the proper channels.
Knowing that State Security would like nothing better than to get
their hands on me and end my support for the insurgency, I would be
prepared to surrender myself to your government on one condition:
that they leave Patricia, Caroline, and Roger alone, forever."

Eaton paused and
watched for Linder's reaction. In that moment, Linder felt the blood
drain from his face and saw that Eaton noticed it, too. His dilemma
was that, while Eaton’s offer might be a reasonable one,
Headquarters would never accept preconditions from a rebel. Even if
they accepted Eaton’s surrender, they would still go after Kendall
and Patricia and young Caroline. Yet, Eaton had made the proposal
only because Mormon Joe Tanner’s cover had been blown sky high. To
reject Eaton’s offer in a vain effort to salvage that cover would
merely compound the error and bring the entire blame for the
operation’s collapse onto his own head. What he needed was a
different solution that would save not only his own skin but also
Patricia and Caroline’s. He opened his mouth to speak but noticed
that Eaton had more to say.

“Now, as for my
finances," Eaton went on with emphasis, "I expect that the
Unionists are as eager to get their hands on my money as they are on
my person. The plain truth is that I’ve spent nearly all of the
funds under my control supporting the resistance. Not only the funds
entrusted to me by our contributors, but my personal wealth, as well.
What remains of the latter is held in trust to provide a fresh start
for my daughter and her family. If I turn myself in, these trusts
must be left untouched. So, Mr. Tanner, or whatever your real name
is, do I make myself clear? Will you convey my offer to your
superiors?”

Linder looked into
Eaton’s eyes and sensed that what Eaton said was true. The old
man’s fate and that of his daughter’s family now rested with
Linder.

“I’ll pass it
along, Mr. Eaton. I can’t promise they’ll accept your offer, but
for what it’s worth, I’ll go to bat for you.”

Eaton nodded his assent
and both men turned their eyes toward the sea. Atop a nearby
apartment building, a sudden flash of reflected sunlight drew
Linder’s attention to a pair of technicians adjusting what looked
like a parabolic microphone. The dish was aimed directly at Philip
Eaton’s balcony and when the technicians saw Linder watching them,
they ducked behind a chimney.

Two seconds later,
Linder heard a metallic whirring sound and looked up to find a half
dozen men in Lebanese gendarme uniforms rappelling from the roof onto
Philip Eaton’s balcony. Then a pair of stun grenades exploded
behind him, tossing him against the stone railing, dazed, deafened,
and out of breath. The last thing Warren Linder remembered was the
look of sorrowful reproach on Philip Eaton’s face.

Life is a quarry, out of which we are to mold and chisel and complete
a character.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

SEPTEMBER, SATURDAY, WEST BEIRUT

Warren Linder looked
down a narrow alley with steep banks of granite-faced apartment
buildings on either side. It was Beirut, but he had lost any sense of
direction, so he set out uphill to find a vantage point from which he
could determine where he was. After climbing for several blocks, he
emerged opposite a dusty lot where the cinder-block shell of a
two-story house lay unfinished, then mounted its concrete stairway to
the flat roof.

Standing on the
concrete platform, he felt a chill wind at his back and scanned the
distant shoreline from the setting sun to the port and onward to the
glinting reflections of Jebel Achrafiyé in the east. All at once, he
realized that he was on the wrong side of town, in West Beirut, and
must cross the Green Line to reach his destination in Achrafiyé.
However, to his surprise, the city before him was not the pacified
Beirut of today, but some earlier version of the city during its
decades-long civil war. The commercial district, which stood between
him and his destination, seemed a dangerous no-man’s-land of
destroyed and decaying buildings infested with snipers and squads of
murderous militiamen who fought by night. Already sundown paled the
sky, yet he must cross this wasteland before darkness fell. A flood
of panic overtook him.

Linder opened his eyes
and sat upright with a start, unleashing a wave of nausea. He had
been lying on a bare military cot in a concrete cell barely wider
than the cot, with a stainless steel sink and toilet behind him and a
few square meters of empty floor space separating the foot of the cot
from the sliding steel door. The concrete walls were unfinished and
the door bore a fresh coat of gray paint. A single incandescent light
bulb hung far out of reach above him. On the floor beside the cot
stood an unopened plastic bottle of Lebanese spring water and an
earthenware plate stacked with a half-dozen disks of stale pita
bread.

Linder felt a throbbing
pain at his left temple where his head had hit Philip Eaton’s
balcony after he lost consciousness. He tried to stand but the pain
drove him back onto the cot.

He tried a different
approach, resting his forearms on his thighs and tilting forward
until his feet supported his weight and he could stand upright. As he
balanced on wobbly legs, a sharp pain in his left knee suddenly
eclipsed his nausea and headache. He limped across the floor to the
door and tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge.