Damn. There’d be no post-game euphoria to help ease my husband into the confessional.
When Paul came toodling in from the Academy late on Sunday evening, I was already propped up in bed, slogging through the second chapter of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and wondering what all the fuss was about.
‘Sorry about the game,’ I said.
Paul kissed me on the forehead. ‘Erratic passing,’ he mumbled, stripping off his shirt. ‘Solid defense… failed to execute on the goal line… converted only five of fifteen third-down chances.’ Snippets of his report drifted from the bathroom as he prepared for bed.
‘Did you watch the game?’ he asked, slipping under the covers next to me.
‘Uh, no. I was doing something else.’
Paul propped his head on his hand, puffed peppermint toothpaste in my face. ‘And what was that?’
‘I took Amtrak to New York City to check out the last place Lilith lived.’
Paul scowled at me without speaking.
‘It was a spur of the moment thing,’ I forged on. ‘I found the building Lilith lived in, learned that Zan was probably foreign, and that Lilith moved from her apartment in New York City to a cottage, location unknown.’
Paul flopped over on his back, crossed his arms over his chest, glowered at the ceiling. ‘You could have told me what you were up to, Hannah.’
‘I told Ruth.’
‘You’re not married to Ruth.’
‘I’m sorry, Paul, but I knew you’d worry and I didn’t want to spoil your weekend.’
Paul stewed in silence for a few moments.
‘I think you’ll find it interesting,’ I continued.
‘Life with you always is, Hannah.’
I took that as a green light and kept driving. ‘Lilith’s parents were killed in a plane crash when she was still in her teens,’ I reported, playing the sympathy card.
‘Ah, the proverbial lost-both-parents-in-a-tragic-plane-and-or-car-crash hard-luck story,’ Paul commented brightly, his little sulk apparently over.
‘Don’t scoff. That part of her story is absolutely true. It took me a bit of searching, but I finally found a reference to it on the Internet. On September eleventh, 1968, Charles and Lucille (née Aupry) Chaloux were killed in the crash of Air France Flight 1611.’
‘How come that didn’t come up before when we Googled Chaloux?’ Paul wondered.
‘It might have done, on screen nine hundred and seven. But if you add “plane crash” to the equation, the article pops up on the first screen’
‘Any details?’
‘Hold on.’ I reached for the iPhone on my bedside table and swiped it on. ‘It says here that Flight 1611 was en route from the island of Corsica to Nice, France, when it crashed into the Mediterranean Sea killing all ninety-five on board.’
Paul sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Damn. Lilith would have been only fifteen. What caused the crash?’
‘The official report said a fire in the lavatory near the galley, of undetermined origin.’
‘Do I detect a note of skepticism in your voice?’
‘Well, there was a French general on board, René Cogny, so there was talk.’
‘And?’
‘I was saving the best for last. In 2005, there was a Lynx News white paper on the crash that advanced the theory that the accident was the result of a missile strike or bomb, and that the true cause had been suppressed by the French government under secrecy laws.’ I paused, waiting for that to sink in. ‘Guess who the reporter was?’
‘Who?’
‘John Chandler.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a little more than a coincidence that John Chandler is doing a story on a plane crash that killed the parents of Lilith Chaloux?’
‘And ninety-four other people, I believe I heard you say.’
‘True. But the connection made me curious, so I looked up John Chandler on the Internet. I think I’ve found Zan!’
‘John Chandler? You think John Chandler is Zan? Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?’
Now it was my turn to sulk. ‘So, are you ready to hear what I learned about John Chandler, or not?’
Paul plumped up his pillow, stuffed it behind his back and sat up, giving me his full attention. ‘Shoot.’
I tapped the Safari icon. ‘Listen to what Wikipedia says. “John Chandler – born on November fifteenth, 1950 – is a television journalist for Lynx News where he anchors the program, And Your Point is? Born Alexander Svíčkář in Brno, Czechoslovakia, he emigrated to the United States in 1956 with his parents, Rubert and Janna (née Cerny) Svíčkář. He became a United States citizen in 1971, changing his name to John Chandler.
‘“Chandler graduated from Earlham College in 1972 with a degree in Peace and Global Studies,”’ I read on. ‘“While at Earlham, he was a reporter for the campus radio station, WECI-FM. From 1972-74 he served in the Peace Corps in Guatemala where he acted as liaison between government agencies bringing relief to victims of Hurricane Fifi. Later, he worked as an aide to Jimmy Carter during his successful 1976 presidential campaign.
‘“Prior to joining Lynx News, Chandler worked for the Catholic News Service and the Associated Press in Europe.
‘“Chandler lives in the Georgetown area of Washington DC and is married to Dorothea Goodrich, a vice-president of the Women’s Democratic League. He has two grown daughters.”
‘There!’ I plunked the iPhone down on top of the duvet and took a deep breath. ‘Don’t you see? It all fits! Chandler’s real name is Alexander. Zan!’ I ticked the remaining points off on my fingers. ‘There’s the Peace Corps connection, the fact that he worked for the AP in Europe – no wonder he was mailing letters to her from all over the world – married, two daughters. And finally…’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think I know where he met Lilith! The Democratic National Convention was held in New York City in 1976, and they probably worked together on Jimmy Carter’s campaign!’
I fell back against the pillows, triumphant. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Compelling coincidences, I have to agree, but I don’t think you could use it to prove anything in a court of law. There are a lot of men in the world named Alexander.’
‘Ah, yes, but I’m remembering what Elspeth Simon said about Lilith’s Zan. She told me his last name had little squiggles on it. Wait a minute.’ I retrieved the iPhone and scrolled back to the beginning of the Wikipedia entry. ‘There,’ I said, aiming the tiny screen at Paul so I could point out the acute accents and upside down circumflexes over the letters ‘i,’ ‘c,’ ‘a,’ and ‘r’ in Svíčkář. ‘Squiggles. I rest my case.’
‘Čárkas and háčeks,’ Paul corrected. ‘Not squiggles.’
I stuck out my tongue. ‘Smarty pants.’
I opened my bookmarks and tapped on a link to a Times article I’d saved earlier. ‘There’s more. Novak was interviewed by the Washington Times. He’s quoted here as saying that one of his journalism professors advised that he’d never get a job in broadcasting with a name like Svíčkář. Impossible to pronounce, hard to spell. So, he changed it.’ I glanced up from the little screen. ‘I looked it up. Svíčkář means “candle-maker” or “chandler” in Czech.’
I switched the iPhone off and put it back on the bedside table. ‘Seems to me that somebody’s repealed that silly law about foreign-sounding names and success in broadcasting. Guillermo Arduino, Fareed Zakaria, and Wolf Blitzer seem to be making out just fine.’
‘Mandalit DelBarco.’ Paul’s pronunciation was eloquent, the syllables of the NPR reporter’s name rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a flaky buttermilk biscuit. He closed his eyes. ‘Maria Hinojosa, Christiane Amanpour, Sylvia Poggioli,’ he recited. ‘Pah-JOE-lee, Pah-JOE-lee. I could listen to Sylvia Poggioli read the telephone book.’