"I ran a background check," Hannah said. "Dr. Faneuil began to work for the Red Cross and various other charitable health organizations in the early sixties. He went to Kenya in 1974, and fled in 1985 in the aftermath of the AIDS revelation. The records indicate he was known to be in Vietnam by 1986, and then ... well, nothing. He disappears from all the records I could find."
"And you wonder if possibly he didn't return here with his vendetta against jokers still in mind?"
Hannah shrugged.
Rudo smiled. "Then I can set your mind at ease, Ms. Davis. I happen to know that Etienne Faneuil died in what is now called Free Vietnam in 1988 when it was still the Socialist Republic. He is buried there, in a village called Xuan Loc about 35 miles east of Saigon, if I recall correctly."
"You're certain? The records I have don't indicate that."
Rudo laughed, gently. His graceful hands touched the Mont Blanc fountain pen laying alongside the leather desk pad, then returned to his lap as he sat back in his chair. "You're very persistent Ms. Davis. But WHO has excellent sources all over the world, and I have both a very good memory and a certain vested interest in Dr. Faneuil, since I was peripherally involved in funding him in Kenya. Yes, I'm certain. I received the news of his death with mixed emotions, I must admit - in many ways, Etienne did much good in his time, as well as much evil."
"What about his nurse, Margaret Durand? She helped him with the genocide."
Rudo frowned. "I didn't know her well. I believe she followed Dr. Faneuil to Vietnam but I don't know what became of her. Just a moment ..." He leaned forward again and touched a button on his phone system. "Dianne," he said. "Before you go, make a note to call Aaron Cofield first thing tomorrow morning. Have him start checking for any information he might have on the present whereabouts of a Margaret Durand - she was Etienne Faneuil's nurse. Tell him that I'll give him a call with additional information later."
"Yes, Doctor," a voice answered, tinny through the small speaker. "Have a good evening."
"Thank you." Rudo touched the intercom button again and looked at Hannah. "There. I will send you the results. We probably have better international contacts, even into Free Vietnam despite all its recent uproar." Rudo sighed. "Remember, Ms. Davis, that Dr. Faneuil would be in his mid-seventies if he were still alive. I would imagine Margaret would be sixty or older. Does that fit your fire setter's profile?"
"Not really," Hannah admitted. "Dr. Rudo, thanks for your time. I'd appreciate your looking into Faneuil and Margaret Durand."
"You still think this might be something more than simple arson and murder?"
"I don't know, Dr. Rudo. I try not to have any opinion about it at all and just let the facts speak for themselves. Honestly, I don't think any of this will pan out, but I feel that I have to examine every possibility."
Rudo smiled again and stood, extending his hand. "That is best, certainly. If I can be of any more help to you ..."
His handshake was firm and warm. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been more than helpful already. I have another appointment this evening, as a matter of fact, someone else who might know something about Durand."
"So you've been looking her up, also."
"Yes. Actually, her background is more interesting than Dr. Faneuil's."
"Fascinating. Then I'll simply wish you luck." He started to walk Hannah toward the door, then stopped. He cocked his head to one side slightly, as if appraising a painting or sculpture. "Forgive me for saying this, but as a psychologist, I notice things. Your accent tells me that you're not native to the city, and I suspect that you're not entirely happy here. If I can be of any help in that area ..."
"Am I that transparent?" Hannah asked, genuinely shocked. She tried to laugh; it sounded utterly false.
Rudo chuckled with her. "No, Ms. Davis. I just ... well, pick up on these things. My offer's genuine. Sometimes a neutral ear ..." He smiled again.
"I'll keep it in mind," Hannah told him. The way work is going, the way my relationship with David has gone sour ... "Maybe ..." she said, not realizing until a second later that she'd spoke aloud.
"Please do. Trust yourself, Ms. Davis. You strike me as both dedicated and intelligent. I'm sure you will find your arsonist, and very soon."
***
"It was this picture, Mr. Dearborn. A rather famous picture, from what I'm told. When I saw her file, when I saw where she'd worked and what had happened there, I checked the Wolfe book out of the library. I also found out that you lived in New York now."
"True Brothers." Dearborn gave her a lopsided grin. "Wolfe might be a fine writer, but he ain't a pilot, and no amount of poetic language can replace that. I never could read his book, but I remember the picture."
The retired Navy captain had an apartment in the Village overlooking one of the little parks. He took the book from Hannah, studied the photo reproduced there through his bifocals. Dearborn looked almost skeletal. "Ahh, we were handsome then," he said, handing it back to her. His hand trembled with a palsy. He's on medication, the tenant downstairs had told her. Really sick. Sometimes it makes him a little, well, rambling. She'd tapped her head.
"We had hair," Dearborn said, chuckling. "Lots of it. We thought nothing could kill us. Nothing, ever. We were immortal."
He chuckled again, then leaned back on the couch. A television, the sound off but the picture still on, flickered in the corner of the room. All around, there were pictures of Dearborn, standing alongside a series of aircraft. A half-dollar was sitting on the coffee table. Dearborn picked it up and began flipping it. Heads. Flip. Heads. Flip. Heads. He noticed Hannah watching him and put the coin down again.
"Yes, that's Margaret Durand," Dearborn said. "Peggy, we called her. She was our flight nurse for the project. Thayer took the picture at Pancho's, in fact. He used my camera; I had an old Argus C-3. Lot of those shots on the walls taken with it. In fact, I think it's still around here somewhere. Life bought the reprint rights from us ... afterward. Wolfe did, too." He licked dry, cracked lips. "Maybe except for Peg, I'm the only one left of the bunch, as I guess you've found out. The only one ... Sometimes I think about that, and it scares me. I don't have much time left myself: colon cancer. Not too many people know or care what happened back then...."
Hannah broke in as Dearborn's gaze drifted away. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Dearborn. Would you know where Margaret might be now?"
"Lord, no," Dearborn answered. "After ... we didn't really keep in touch. I think we were all ashamed. Too much mud got slung around and a lot of it stuck. Do you know about it? Really know about it?"
"No, sir. Not very much. Would you take a look at this other picture?" Hannah interrupted. "It's taken much later, around 1982."
Dearborn looked closely at the photograph, holding it up to the lamp alongside the couch. "Why, that's Peggy, too. Older and heavier, but I'd recognize that face and that smile anywhere. So she did get back into nursing.... Where was this taken? Looks like Africa somewhere."
"Kenya," Hannah told him. "You're certain that's Margaret?"
Dearborn glanced at the photo again, then handed it back. "Positive." Dearborn frowned. "You said you were some kind of investigator. Is she in trouble again? Is she dead?"
"In trouble again?"
Dearborn sighed. A flash of pain seemed to run behind his eyes. His lips tightened and he groaned. "Mr. Dearborn?" Hannah asked. "Is there something I can get for you?"
"Pills," he said. "On the table in the kitchen. No," he said as Hannah started to get up. "Let me get them. It's one of the things I won't let myself do - I'm not going to give in to the pain and let someone take care of me. I take care of myself. Always have, always will." He moved off into the kitchen. Hannah could hear him running water, drinking. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, and his footsteps moved away into another hidden room.