Exhausted, Richard Cromwell sat before the president of the Republic. He struggled to keep his hands from shaking as he gratefully took a cup of tea, the third one Andrew had offered him since the interview started.
“Can you tell us anything else about the plane you flew?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I tried to stretch it to land. I should have set it down on the beach along the Minoan Shoals rather than try and make the last ninety miles to Constantine.” Andrew extended his hand in a calming gesture. “You might have been stuck out there for days before someone spotted you. I don’t blame you for trying the final stretch. I’d have done the same thing.”
“Still, I lost the plane damn near in sight of land.”
“Just lucky one of our frigates spotted you going in. But is there anything else you can tell us about their weapons?”
“Ship designs, I can give you only general information. I worked on some of it on the train ride up here and can compile more information in a day or so. Perhaps if some of the design engineers from the technical college asked me questions I might be able to remember.”
Andrew nodded approvingly and looked over at Pat O’Donald, the only other person he would trust to be at this meeting and whom Richard had requested attend as well.
“Is there anything else you can remember, lad?” Pat asked. “Did you hear of a date when they plan to start, details about machines? Can you tell us anything else about this Hazin, or those beastly men?”
“The Shiv?” He wearily shook his head. The interview had been going on for nearly three hours without stop, and it was obvious to Andrew that Cromwell was past the point of exhaustion. He had been fished out of the ocean less than two days ago, taken straight to Bullfinch, then put on an express train straight back to Suzdal.
“Frightful, sir. They don’t seem quite human. I’m not sure if it’s because they have been bred for so long that they are different from us, or if it is their cult or the drugs that Hazin gives to them.”
Pat, who had shown remarkable restraint throughout the meeting, could finally contain himself no longer. “Cromwell, a personal question.”
Andrew could see Richard stiffen. “Yes, sir. About your son. That’s why I asked that you attend when I met with the president.”
“You knew him?”
“Of course, sir. We trained together at the academy flight school and were berthed together on the Gettysburg.”
Pat showed a hint of embarrassment. The fact that he did not know such common details about his son’s life was troubling.
“Did he say anything? I mean, did you talk at all about things before the Gettysburg was lost?”
Richard hesitated, looking not at Pat but at Andrew. “Go on, son,” Andrew said softly.
Richard shifted, coming almost to attention as he turned back to face Pat. “Your son is alive, sir.”
“My God!” Pat cried. He bolted up from his seat and began to pace furiously. “I knew it. I just knew the lad was still alive!
“How? Did he escape, too?”
Richard shook his head.
Pat seemed torn with emotions. He was relieved of the horrible anxiety that had controlled his life since Andrew had told him that the Gettysburg was destroyed and a lone survivor had escaped. Now, to suddenly discover that his boy was still alive, but a prisoner, was all but overwhelming. Pat looked at Andrew, desperation in his eyes.
“Could we arrange an exchange? Remember, the Tugars did it with Hawthorne. We did it with the Merki and Bantag. Damn it, Andrew, I’ll go myself.”
Andrew extended a calming hand, his gaze still locked on Richard. “I think Mr. Cromwell here has more to say.” Richard nodded his thanks and took a deep breath. “Out with it, boy. Come on,” Pat snapped anxiously.,“Sir, I offered your son the chance to escape with me. He refused.”
“What?” Pat roared. He advanced menacingly on Richard, but Richard didn’t flinch.
“Are you calling my son a traitor?”
“No, sir, I didn’t say that. On the night I escaped, I asked Lieutenant O’Donald to come with me. He refused.”
“The weight,” Pat interjected, grasping for answers. “He must have realized how desperate your plan was. A hundred and fifty pounds more and you might not have made it.”
“That’s not what decided the issue, sir,” Richard replied, and Andrew realized that Cromwell had brushed over a point. Taking Sean would have meant dumping nearly thirty gallons of precious fuel, but he’d been willing to do that anyhow.
“Out with it then, damn it!” Pat shouted.
“Sir, I hate to be the bearer of this news. Your son, something happened to him.”
“They tortured him, didn’t they, the filthy bastards.”
“Pat, would you please let Mr. Cromwell explain,” Andrew said quietly but his voice was hard, the tone expecting compliance.
Richard looked over at Andrew with the slightest flicker in his eyes. It was obvious that he hated what had to be done, but would go through with it regardless.
Pat sat down, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Go on then, Cromwell.”
“Yes, we were tortured.”
“That’s rather evident,” Andrew interjected, for the wounds on Richard’s face were still evident, lips still puffed up.
Richard started to say more, but fell silent.
“They broke him, didn’t they?” Pat asked.
“It wasn’t just the torture, it was something they put in our water. It was a drug. I have heard about how morphine affects men who were wounded.”
Andrew looked at Cromwell unflinchingly. His own addiction to morphine after being wounded at Capua was one secret of his life that only those closest to him knew. It was frightful as well that after twenty years he still thought of it at times and had to fight the craving. Emil had told him that it would be like that for the rest of his life.
“Was it morphine?” Pat asked.
“I don’t know. It made you feel like you were floating, the pain was gone, but you could still see and think clearly. It also made what Hazin said terribly persuasive. It was a horrible thing to fight against.”
“Yet you resisted.”
Pat looked over at Andrew, ready to make an angry comment, but a gesture stilled him.
“Yes, sir. At least I think I did,” Cromwell replied.
“And my son?” Pat asked.
“Hazin seemed to single him out for special attention,” Richard replied.
Andrew could sense that Cromwell was skirting the truth, but knew it was best, at least with Pat in the room, to not press for any further details.
“What do you mean, ‘attention’?” Pat asked warily.
“After the torture we were separated, and I didn’t see Lieutenant O’Donald again until just before I left. I assume Hazin talked to him as he did to me.”
That information set in motion a disturbing thought. Perhaps, Andrew wondered, Cromwell was unwittingly a pawn in some sort of power game. Perhaps everything he had learned about their plans was false.
“My son, damn it,” Pat interrupted. “Get on with telling me.”
Richard exhaled noisily and quickly finished his cup of tea and set it down.
“I’m sorry, sir. There was another factor, a woman. Sean became involved with her and didn’t want to leave her.”
Pat’s temper edged back slightly.
“This woman, was she a slave of Hazin’s?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, sir. She was a member of the cult.”
“She was assigned to seduce Sean-” Andrew offered.
“That’s what I assumed,” Richard interjected hurriedly.
“So you are telling me that now my son is in the ranks of this Hazin.”
Richard hesitated again.
“Go on.”
“Sir, he accepted rank,” Richard replied softly, as if the words were too distasteful to be spoken aloud. “He said that the only hope for the Republic was to have someone from our side in their ranks, so that when we were defeated he’d be in a position to help what was left. He said that Hazin was the future.”