“These are not infants. They’re responsible for their acts.”
Dwiggins sighed. “You’re convinced they’re not going to be apprehended?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“You may be right. If they’re half clever they’ll stay out of reach until the world loses interest in them. There won’t be any extended outcry for their capture. The people — including politicians — the people get exercised but they never get concerned. The voice of the people is mainly an indifferent groan.”
She let him run on. He was talking himself into it; she didn’t need to prompt him.
He made a last-ditch effort at resistance. “You don’t like to feel that you’re an ordinary person who can be pushed around by these events. That’s something you have in common with the terrorists — your motives aren’t much different from theirs and now you’re proposing to use their methods, too. Does that leave any difference between you and them?”
“I never aspired to the sainthood.”
“It’s a kamikaze idea.” Dwiggins’ elbows were on his knees. He exposed his palms to her. “You are nuts, you know that?”
“I grant the possibility.”
“Certifiable,” he said. “It costs money, I expect, and nobody could make any promises.”
“I know. I have some money and I don’t expect promises.”
He said, “I want to cover this story.”
“Let’s see how it works out first. I may let you know how things go. Then again—”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I did you a favor,” she told him, “and I asked you one in return. If you want to renege I’ll try someone else, but—”
“What do you want? A private army?”
“I want one man. Someone who can find them — someone who knows that part of the shadows.”
He brooded at her and she met his glance. She was tired of his evasions and admonishments; apparently he saw that, for he gave a quick little nod. “I’ll ask around. Where will you be?”
She felt at the same time relieved, satisfied, and all at once frightened — as if a door were slowly closing, shutting her into a private hell.
Chapter 6
In the fading September light the trees were heavy with dark leafery and she walked heavily. The funeral was still an open wound and she had no idea when it might begin to heal; she anticipated nothing.
O’Hillary in his office was as before: all plastic surface, running his hand through that wavy hair of his. A quick pleasant smile and cold eyes. Smooth, cynical and adept; earnest and compassionate, without an ounce of feeling in it. He probably made love as if he were dictating a memo. According to the white-gold ring he was married and she found this astonishing.
“I appreciate your coming,” he said. He pronounced “appreciate” with a very precise “c.” “We’ve debriefed Ambassador Gordon and some of the other hostages. I thought you might like to know the results. I’m afraid for the most part they’re negative. We know there were at least seven terrorists. The leader was a big man with a bushy beard. The beard may have been false, of course. The others wore masks or hoods at all times. They spoke with Spanish accents. At least one or two of them have some background in seamanship — they transported the hostages in a sailing boat. Now as to the death of, ah, Robert Lundquist, I’m afraid we’ve learned less than we’d have liked to learn by this time. As you know, one of the Marines on the security detail had been struck a severe blow on the head, and evidently your son was concerned there might be concussion — he badgered the terrorists to get medical attention for the Marine. After a while your son was taken out of the hut. The others thought he was being taken to see the leader so he could press his request for medical attention for the Marine. That was the last any of them saw of him. They didn’t see the murder take place, so I’m afraid his murderer won’t be identified until we’ve apprehended the terrorists and interrogated them.”
“You’ve found the hiding place, haven’t you?”
“It’s being searched. Every lead is being pursued.” Something — possibly the coldness of her face — prompted him to add, “This gang seems to be some sort of wild-card outfit. None of the known Cuban exile groups knows anything about them. We’ll come up with results, I think I can promise you that, but it’s going to take time.”
“If a crime isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours it probably never will be solved. Statistical fact, Mr. O’Hillary.” One of Robert’s statistical facts. “I’m not a supplicant begging for scraps. I’m a citizen. I’m the one who pays your salary.”
O’Hillary’s face colored a bit. “Of course I understand how upset you are. But we’re on the same side, aren’t we.”
“I don’t think we are.”
“Isn’t that a bit — well, paranoid?”
“It’s consistent with the facts.”
“Consistent? You could say that about a cathartic. We’re doing our jobs, Mrs. Marchand, as best we know how to do them. There’s no massive conspiracy to cover up the facts about your son’s death. I think you must be careful to make sure your anxieties don’t drive you into emotional difficulties. I know this is an excruciating cliché, but nothing any of us can do about this can bring your son back or make up for your loss.”
“I haven’t entirely taken leave of my senses,” she said. “I simply want to be able to face myself when I think of my son. Never mind, Mr. O’Hillary.” She saw it was no good; there was no getting through to the apparatchiks; she got up and left.
It wasn’t much of a walk back to the hotel. An old woman went by walking an infinitesimal dog, and somewhere a siren shrieked; a young man came along bearing cut flowers in white tissue wrappings, beamed at her and went on by with a spring in his step. She nearly snarled at him. She knew she was going to have to do something about this rage before it destroyed her.
At the desk she found a message from Dwiggins; in the room she dialed with the eraser end of a pencil and sat tapping the pencil against her teeth, listening to it ring. Dwiggins answered on the fifth ring and said, “Call me matchmaker. Have I got a boy for you.”
“Good grief. You’re drunk.”
“Do you want to hear this or not? You’ll love the guy. He’s this big lug, got his nose right next to his ear, hairy all over. Just like a movie star.”
“Yeah,” she said. “King Kong.”
Dwiggins laughed uproariously.
“All right,” she said. “Who and what is he?”
“Crobey. Harry Crobey. I knew him in the highlands. Listen, the guy’s a creature of clandestine warfare the way a tiger’s a creature of the jungle. He’s the kind of guy you’re looking for.” She heard the sound of ice in a glass.
She said impatiently, “Tell me about him.”
“Who?”
“Crobey. Harry Crobey. For God’s sake.”
“Oh yeah, him.” The phone seemed to drop from Dwiggins’ mouth. She vaguely heard him muttering, then after a moment his voice came back on the line. “Sorry, I dropped the phone. You still there?”
“I’m still here.”
“Tell you about Crobey,” he said. “He used to fly in and out of the highlands on this old Air America plane, DC-3.I went in with him a couple times.”
“He’s a pilot?”
“Yeah, he was then. He’d take off with a six-pack of beer by the seat. Drink the beer, refill the empties by urinating in them, drop them out the window on Cong villages. I mean the guy’s beautiful. A top-grade infidel.”
“You do make him sound attractive,” she said.
Dwiggins’ belch sounded cavernous. “I talked to him. He’s between jobs right now. He’s willing to listen to your proposition.”