Pauling said, “If you’re talking about Rorke, unless you pissed her off with something I don’t know about, I don’t think so. You’re just not a threat to this operation, Mike. Let’s be clear. Even if you wanted to talk to someone about this, you don’t know anything for sure. That was by design. You don’t know the names, or places, or times. I’m sure you could come up with a theory, and maybe a few facts with a little investigation, although it would likely take you several months to build your case and longer to find an audience for your story. Convincing the Chinese that eating rice is bad for their health—now that wouldn’t fly without a lot of supporting data that you don’t have. If you did upset some people about lung cancer, their army operatives would likely kill the story or kill you because you’d screw up their cigarette business. As it stands right now, it’s a big country, and you don’t know where they planted all the bad plants. You’re not on the inside, Franco. I didn’t want you in, and because of that, Rorke has no unfinished business with you.”
Franco thought about the Admiral’s assessment of the situation. “Sloan had enough credibility to be a risk?”
“As a former Undersecretary of Agriculture with possible documentation on the project in his possession? Yes, he had credibility.”
Neither of them said anything else about it until Franco spoke. “You would have killed Sloan anyway, even without the call to the reporter.”
The comment was made quickly, and it stopped the conversation. Both men were uncomfortable. Both knew there was no more to be said about Sloan.
After a few seconds, Franco spoke again. “What will you do about Buddy?”
“Rorke talked to him and convinced him that if word ever got out that he was involved in this, he’d be a dead man. That is certainly not an exaggeration. The Chinese would not let this pass without a punishment. Buddy will keep quiet about this with the hope he won’t be blamed for it.”
Franco nodded. The Admiral looked out the window. “Your ride is here. It’s time for you to go. I assumed you’d prefer your own flight back rather than going commercial. The Royal Kiwi’s have provided a King Air for your trip, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Franco meekly. He felt exhausted as he struggled to understand how all this was actually happening.
The Admiral stood, and Franco followed his lead.
“Don’t look so glum. This will all work out fine. It’s an incredible thing we’re doing. Trust me: it’s all going to go very well.” The Admiral handed him an envelope and said, “Here’s your check. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Goodbye, Franco. I’ll know where to find you if I need you again.”
Franco wanted to protest; instead, he simply said, “Yes, sir.” He turned back to the Admiral. “When are you going to tell the Chinese?”
“Don’t worry. It will be handled just right.” He pointed to the door. “Go. You did your job.”
Franco walked to the cabin door and saw the King Air parked across the tarmac. More important than his plane, his attention became riveted on Rorke and Chen, standing at the bottom of the jet’s steps.
He descended the steps. Rorke’s unblinking eyes showed nothing. Franco looked closely at those green eyes that had earlier seemed so beautiful. They were expressionless, cold, and frightening.
Franco walked past Rorke to his plane without speaking, thinking about what he had learned that day.
CHAPTER 35
The flight back was smooth, picking up clouds on the approach to Stewart Island. It was raining again, and despite the low ceiling, the pilots amused themselves with an aerial tour of the island. As they made the wide circle, Franco thought about how insignificant and secluded it was. It might be a good place to sit out a war.
There was no one else on the airstrip when he landed. The pilots kept the engines running as he deplaned and walked off the taxiway. The turboprop’s engines revved higher as soon as he cleared the backwash. He was lost in his thoughts as he stood watching the King Air disappear into the clouds over the far end of the runway.
He phoned for a cab and the taxi arrived ten minutes later. Franco knew the cab driver by face from the restaurant and from walking around in Oban. Even if Franco had not known him, the driver would have recognized Franco, who was a local curiosity, if not a celebrity, as the American who came to Stewart Island for an extended holiday.
Although the driver was interested in hearing about Franco’s trip, Franco was not in a sharing mood. In fact, he was still in shock from the events of the last two weeks. The world was an unsettled place for him. The idea that only three people could destroy a country and could do it anonymously was simply too hard to grasp.
He daydreamed through the short drive home, and mostly blocked out the chitchat of the driver. He felt as if he might cry. His fear, anger, and disappointment all distilled down into a vast feeling of emptiness. The values and respect he thought he shared with Pauling were no longer certain. It was all so terribly wrong, all so horribly sad.
Franco paid the driver, walked to his house, and stepped up on his porch. The rain had lessened on the drive although he did not expect it to stop. He walked to the door and turned the knob. He hadn’t locked it when he left. The door opened and the room was as he had left it.
When he walked to his bedroom, he saw that things had changed. The bed was made differently and there was a new pillow on the bed. A woman’s toiletries were on the dresser and in the small bathroom. He looked in the closet and Ani’s clothes were hanging there. She was back.
Franco did not know how he felt about the return of his roommate. His future was uncertain in every way, and he was not sure she could help him bring it into focus. It was now mid-afternoon and he had missed lunch with the trip down from Christchurch. He put on a coat and hat and walked the short distance into town to his favorite restaurant.
Immediately on entering the restaurant, he saw her. She was in a booth reading a book. She faced him as he came in the door.
She looked up from the book and watched him come to her. He walked to the booth and sat across from her. He felt no ambivalence as he looked at her. He was delighted she was there.
“You’re back,” he said. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”
“I never really left,” she said. “You’re the one who’s back—and you still look cute.”
“Yes, I’m back and I’m through working with Pauling.”
“Haven’t you said that before?”
“Yeah, well, this time I mean it,” he said firmly.
She reached over the table and held his hand. “How was your trip?” she asked quietly.
“You don’t want to know.”
“It was that bad?”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Okay,” she said, and waited for him to continue.
“I missed lunch,” he said. “Let me order my food. Do you want anything?”
“No thanks. I ate,” she said.
He walked to the bar and greeted the bartender. He ordered lunch and returned to the booth. “How have you been? Did you miss me?”
“Okay, thank you, and yes, I’ve missed you.” She squeezed his hand a little harder.
He looked at her closely before he said, “I’m finished with the old man. Are you still working for Pauling?”
“Would you believe me if I told you ‘no’?”
“Probably.”
“Would it matter to you?”
He also thought about the question before answering. “No. I don’t think it would at this point.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said.
“Good. I believe you. So, you’re unemployed?”
“Yes, like you.”
“I’m not unemployed,” he countered. “I’m retired.”
“Oh,
I’m sorry for misstating it. What are you going to do now that you’re ‘retired?’”
He thought a moment, and then said, “I think I’ll have lunch.”
“Do you see anything more strategic on your horizon?” she asked.
“No. I have no idea how the future will play out,” he said truthfully.
The barman walked over and brought a beer and Franco’s lunch platter—fish, rice, and a salad.
Franco thanked him and turned back to Ani, “Let me eat lunch and we’ll try to work that out.” He scraped the rice off his plate, and was grateful for his food in a way he had never been before. He looked at the lovely woman in front of him, gazed out the window through the trickling rain, and wondered when the sun would shine again.
SPECIAL THANKS
I am so grateful for the generosity of friends and family who have provided thoughtful input to this novel throughout its multiple iterations. By name, thank you to Emily, Peter K., Peter C., John, Alex, Tony R., Garrett M., Denny W. and Joe B.. I thank Linda Cashdan and Carol Bleistine for their invaluable editorial input. Thanks especially to Mary Packer at Meadow Lane Press for her ongoing support and expertise in bringing this manuscript into print. Thanks always to Cissy for her unwavering confidence and patience.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Claypool is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame and has had a long career as a biological research scientist and as an executive in the pharmaceutical industry. Additionally, he has held faculty positions at the University of Illinois at Chicago, the University of Pittsburgh, and the University of Pennsylvania. He lives outside of Philadelphia.
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