“Then this is about your wife’s death. You believe she was murdered.”
“I believe it’s probable. Wray and six other good and decent people. One of her best friends was aboard that plane. A fellow we’d known since grade school who became a very fine plastic surgeon.”
“Do you have evidence?”
“It’s my opinion. My wife’s death wasn’t an accident.”
There was an intensity to his silence and something suggestive about the way he busied himself neatening his gear. Customs agents and cops learn to watch the hands. People who feel guilty use busywork to dissemble.
“You were supposed to be on that plane, weren’t you, sir?”
His hand came to rest on the photograph. It was facedown on the table. “That’s right.”
“It wasn’t mentioned in the news accounts.”
“No one knew. No one was supposed to know, anyway, and the media still hasn’t found out. I told the FBI, of course. They’re working on the investigation with an international team. It’s important for them to understand there was a motive.”
“Why would someone in your position risk traveling to Central America in a small plane?”
“It was a private plane, but it wasn’t a small plane. It was a Cessna Conquest. A dream to fly; we used it several times. It was part of what we did -help people. Anonymously. There’d been an earthquake that wiped out a village in western Nicaragua. They are common in that part of the world. We were taking supplies and a medical team. Our friend was a gifted surgeon.”
I had personal experience with the earthquakes and volcanoes of the region but said nothing.
Flying supplies to people in trouble, the president explained, wasn’t an unusual thing for him and his wife to do.
“When we began work on the Wilson Library, we also created the Wilson Center to stay involved with issues important to Wray and me. It was her idea to establish a response team that could get help to disaster victims fast. We are small, we’re privately funded, so we’re already on scene while the big bureaucracies are still dealing with red tape. It’s a hands-on project. We work hard, and always anonymously.”
Because of his schedule, the president said, he could only occasionally join the Wilson Center’s volunteers. He’d cleared the decks, though, for Nicaragua.
“But Secret Service talked me into canceling because of that damn death threat. The day after my wife was killed, I told my security people, and the director, that I would never again allow them to overrule me.”
“Someone targeted the plane because they thought you were aboard.”
His finger tapped at the back of the photo. “I’m convinced that’s true.”
“An incendiary rocket?”
He shrugged. His finger, I noticed, was tapping in synch with the distant drums.
“How many people knew you planned to make the trip?”
“Dozens. The Wilson Center has a full-time staff, plus many volunteers who have administrative responsibilities.”
“How many knew you canceled?”
“Fewer, but still a sizeable number.”
“You told me the plane made a scheduled landing. But newspaper accounts said the plane crashed while making an emergency landing. Are you sure you’re right?”
He nodded. “Wray and her group got a message that a pregnant woman was in desperate need of medical attention. The woman and her son were to meet the plane at the airstrip.”
“You must have someone feeding you solid information.”
“Smart executives put together first-rate intelligence networks or they’re not smart executives. Even nine years after leaving office, it’s not an exaggeration to say that my sources are beyond the comprehension of most. Many of the world leaders I dealt with have also retired, but we stay in contact, advise each other, and share information-even some of my old adversaries. No one in power wants our input anymore. In a strange way, we’re like a secret and exclusive little club.”
“Are you telling me you know who did it.” I waited through a long silence. “I would assume it was the same group that came after you tonight. Muslim fanatics.”
The former president’s hand stilled. “ Islamicists, you mean? It’s true they’d love to have my head on a platter. Literally.” Abruptly, he resumed neatening his gear. I had the feeling I’d missed something.
“Maybe Hal Harrington can provide more information,” he said. Wilson was good at that-dodging questions by putting you on the defensive. “Or are you still pretending you don’t know the man?”
Why was he asking about the covert intelligence guru again? Harrington was a member of the deep-cover operations team the president had discovered: Negotiating and Systems Analysis. To give members legitimate cover while operating in foreign lands, the agency provided them legitimate and mobile professions.
Harrington, trained as a computer software programmer, later founded his own company. He’s now listed among the wealthiest men in the country. Did that have something to do with it?
I had no choice but to reply, “You’ve mentioned Harrington before. Sorry, I don’t know the man.”
“You didn’t contact him after our meeting in your laboratory?”
“Even if I knew who you’re talking about, the answer would be no.” True. Harrington was still with the team. The head of it now. But I no longer trusted him.
“You’re good, Ford. If you’re proving you can keep a secret, it’s working. But I’m tired. We can talk about this later. Otherwise, I’ll give you information as you need to know.”
He sounded tired. My eyes had adjusted to the light and I saw that his face was the same mushroom gray as No Mas ’s hull. His hair had been shaved boot camp close but he looked monkish, not military. In every photo I’d ever seen, he had the silver, sculpted hair typical of politicians and anchormen. The change in his appearance was remarkable.
I said, “There’s something that can’t wait. You told me to pack a passport and enough clothes for a week. But if we’re going after Mrs. Wilson’s killers”-I made eye contact, trying to communicate my meaning without risking details-“I need more than socks and a shaving kit. There are some items at my lab that might be useful.”
He was unaccustomed to being pushed. It was in his face.
“That’s something we’ll discuss. But not now.” Blinking, Wilson leaned forward, removed his contact lenses. Then he pulled a bottle of pills from his backpack, and tapped two into his hand. “Is there water around here?”
I wanted more answers. If we were hunting professional killers, I had to stop at the lab. And there was no reason to bring Tomlinson. It wasn’t coincidental that he’d been at the party on Useppa and was now on this remote island.
Tomlinson is my trusted friend, a solid travel partner, and possibly the most intelligent person I know-when he’s not stoned or word-slurring drunk. But the man doesn’t have the skills or the stomach for the variety of violence Wilson was hinting at. On this trip, he would be a liability.
But I didn’t push because the former president was a sick man-for the first time, I could see the disease in his hollow, knowing eyes.
I hurried to the canoe and returned with water.
9
The former president was asleep. Finally. And Tomlinson still didn’t know we were on the island. As I headed down the beach to say hello, I realized that I, too, was moving in rhythm with the drums.
I’d changed into a khaki shirt and shorts and was carrying a Sage fly rod I’d found in a storage room. I’d broken the angler’s rule about borrowing equipment, rationalizing that I would return it in better shape than I found it. The reel needed oiling, and its sink-tip line was moldy.
As I walked, I made a hasty leader using spider hitches and surgeon’s knots, then tied on a streamer fly of chartreuse and silver. Still walking, I began false casting, stripping out line. It was the last hour of a falling tide. The beach was stained pink at the high-water mark. Below was exposed sand, sculpted by current, smooth as wind-blown snow. Its surface was crusted. It collapsed beneath my weight.