"No one at all. I wanted to talk to you first. Frankly, I did not know if your daughter might have known this other girl, or if your daughter's disappearance might be tied in somehow with this girl's death, or precisely what. It's only fair to tell you that the dead girl wasn't drowned. She was dead before she entered the water. I thought before I announced anything I would give you a chance to explain."
"You've done very well," Butler said, "and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I would like you to do something else for me, if you would."
"If I can."
"Give me an hour and then I will be back here. Then we can decide what to do and what to say."
"Of course, Mr. Butler. Just so long as we both understand that I must fulfil the requirements of my office."
"Naturally I understand that, Doctor. Just an hour."
Butler left the doctor's office. In the middle of the next block was a bank in which the Butler family was the controlling stockholder. Butler went in, spoke briefly to the bank president, and in five minutes was ensconced, as he had asked to be, in a private office with a private telephone and a guarantee of no interruptions.
It was a sticky problem, Butler realized. At first blush, he would immediately think kidnapping and ransom. But why then would the kidnapers have gone to the trouble of dressing someone in Hillary's clothes and jewellery and trying to make it appear as if his daughter were dead? No. Kidnapping was out. Therefore, the next step might be that Hillary herself was somehow involved in this. He had no idea how to handle a thing like that, no knowledge of police processes. And hanging over it all was the publicity problem because of the Butler family's relationship with the Lippincotts.
Children with a problem go to their fathers. Butler went to the head of the Lippincott family and all its branches, Laurence Butler Lippincott
Succinctly, calmly, he told Lippincott over the phone what had happened. Lippincott, with no trace of emotion in his voice, got Butler's number and told him to stay put; he would call him back.
From Laurence Butler Lippincott, a call went to the Senate Office Building. From there, a call went to the White House. From the White House, a special call went to Folcroft Sanatorium in Rye, New York. Problems were discussed, options were considered, decisions were reached.
The links in the chain were then reversed, and finally, the telephone rang in the air-conditioned bank office where Butler sat.
"Yes," he said.
"This is Laurie. Please listen very carefully. We believe your daughter is alive, but that she is no longer in this country. The very highest agencies in our government are now attempting to rescue her. This rescue effort, however, is guaranteed to fail if the people involved suspect that we know anything except what they wanted us to think. Therefore this is what we will do."
Butler listened as Laurie Lippincott spoke. Finally he said, "What of Martha?" thinking of his wife who was in a state of near collapse.
"She's already done the worst of her suffering," Lippincott said. "Tell her nothing."
"Nothing? But she ought to know."
"Why? So she can worry? Become hysterical? Perhaps drop a word here or there that could mean Hillary's death? Please. The very best thing is to let her think Hillary is dead. If we can get Hillary back, Martha can rejoice. And if we fail, well, one can only grieve once."
"What are the chances, Laurie?"
"I won't lie to you. They're less than fifty-fifty. But we're pulling out every stop. The best we have is on it."
"We? You mean the family?"
"No. I mean the United States of America," Lippincott said.
Butler sighed. "Okay, Laurie. Whatever you say. But I'm worried about the doctor. He's a snotty young bastard. He may give me flak."
Laurence Butler Lippincott took the name of the doctor, while allowing himself a small chuckle. "He shouldn't be too difficult," he said. Not if his tax return is like most doctors'."
So it was that ten minutes later, Butler was back in the office of the doctor, explaining that the doctor must remain silent, must permit the funeral to go ahead as if the dead body were really that of Hillary Butler.
"Never," the doctor said angrily. "I don't know what your game is, but I'm not playing it."
His intercom rang. The doctor picked up the phone and said sharply, "I said I wasn't to be… oh…oh, I see. Yes, of course."
He pressed a blinking lit button on the telephone receiver. Warily, he said, "This is he." He said nothing else for a full sixty seconds., Finally, he said, "Of course, Senator. Yes. Senator, I understand. Of course. No problem. Be glad to, Senator. Yes, I understand." When he hung up the phone, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.
He looked at Butler and nodded. "I won't say a thing," he said.
"Good," Butler said. "Sometime in the near future, I hope to be able to explain all this to your satisfaction," he added, wondering if he were not making too big a concession to a social inferior.
The doctor raised a hand. "No need of that. Whatever you want."
"Then, good day," Butler said. "I must go to the funeral home and console my wife."
In Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith leafed through a pile of reports and tried not to think of the Butler girl or of Remo and Chiun, five thousand miles away in Busati.
He had done the best he could and assigned his top weapons to the project. There was nothing more he could do, so there was no point in worrying.
Right? Wrong. Unless the matter were cleared up satisfactorily there might be substantial problems coming from the direction of the Lippincott family. And if they leaned into the President, the President might just fall over on top of Smith, Remo, Chiun and the whole CURE operation.
And the Lippincotts wouldn't give a damn that Smith had been considering America's best interests when he told Remo he could not kill General Obode.
Unless Remo moved pretty quickly, the whole mess might be beyond unscrambling.
He wished Remo would phone, but he knew it was not likely. It took forever for CURE's Busati source to reach them by telephone, and he was a high official of the government. Smith thought of the CURE contact, ex-CIA man William Forsythe Butler. Perhaps if Remo were not successful in getting this squared away quickly, Smith might contact Butler for his advice and help.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The man trotting up the hill wore immaculate white gabardines cut in the style of a British khaki bush uniform.
As he walked into the village, he called aloud a few words of the guttural Loni tongue. The village at first seemed deserted, but slowly people came out of huts and greeted him.
General William Forsythe Butler stood in the center court of all the huts, talking to Loni tribesmen, scanning the village, looking for a glimpse of Princess Saffah.
She came around a corner and his face lit when he saw her.
"Oh, Butler," she said, "we are glad you have returned to visit your people."
He reached for her, then withdrew his hands. He wanted to tell her of Hillary Butler, but held back. Perhaps she would not share his view that the act of revenge had helped even more to cast him in the mould of the Lonis' redeemer.
"I am glad to be here," he said.
"We have great news." To his raised eyebrow, she said, "Yes. The legend. It is being fulfilled."
She knew, Butler thought, but how had she guessed? It didn't matter. It was enough that Saffah and the rest of the Loni knew the legend was being fulfilled in his person. He smiled to her, the warm knowing smile that one smiled to another with whom he shared a secret
He would have preferred it another way. It would have been better if he and Saffah had been able to discuss it first and then announce it to the Loni in the proper fashion. But if this was the way it was to be, well, who was he to argue? One must seize the moment of history; time is not always tidy.