Moriarty quelled the interior seething. Is this actually ridiculous? he wondered. Why am I turning the heavy artillery on a gadfly?
Because an instinct that my calling has honed tells me there is something big behind this, big, big. Uncovering it could do more than silence a noisy reactionary. It could lift me into orbit. Four years heUce, eight at most, I could be bringing that new dawn which Tannahill and his night-spooks dread.
He sat back into well-worn, accepting, creaky leather, and set a part of his mind to telling one muscle after the next that it should slack off. “Look,” he said, “you know I haven’t had time to stay abreast of your efforts. Brief me. Begin at the beginning. Never mind if you repeat this or that I’ve heard before. I want the facts arranged orderly for inspection.”
“Yes, sir.” Stoddard opened the case and took out a ma-nila folder. “Suppose I give you a quick summary, from the start, before we go into particulars.”
“Fine.”
Stoddard checked his notes. “I did tell you when Tannahill reappeared in New Hampshire, you remember. We’ve had a tail on him since then. As per your instructions, I notified the FBI of that. The agent I talked to was a little annoyed.”
“He considered me officious, no doubt.” Moriarty laughed. “Better that than seem furtive. And it has planted a bee in their bonnet. Go on.”
“Shortly after his return—do you want dates? Not yet?— shortly afterward, Tannahill went down to New York, took a hotel room, and met a plane from Copenhagen at Kennedy airport. A young woman, uh, flew to his arms when she’d cleared customs, and they were shacked up in that hotel for several days. It looked like a honeymoon situation, sightseeing, fancy restaurants, you know the bit. We checked back, of course. Her name is Olga Rasmussen, Danish citizen but actually from Russia, a refugee. Some puzzling things about her, but it’s hard to do detail work internationally, and expensive. You decide whether we should.
“Meanwhile Tannahill dropped in at Unity headquarters. He didn’t stay long and hasn’t been in touch again, unless he’s got a secret line,” Stoddard said nothing about the legality of any wire taps and Moriarty didn’t inquire. “He and Rasmussen went north to his place. They’ve been there since, not going out much nor doing anything unusual in public. Except ... lately they drove to the nearest airport and brought home a man who’s now their house guest or whatever. We haven’t been able to trace him, apart from indications that he’s from the West Coast. Native American, to judge by his appearance.”
“What sort?” Moriarty asked. “They don’t all look alike.”
“Huh? Well, he’s tall and hawk-faced. Tannahill introduced him to shopkeepers and such in the village as John Wanderer.”
“Hm. West Coast... Well, what about the violence last night?”
“Apparently the local drug baron in that section of New York had his goons make a raid on a tenement that Unity is fixing for its members. He seems to have been trying to force it out before it gets established on his turf. It’s too apt to choke off businesses like his.”
Moriarty searched his memory. “I may have heard a little about Unity before the story today, but I’m not sure. Tell me.”
“They’re obscure,” Stoddard said. “I gather that’s by choice. Stay compact, controllable; keep a low profile. It’s a kind of self-help organization in the poverty classes, but not like any other. Not a church, though it has a religious element—ceremonies, anyhow. Not a militant group, though the members stick together, including on patrols that are more than simple neighborhood watches. However, hitherto they’ve avoided breaking any laws where anybody could see. The president, high priestess, whatever her title is, she’s quite the mystery woman. Black, name of Corinne Macandal. She has a white associate, Rosa Donau, who’s the one involved in the shooting. And that’s about all we’ve turned up so far on Unity.”
“Tell me about the affair,” Moriarty urged. “The account in the paper was so sketchy.”
“I’m afraid mine will be, too. Donau was at this restoration project when the gang broke hi. One of the Unity men had a firearm. Shots were exchanged. He was killed, but not before he’d done for an enemy. Donau was seriously wounded.”
Moriarty nodded. “Saturday night specials. Bullets spraying around. And nevertheless the rednecks quack about the Second Amendment... Continue. Any more casualties?”
“Two unarmed night watchmen had been roughed up. Several other men from Unity were staying at the place, but they had only clubs—well, a couple of permissible-type knives.”
“Bad enough. None of them were hurt?”
“No, nor engaged. After those few shots, the attackers fled. Obviously they hadn’t expected that kind of resistance. My guess is that they intended vandalism, destruction. The Unity people called the police. The dead men went to the morgue, Donau to the hospital. Shot through the chest. Condition serious but stable.”
“M-m-m.” Moriarty tugged his chin and squinted out across the sunlit waters. “I daresay the head honcho— Macandal, is that her name?—she’ll issue a statement expressing shock and disavowing those vigilantes.”
“My impression is they’ll swear it was strictly their own idea.”
“Which might be true. Donau should know more, if she survives. A material witness, at the very least... Yes, I think this was not simply another brawl in the slums.” Triumph trumpeted. “I believe we can find grounds for me to demand a federal investigation of Unity and everybody who’s ever touched it.”
13
“Actually, by and large, Indian men worked as hard as then- women,” Wanderer said. “It was just that the division of labor was sharper than among whites, and the women’s share was what a visitor in camp saw.”
“But wasn’t the men’s part more fun?” Svoboda asked. “Hunting, for instance.” Her expression was rapt. Here she sat in the presence of a man who had been of those fabulous tribes, had experienced the Wild West.
Hanno considered lighting his pipe. Better not. Svoboda disliked it and heM cut back on that account. Probably soon she’d make him quit altogether. Meanwhile, he thought grumpily, why doesn’t she aim a few of her questions my way? I saw a bit of the American frontier too. I knew this land we’re on when it was wilderness.
His gaze went out the nearer window of the living room. Afternoon sunlight glowed across the lawn. At the edge of grass a flowerbed flaunted red, violet, gold below the burglar-alarmed chain link fence that surrounded the property. From here he couldn’t see the driveway sweep in from the county road, through an electrically controlled gate and between stately beech trees to the mansion. Visible instead behind the fence were second-growth woods whose leafage billowed and twinkled under the wind.
A lovely place, this, the ideal retreat after New York, peacefulness in which he and Svoboda could explore each other more deeply and she could get to know Wanderer. But he must return to Seattle and affairs neglected. She’d come along, she’d enjoy the city and adore its hinterland. Wanderer ought to stay behind a while, in case of a message from Macandal... Would those two women ever stop dithering, or whatever they were at? ... Svoboda was anxious to meet Asagao and Tu Shan... He, Hanno, should not think in terms of distracting her from Wanderer. He didn’t own her, he had no right to be jealous, and anyway, there was nothing serious between those two, so far—
The phone rang. Wanderer stopped in mid-sentence. “Go on,” Hanno invited. “It may not need any response.”
The answering machine recited its instructions aloud and beeped. A female voice came, rapid, not quite steady: “Madame Aliyat must speak with Mr. Tannahill. It’s urgent. Don’t call straight back—”
Aliyat! Hanno was already across the room. He snatched the receiver from the antique table. “Hello, Tannahill here, is that you?”
No, he recognized Macandal’s tones.
What? His mind leaped.
She had had less practice in recent decades, talked slowly and haltingly, sometimes required his help in making clear what she meant. Fallen silent, Wanderer and Svoboda heard his speech grow steely, saw his visage
