“I think he may also have an interest in having his problem removed.”
She left, heading for the lieutenant’s office. Krestinski shook his head, counting the sentences he hadn’t been able to complete. If you could call a man who was missing and perhaps dead `lucky’, it would be Hudson. This girl will move heaven and earth until he’s found. And God help the one who stands in her way; anyone lower on the ladder won’t stand a chance.
She’d disappeared by the time he’d finished stuffing paperwork into his briefcase, but he wasn’t surprised to find her at the airport when he arrived. Or to have the pilot tell him she had been authorized to fly with them. Wally was with her. He would stay in Sedona to continue the search for Hudson and to act on whatever information Cilla turned up. She had a question of Krestinski, one foot in the plane. “How long can a man last in the desert this time of year?”
“A lot longer than mid summer.”
Her eyes held his.
“I know that’s no answer. Days if he found water.”
“And wasn’t too badly hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Three days?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“That’s the same amount of time you have, John.”
He nodded wearily, and followed her on.
Krestinski spent the flight on the telephone. Cilla, her mind obviously satisfied she was doing all she could, was asleep before the plane left the ground.
It was dark when they landed in Boston. They dropped the FBI man there and continued on to Manchester, New Hampshire where they were met by the Governor’s car, which drove Cilla to a Concord hotel, arriving a little after midnight. At 8 AM Cilla was sitting in a state house office in conversation with New Hampshire’s chief executive. It was March 15.
“There aren’t that many towns in New Hampshire that take drinking water from rivers and streams.” Norman Ducharme was reading from a report furnished him by the State Department of Water Supply Engineering. “Some are backup systems, but they all have a chlorination or filtration system.”
“How about the bigger cities like Concord and Manchester?”
“Neither of them are on the list, though Manchester has approval to take water from the Merrimac if population growth continues...Nashua’s here though, our second largest...This isn’t a field I know much about. I’m going to get some more expert advice.” He left the room. Cilla walked to the window. It was almost spring, but here in New Hampshire there wouldn’t be buds on the trees for another month. Concord looked like an old dog that’s had a good roll in the dirt. Most of the snow had melted, but patches left by the plows browned on sidewalks. The dregs of a season ending, she thought. Like the crumpled brown leaves of late fall before they’re covered by winter snows. But fall had something this time of year had not. A sweet sadness, yes, for the departure of the long grass of August with the wind high in leafy trees. But for her: a joy, a celebration.
How could Hudson believe she’d leave him for the ashram way of life? Yet those were the last words they’d spoken together. Not together, apart. In separate roles. With a clear mind, unfettered by fear of once again losing the person he loved most, he’d never have been taken in by her playacting. Cilla loved him more for not abandoning Sylvia’s memory. She didn’t want to replace her and knew she never would. For a chilling moment the unthinkable crept in. Of replacing Hudson in her life. No! Don’t think of elephants, elephants, elephants!
“What?” asked Ducharme, coming through the door.
She realized with embarrassment she’d said it aloud. Shouted it in fact.
“Sorry.” Discipline reasserted itself. “What did you learn?”
“We’re losing company fast. Connecticut and Rhode Island are out. In fact they’re the only two states in the country that won’t permit drinking water to be taken from streams used for waste disposal. That includes all the big rivers.” He leaned back on the desk. Half to himself, “I can’t believe we’re not in that group, too.”
“So rivers are out?”
Stafford entered the room. “Call for you, Governor. A Mr. Krestinski.”
Ducharme glanced at Cilla. “I’ll take it here.” He picked up the telephone and waited. The call clicked through. “Norman Ducharme.”
He listened. “May I put this on speaker, Mr. Krestinski? Cilla is here with me...” He lifted his head. “Close the door behind you, Stafford.”
His aide went quietly.
The FBI agent’s voice came through clearly. “Cilla, I just told the Governor it’s bad news, good news. We found the ambulance at Phoenix airport.”
“Blood?” The word came flatly from Cilla.
“None. The bad news is we got a print and know more about who Frank is.”
“Tell me.”
“Franklin Scoggins was a guard at a US biological weapons disposal facility. You may remember that in nineteen sixty-nine President Nixon shut down all American research on biological warfare weapons. If you can believe it, the disposal is still going on today. In the meantime, what hasn’t been deactivated, or whatever you do to get rid of the stuff they made, the material is kept closely guarded in a number of secret sites.”
“What happened to Scoggins?”
“He was let go. `Missing supplies’ is the reason given by the Army.”
“What supplies?” asked the Governor.
“So far the Army doesn’t consider the FBI has sufficient clearance to be told.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Ducharme, who had on occasion had similar difficulty getting information out of his own departments.
“It’s what’s worrying. If whatever it is he took is so bad they won’t tell us...” There was no need to finish the sentence. “Look, you know how these things work, Governor. They’ll tell us sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Haven’t they been getting our reports? Or even listening to the damn TV? It’s been out all day!” Ducharme had started to pace. “My God, don’t they realize how little time we’ve got?”
“I have two men outside General Crosby’s door waiting on the conference they’ve been in since seven this morning.”
“You’ll call us when they come out?”
“Couldn’t we call them?” asked Cilla. “Let them know how important it is?”
“They know, Cilla.” Krestinski sighed at her naivete. “People don’t just telephone the Pentagon like calling a plumber. It sounds like these people are sweating. They know they’re going to take a tumble, be demoted or worse. Even the President of the United States would have trouble getting their attention right now.”
“I bet the Commander-In-Chief wouldn’t,” said Ducharme.
The phone was silent for a moment. “Can you open that door?”
“You’d be surprised what people in New Hampshire can do.”
He hung up.
Cilla looked the question.
“Payback time. John Montego wouldn’t be President if he hadn’t won the New Hampshire primary. He considered it little short of a miracle that in his big, first-in-the-nation test, a northern New England state would come out so strongly for a Hispanic from New Mexico. He had trouble getting the New Mexicans’ vote at the convention.”
“How did he win?”
