Seen from behind,
Kendall gave the impression of someone intensely aware of being
watched but affecting not to care. The perfect tailoring of Kendall’s
bespoke suit, his bronzed complexion, the freshly trimmed gray
sideburns, all contributed to Linder’s assessment that, despite the
impeccably groomed shell of the former corporate litigator, inside
dwelled a hollowed-out soul like that of hundreds of rebel exiles he
had known since the fall of the Third American Republic.
These men had escaped
Unionist America with their money but had left behind their
businesses, their professions, their contacts, their clubs, their
neighborhoods, their charities, their connectedness to the
communities that defined who they were. Linder had come to know men
like Kendall during his student years at Exeter, Kenyon, and
Columbia. Good-looking, sophisticated, well-traveled youths from
Greenwich and Rye, Brookline and Cambridge, Wilmington and
Philadelphia’s Main Line, who by young adulthood had little time to
spare for anyone outside their interconnected circles of privilege.
Linder guessed that,
until he ran short of funds, Kendall had not even attempted to
circumvent the prohibition on gainful employment that was a condition
of his British residence permit. According to reports in his DSS
file, Kendall had never intended to start a fresh life in London;
rather, he had hoped to resurrect his old one once the Unionist
regime collapsed. But this hadn’t happened, and it was why Linder
considered Kendall vulnerable to a covert appeal to return, and it
was why the man would likely meet his end in a Unionist labor camp.
Linder caught up to
Kendall as he entered a small Lebanese-style patisserie and lingered
by the door as the headwaiter pointed Kendall to a table at the rear.
Linder followed and took the seat opposite the elegant-looking
expatriate, who gave him a smile that exuded both charm and a hint of
dissipation.
“Excuse me, but
didn’t we meet in Larnaca?” Linder asked, reciting the
pre-arranged recognition signal.
“I believe we did.
You had come from Aphrodite’s Cave,” Kendall answered, giving the
correct countersign.
Linder reached across
the table to shake Kendall’s hand, holding it for an extra beat and
making full eye contact to show that he considered himself Kendall’s
peer.
“Joe Tanner. I assume
our mutual friends in Athens told you why I’ve come.”
“They did, and I’m
eager to hear more,” Kendall replied, withdrawing his hand. “Shall
we order coffee? Philip ought to be back at the flat in a short
while.”
The waiter appeared
with a tray of syrupy Lebanese pastries and held it out for their
approval.
“Care to try one?”
Kendall suggested. “They’re much better than they look.”
Linder waved them away.
“Actually, what I
crave at the moment is some of that delicious local eggplant dip.”
“Baba ghannouj?”
“Yeah, that’s the
stuff,” Linder affirmed. “With a large bottle of mineral water.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I
forgot—you Mormons don’t drink coffee, do you?”
“No, but you go right
on ahead,” Linder answered. He bit his lip, realizing that he had
nearly undone himself, momentarily forgetting that Mormons drank
neither coffee nor tea.
The waiter took their
orders and retreated to the kitchen.
“How long ago did you
leave Utah, Mr. Tanner? Had the Party released the New Economic Plan
by the time you left?”
Linder shook his head.
Fortunately, he had done his homework on the much-heralded about-face
in Unionist economic policy. But Kendall had clearly taken the
offensive and he would have to match him point for point.
“No, I left in July
and everyone was still holding his breath. Our sources were
optimistic that the new regulations would go far to restore private
ownership of capital. There was even some talk about the government
reopening the stock exchanges and selling off some of the
nationalized industries. But nobody expected anything quite as
far-reaching as the NEP turned out to be.”
Roger Kendall exhaled
deeply and his eyes took on a faraway look. Perhaps his question
about the NEP reflected wishful thinking.
“If the Party makes
good on its promises this time, every transatlantic airline seat to
New York will be booked for months. I wonder if it’s too early to
project…” Kendall’s voice trailed off.
Linder smiled inwardly
at Kendall’s willing suspension of disbelief. “If I were you, I
wouldn’t project too much just yet,” he answered. “It could all
be a sham. They’ve done it enough times by now, you’d think
people would see through their…” Here was an opening to position
himself as a hardheaded realist rather than a wild-eyed rebel.
“Yes, I know,”
Kendall interrupted, “but since the President’s death, perhaps…”
“Don't kid yourself,”
Linder countered. “The Unionist machine will be just as vicious
under a new President-for-Life as it was with the old one. Unless the
entire Party apparatus is destroyed root and branch, nothing will
change, believe me.”
Linder hardened his
features into a grim mask calculated to project a deep unhappiness at
being separated from everything that made Joe Tanner who he was.
Fully in character now, he felt a visceral resentment toward
hypocrites like Kendall who would reconcile with the Unionists when
it suited them and look aside while the regime smashed all genuine
opposition.
At that moment, the
waiter reappeared with coffee, mineral water, and Linder’s bread
and baba ghannouj, which he devoured with uncommon relish. Linder
took extra care to scoop up the loose bits of garlic at the edge of
the bowl and hoped the pungent odor was as potent inside his body as
it was outside. Kendall watched him eat with an amused expression.
“Before we go any
further,” Kendall continued after he finished his coffee and cast a
wary look around the room, “perhaps you could give me a brief idea
of what you’d like to discuss with us. I have a fairly good idea of
where Philip’s interests lie. Perhaps I might be able to guide
you.”
Now it was Linder’s
turn to cast furtive glances over Kendall’s shoulder and to either
side.
“All right,” Linder
began. “The reason I’m here is to raise funds for the political
organization that we call the Mormon Return Movement. The MRM is not
an arm of the LDS church, but a secular group created to pave the way
for Latter-day Saints and other people of faith to resettle and
rebuild Utah and the historically Mormon areas of Idaho, Wyoming, and
northern Arizona. We have reconnected with members of the Mormon
Diaspora all across the country and have built a strong underground
network. Very soon our overseas supporters will be able to come and
see for themselves what their donations are achieving.”
“And just how do you
plan to do that?” Kendall asked, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.
“We’ve managed to
recruit highly placed sympathizers inside the Unionist apparatus who
stand to profit from redevelopment. They’ve already shown their
good faith by arranging safe passage for our members into the
restricted zones from other parts of the country. By early next year,
we also expect to infiltrate some of our overseas supporters via
certain Gulf Coast ports and bring them up to safe areas near Salt
Lake, Ogden, and Provo. So, if you decide to pay us a visit, be sure
to bring your greenbacks and gold, because there will be
once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunities for those who come
early.”
Linder dipped another
piece of bread in the eggplant dish, while Roger Kendall sat back and
ran a manicured hand through his slicked-back hair.
“That’s
impressive,” the lawyer answered, reaching for his demitasse of
sweet Arabic coffee. “To come and go from a restricted zone right
under the regime’s nose is quite a coup. I had assumed that the
borders were still sealed. But why should a non-Mormon from Cleveland
back your group when rebel outfits all across the Midwest need his
help?”
Linder had expected
this objection and lowered his voice. Kendall would have to lean
forward to hear his response.
“Because we’re
better organized, more energetic, and younger. And even more, we’ve
chosen nonviolence. Before the Events, Utah had the fastest-growing
economy in the country, the highest birth rate of any state, and the
highest voter turnout against the President-for-Life’s reelection
bid. With the rest of the country in a shambles, and the restricted
zones cut off from view, we can mount a stealth campaign to outbreed,
outgrow, and co-opt the Unionist parasites that the regime has left
in charge over us. I have plenty of data to back that up, along with
a five-year plan…”
Kendall held up a hand
and nodded impatiently.
“I see you’ve come
well-prepared, Joe. Perhaps Philip would be interested. Have the two
of you ever met?”
“I’ve not had that
pleasure,” Linder lied. It had been long ago, and Linder was sure
that Eaton had forgotten his conversation with the teenager he was at
the time. But Linder had not.
“I’m sure you won’t
be disappointed,” Kendall replied, “though I must disclose my
bias since Philip happens to be my father-in-law.”
Something about the
man’s self-satisfied grin irritated Linder and made him bristle at
the thought that this was Patricia Eaton’s husband. Had the Events
not intervened, he thought, Patricia surely would never have married
an empty suit like Kendall. Linder finished the baba ghannouj quickly
and washed it down with the last of the mineral water, signaling the
waiter to bring more.
“You know, Philip is
one of the few visionaries left among leaders of the opposition in
exile,” Kendall mused. “Long before the Events, Philip had become
so troubled over what America was becoming that he began moving his
family’s wealth offshore. During the summer before the President’s
reelection, Philip decamped for London and devoted his full energy
and most of his personal fortune to opposing Unionism. Two years
later, in the final months of the civil war, the Unionists accused
him of having organized the looting of Cleveland’s downtown banks
and spiriting hundreds of millions in stolen property out of the
country to fund the rebel militias. They’ve been after him ever
since.”
“You say ‘accused,’”
Linder interrupted with a curious smile. “Are you saying that he
played no role in looting the banks?” Having worked under cover
against the Cleveland militias, Linder knew very well that Eaton had
engineered the robbery. And from any perspective, it had been a
masterstroke.
Kendall gave a gentle
laugh. He was clearly warming to his visitor now, and Linder laughed
with him.
“I’ll let Philip
answer that for himself,” Kendall answered. “The point is, there
have been no fewer than three documented assassination attempts
against my father-in-law, two of them in Britain and another in
Switzerland, before Philip decided to drop out of sight. He came to
Beirut earlier this year, only after the President-for-Life died and
the DSS Chief who signed Philip’s death warrant was purged.”
“I’m not sure it’s
a good bet that the next DSS Chief will be kinder and gentler than
the last,” Linder commented, taking a leisurely look around the
room. “And if Philip didn’t feel safe in London or Basel, why on
earth come to Beirut? A place whose name is synonymous with terrorism
and violence seems an odd place for a fugitive to escape the reach of
the world’s most powerful police state.”
“On the contrary,”
Kendall replied. “Beirut has been a haven for rebels and fugitives
for centuries, even during its own civil war. Besides that, Beirut
became a home-away-from-home to Philip during a college year at the
American University, where he met his late wife, who was from a
prominent Maronite clan here.”
“Rather like a
American
mafioso
hiding out with relatives in Sicily,”
Linder acknowledged with a smile.
Kendall wrinkled his
nose. “I suppose so,” he conceded reluctantly before continuing.
“But now that Lebanon has regained its position as an international
banking center with some of the world’s strictest bank secrecy
laws, Beirut has become an excellent place for Philip to spend his
final years. You see, Lebanon has put out the welcome mat for wealthy
visitors of every political stripe and will not tolerate meddling
from overzealous foreign security services. And certainly not if the
visitor’s bank balances qualify him for permanent residence.”
Linder smiled and gave
a murmur of appreciation. Hearing about Eaton from Kendall’s
perspective renewed his private respect for Eaton, who was celebrated
in rebel circles for his modesty, self-sacrifice, personal integrity,
and his implacable stance against Unionist tyranny.
Linder held this
thought for a moment while Roger dropped a clump of ice cubes into
both men’s glasses from the stainless steel bucket and filled them
with mineral water. Upon hearing the clink of ice and taking the
ice-filled glass in his hand, Linder felt a chill shoot up his arm
and sensed that he had won the introduction he was after.
Roger summoned a waiter
and asked for a phone to be brought to the table. Once it arrived, he
dialed and Linder overheard a busy signal on the line. Roger dialed
twice more while they ate before asking the waiter at last for the
bill.
“It’s still busy,”
Kendall said. “Philip intended to meet us here, but his flat isn’t
far away. If you have time, perhaps we could swing by to see if he’s
still available.”
Linder was amazed at
the offer.
“If your
father-in-law has been the target of three attempts on his life, I
can understand why he might not want to bring business contacts to
his flat. I’ll be here through tomorrow. How about meeting him
then?”
“Unfortunately, we
have plans after today, and I’d really like Philip to meet you,”
Kendall replied in a casual tone that conveyed carelessness rather
than guile. Do you have a few more minutes? It’s only a block or
two.”