Resistance (17 page)

Hale tried to set the record straight as best he could without revealing anything he shouldn't, but he soon discovered that both groups were wedded to their beliefs, and unwilling to budge.

He had now been there for a couple of hours. Time passed slowly, and the line moved ahead in a series of spasmodic jerks, as a steady trickle of people were processed at the other end. The air grew steadily colder as the sun fell toward the mountains. After another hour and a half or so, a pair of women pushed a cart along the line. It was loaded with a big urn, and as the two handed out cups of hot coffee, they did what they could to cheer people up. Hale wanted to pay, but one of the women shook her head, and smiled.

“It's what we can do, Lieutenant. I hope you find the person you're looking for.”

But if the line attracted nice people, it attracted others as well, including all manner of salesmen, beggars, and fanatics. At one point a wild-eyed man waving a Bible walked the length of it. “Listen to me!” he demanded loudly while bits of spittle flew from his purplish lips. “The truth about President Grace can be found in Revelation 13:9-10: ‘If any man have an ear, let him hear. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword!’”

The man might have said more—no doubt
would
have said more—if three men in plainclothes hadn't arrived to take him away. Which was good riddance in so far as Hale was concerned. He was inside the courtyard by that time, and glad that he wouldn't have to depart prematurely to keep his date with Cassie.

Fifteen minutes later the main line split into three shorter lines, each of which led to a wooden table with a computer terminal sitting on top of it. The man waiting
to greet him wore a tag with the name Crowley on it. He had dark hair, a badly rumpled white shirt, and a potbelly. The light from the screen made his face glow. He didn't bother to look up. “Name?”

“My name is, Hale … Nathan Hale.”

“Not
your
name,” Crowley replied irritably. “The name of the person you're looking for.”

“Oh,” Hale said. “That would be Susan Farley. That's spelled F-A-R-L-E-Y.”

The keyboard rattled as Crowley entered the name. His eyes blinked as words appeared. “I have five of them … You got a birthday?”

“March 7, 1920.”

“Nope,” Crowley replied. “Not even close. Next!”

“Wait a minute,” Hale objected. “She's from South Dakota. Do you have any Susan Farleys from South Dakota?”

“Yes, I do,” Crowley answered insolently. “But she's sixty-three years old. Now step out of the line, or I'll call security.”

So after waiting for more than five hours, Hale was forced to leave the Customs House empty-handed. It appeared that either Susan had been killed during the trip south from the ranch, or had chosen to keep her name off the national registry, which wouldn't be surprising, given the Farley family's fierce sense of independence.

It was dark as Hale made his way to a southbound trolley stop, and joined the crowd there. He had slightly less than an hour in which to reach Cassie's place, but figured he could make it as long as the trolleys were running on time and he was able to board the first one to come along.

Fortunately, they
were
running on time, and he was able to board the first one, which put him back at the Federal Center with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough
time in which to stop at a neighborhood store and buy a bottle of wine, since flowers weren't available. Then with a cold wind nipping at his face he followed the grocer's directions over to Virginia Avenue and Cassie's apartment house.

As Hale entered the lobby he was nervous. Because no matter what he told himself, he knew Cassie was smarter than he was, and it would be easy for him to make a fool of himself. So with a sense of dread he climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door.

There was the
click
of high heels on hardwood, followed by a momentary rattle as she turned the knob and opened the door. Suddenly all of Hale's fears melted away when she smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Nathan! Please come in.”

She was wearing pearls, a black cocktail dress, and matching heels. It was an elegant yet sexy look that took Hale's breath away. Ella Fitzgerald could be heard singing “How High the Moon” in the background as Cassie took Hale's overcoat, thanked him for the bottle of wine, and preceded him into a cozy living room that was lit by a standing lamp and half a dozen candles.

“Thank you for the wine—that's very sweet of you,” she said. “How ′bout a drink? We can open the bottle, or I can offer you a bourbon on the rocks, a gin and tonic, or a screwdriver. Amazingly enough they had orange juice at the market.”

“I'll take the bourbon,” Hale replied as he looked around. Although the furnishings weren't fancy, a good deal of thought had gone into the way they were arranged, and there was very little clutter. “I like your apartment.”

“It is nice, isn't it?” Cassie said brightly, as she went over to the side table where a selection of glasses and
bottles stood. “It's very difficult to find a place to live here in Denver, so I was lucky to hook up with Vicki. She's my roommate. Please, have a seat. Your drink will be ready in a minute. We're having pot roast by the way. I hope that's okay … I went looking for steaks, but they didn't have any. That's how it is in stores now. You take what you can get.”

“I love pot roast,” Hale said truthfully, “and I haven't had any in years.”

“I like it, too,” she agreed as she brought his drink over. “Although it takes quite a while to cook. That gives us time to talk though.” She sat next to him on the sofa. “So, what did you do with your afternoon?”

Hale took a sip of his drink and told Cassie about the line, the people he'd met, and his failure to learn anything regarding Susan's fate. That led him to the trip back to the ranch, what he had discovered there, and the journey with Tina and Mark. They were on their second drink when a slow dance by the Ink Spots came on the radio.

Cassie stood and held out her hands. “You're a nice man, Nathan,” she said as he put his drink down. “A lot of people would have left those children to fend for themselves. Now, come here … I want to dance.”

Dancing of any kind was at the top of the list of things that terrified Hale the most, but the opportunity to hold her in his arms was too good to pass up. So he got up from the chair and took her hands.

Moments later he was somewhere else, lost in the fragrance she wore, and the softness of her body. His feet moved, but not very much, as the two of them swayed to the music. Hale nuzzled Cassie's hair, reveled in the soap-smell of her, and held her close.

Then, when Cassie looked up into Hale's golden yellow eyes, it was as if an unspoken agreement had been
reached. He kissed her, her lips melted beneath his, her hands came up to caress the nape of his neck, and their bodies seemed to meld.

At some point the dancing stopped, as hands explored, and important discoveries were made.

“Please,”
Cassie whispered into Hale's ear, “please.”

Hale swept Cassie off her feet, carried her into the bedroom, and was about to lay her on a single bed when she said, “No, Nathan … The other one.”

Which bed made no difference to Hale, who lowered her onto the white bedspread, and took up where he'd left off. Women's clothes—especially evening clothes—were something of a mystery to him, and it was necessary for Cassie to help from time to time. But the process was very enjoyable, and by the time the black dress lay on the floor, Hale was half-naked himself.

“You aren't my first,” Cassie said softly. “But it's been a long time.”

Hale understood and kissed her concerns away as he removed the last of her clothing. Then he paused to look at her. The only light in the room came from candles, and one half of her face was in flickering shadow as she peered back. Her coral-tipped breasts were small but pert. He reached out and drew a line between them down to her belly button. She smiled dreamily.

“Do you like what you see?”

Hale answered the question with a series of kisses that wandered from place to place until Cassie's breathing quickened and her fingers began to fumble with his belt buckle. Then it was Hale's turn to help as he stood long enough to get rid of the uniform trousers before taking his place between Cassie's long slender legs.

The bed was too narrow for them to lie side by side, but that was fine with Hale as Cassie's hand found him and pulled him in. It had been a long time for
both
of
them, so Hale was careful to take his time, nudging his way into her wet warmth, their mutual passion building. Cassie made little sounds in the back of her throat and wrapped her legs around his torso as she urged him on.

“I want you,
all
of you,” she growled softly as the age-old rhythm began to build. Then they were there, climbing to the very peak of passion, before falling into an ocean of pleasure.

The intensity of the moment was beyond anything Hale had experienced before, and once it was over, Cassie continued to shudder beneath him. Then she began to cry.

That was a development Hale wasn't prepared for and he felt a wave of concern.

“Cassie? What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Cassie replied softly, as her chest heaved. “Women cry for all sorts of reasons.”

“Oh,” Hale replied. “I understand.”

But he didn't, not really, and he was glad when the crying stopped. They lay there for a while, happily entwined in each other's arms, as the afterglow gradually faded away. Then came a shower, which they chose to take together, and it might have led back into the bedroom, had there been more time.

After toweling herself off, Cassie threw on a terry-cloth robe, and went into the kitchen. The candlelit dinner was consumed at the kitchen table. Hale had thrown on an olive drab tank top and his uniform trousers, but his feet were bare. The wine was good, the pot roast and vegetables were delicious, and he thought it was the best meal he had ever been lucky enough to eat.

But time passed quickly, and suddenly it was 0200 hours, which left Hale with only an hour to summon a cab, and make the trip to the airport. Both of them did
what they could to keep the conversation light as Cassie put in a call for a taxi and Hale finished dressing.

Fifteen minutes later the cab was waiting in the street below, Hale was kissing Cassie goodbye, and the magical evening was over.

“I'll come back as soon as I can,” Hale promised as he looked into her eyes.

Cassie smiled, or tried to, as she straightened his tie. “I'll be here.”

But both of them knew that nothing was certain, that everything was in doubt, and that the evening together might well be the only such time they would ever have. Cassie stood at the window and watched as Hale went out the front door and entered the spill of light from a nearby streetlight. He turned to wave.

Then he was inside the taxi, it was pulling away, and Cassie was alone.

“I'm sorry, Nathan,” Cassie said, as she thought about what had been done to him. And
was
being done to him. “So very, very sorry.”

Cassie went to bed after that—and sought to lose herself in sleep.

But when the sun rose, and sent streamers of light down into the bedroom, Cassie was still awake.

The skies were clear, and a cold wind was blowing in off the Atlantic, as President Grace's Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler, climbed the narrow stairs that led to a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building.

An FBI agent was there to greet him. His name was Milt Wasowitz. He wore a gray snap-brim fedora, a dark blue trench coat, and a pair of very shiny shoes. He had heavy brows, a broad face, and pendant jowls. The two men had been working together for the better part of a week by then, and were on a first-name basis.

“Morning, Bill,” Wasowitz said cheerfully. “You look like hell warmed over.”

Dentweiler winced. “And I feel worse than I look. Older women can be extremely demanding, Milt. They know what they want, and won't give up until they get it.”

Wasowitz smiled sympathetically. “I'll have to take your word for that, Bill. Maggie and I have five kids, and by the time I get home, the only thing she wants is a back rub and a glass of wine.”

Both men laughed as they entered the apartment. It was furnished with pieces of mismatched furniture, and
bereft of personal photos, knickknacks, and personal items. Dentweiler had seen hotel rooms with more personality.

“This is how you found it?” he inquired.

“That's correct,” Wasowitz acknowledged. “It was clean as a whistle. There wasn't so much as an empty beer bottle in the trash.”

“Fingerprints?”

The FBI agent nodded. “Plenty of them … Most of which belonged to Secretary Walker and his wife. The rest were a match to the building manager, the maintenance man, and previous tenants.”

Dentweiler nodded thoughtfully. Originally, when the Walkers were reported missing, everyone assumed that the couple had been kidnapped. But without a ransom note, speculation turned to the possibility of a double homicide, or a murder-suicide, as an all-points bulletin went out to street cops everywhere.

Then, as the investigation continued and photographs of the couple appeared in the papers, a man reported that a woman who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker had purchased a used station wagon from him. Except that she gave a different name, paid for the car with cash, and was tight-lipped about her plans.

As more details emerged, the likelihood arose that the power couple had fled Washington voluntarily. A possibility that was of considerable concern inside the Grace administration, due to Walker's knowledge of and his opposition to Project Omega. If Walker went public with his allegations, it would feed the flames of public discontent already being fanned by Freedom First.

All of which explained why Dentweiler had been ordered to work with authorities to find out what had taken place, and report back to President Grace. The secret hideaway was the latest piece of a larger puzzle.