Exile Hunter Read online

  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.”

  Linder weighed his options, remembering Denniston’s admonition to go as far as he could without overdoing it. Though he did not feel right about going to Eaton’s apartment, he risked Bednarski’s second-guessing if he did not. In this business, there was no overdoing it until you failed.

  * * *

  Philip Eaton’s flat occupied the northwest corner on the fourth floor of a stately red granite apartment block in the crowded Achrafiyé section of predominantly Christian East Beirut. Kendall and Linder boarded an ornate antique birdcage elevator and ascended through a central stairwell to the fourth-floor landing, where Kendall unlocked a heavy steel door of the kind widely used for decades to deter break-ins in the war-torn city. The door opened onto an unusually spacious marble foyer with Persian rugs and walls full of polished brass trays showing inlaid Arabic calligraphy in silver and copper. Beyond the foyer was a vast sunken parlor furnished in teak and leather with a scattering of Egyptian carved wooden screens and leather poufs, suggesting a distinctly masculine style.

  Kendall led Linder past the parlor through folding French doors to the veranda, which boasted a panoramic view of the blue Mediterranean. There, Kendall pointed out the old Foreign Ministry building, the rebuilt port and the restored commercial district beyond. Potted gardenias, jasmine, and dwarf frangipani trees lent an intoxicating sweetness to the air, and Linder noticed that music was playing from concealed speakers. He knew the recording: a tango directed by the Cuban bandleader Xavier Cugat, one of his father’s favorites. The next song was a meringue that called to mind the rumbas, congas, sambas, and cha-chas that he had learned to dance as a teenager.

  A few moments later, the steel door clanged again and Kendall led Linder back to the parlor to find his father-in-law, who suddenly emerged from the rear of the flat. Philip Eaton was a smaller man than Linder recalled from his youth or imagined from the photographs in his file. He stood no more than five feet eight inches tall and, with his silver hair and mustache, appeared older than his sixty-eight years. His most striking features were his sparkling gray eyes, conveying empathy and irony, and his capacious forehead, suggesting a powerful and broad-ranging intellect.

  “Excuse me, Philip,” Kendall began, apparently oblivious to the security breach he was committing by bringing Linder to the apartment. “We called from the restaurant several times but your line was busy. Do you have a moment or should we reschedule for tomorrow?”

  A look of disappointment flashed across Philip Eaton’s face before he answered with a warm welcoming smile. “Since you’ve come all this way, I see no need to reschedule. Please come with me.”

  Linder sensed at once that the Philip Eaton of today was quite unlike any other rebel exile he had met. Here was a man of great wealth and accomplishment who lived relatively modestly and, despite having suffered major losses, remained serenely upbeat. As a rebel, Philip Eaton stood on the opposite side of a gaping political chasm from him, yet Linder could not help but like the man.

  Roger Kendall introduced his father-in-law quickly and offered Linder a chair facing the sofa, where he and Eaton were lined up to sit. Philip Eaton’s eyes lingered on his visitor until all three were seated.

  “Chase Phipps spoke very highly of you and your organization, Joe,” Eaton opened. “Chase is very old friend of mine and I value his opinion. Lately he’s been distressed over the Unionists tightening their grip over the economy, but he said you’ve inspired him with new hope.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chase knows Utah well and has promised to help us a
ny way he can,” Linder replied.

  “Actually, Chase is his first name,” Roger Kendall interrupted. “But never mind. Chase is a Yale man and all those Yale men have reversible names. Chase Phipps, Phipps Chase. See, it works either way.”

  Linder laughed uneasily. It was another near miss, even if Kendall seemed to shrug it off. Philip Eaton’s lips formed a smile that his eyes did not share.

  “So tell me why we have reason to be hopeful these days,” Eaton continued, leaning back in the sofa and crossing his legs while he awaited Linder’s answer.

  “The greatest surprise to most Americans outside the country is just how thinly Unionist forces are spread when you go west of Denver,” Linder replied, launching into one of his prepared sound bites. “Since the Manchurian War, the garrisons are down to half the troops they had at the end of Civil War II. And with so many West Coast cities evacuated, what’s left of the population west of the Rockies are rural folk and small-town people who never supported the Unionist Party. Nowadays, except for military types, government employees, and carpetbaggers, people inside the restricted zones are implacably hostile to the regime.”

  “Though outwardly subdued, I presume…” Roger Kendall inserted.

  “Well, sure, but the Viet Cong seemed subdued, too, until the Tet Offensive,” Linder rejoined. “Or the Iraqis before their insurgency. Today, in Utah, Idaho, and northern Arizona, the backcountry belongs to us.”

  Linder found himself sitting forward at the edge of his seat, his voice a shade too loud and its pitch a half-octave too high.

  “You’re saying that the Army is confined to their bases?” Kendall challenged.

  “Not quite yet,” Linder replied, “but they stay off the main highways at night and rarely venture into the backcountry except by chopper. They're terrified of running afoul of our snipers and IEDs. I really don’t think the Army or the DSS have any idea how many of our people we’ve brought into the mountains for training over the past year. By the time they do, it’ll be too late. Not that we’re looking for a fight. But if they try to retake the countryside, Utah will be their Afghanistan.”