“What about Unionist air power?” Kendall pressed. “Can’t they spot you from the air and call in air strikes or drones?”
“Since the Chinese knocked out our military satellites, there hasn’t been nearly enough overhead imagery capacity to go around. The same goes for reconnaissance aircraft and drones,” Linder explained. “Sure, the enemy sends out an occasional helicopter gunship or light attack aircraft to give chase, but they have to find us first.”
Though what he said was accurate as far is it went, he omitted the key fact that the last ragtag band of Mormon guerrillas hiding in the Wasatch Mountains had been annihilated nearly a year earlier.
“What about your own plans for the future? Do you really think you’ll be able to kick the Unionist Army out of Utah?” Kendall questioned.
Philip Eaton leaned forward and spoke before Linder could reply. Though his expression was sympathetic, Linder suspected a trap and listened carefully.
“Knowing very little about your organization, I would suppose that your goal might be to force a stalemate on the government the way the Mormons did in the 1870s,” Eaton mused. “Perhaps you intend to become to the President-for-Life what Porter Rockwell was to James Buchanan?”
Linder cocked his head and folded his arms to buy time to respond. The historical reference was unfamiliar to him and he feared that he might have already failed an important test by not having a ready answer. But a wrong answer could be fatal; he dared not guess at it.
“Yeah, in a way,” he deadpanned.
At first Eaton’s smile looked benevolent, but before long, Linder detected a tinge of irony.
At that moment, a dark-haired girl of about thirteen or fourteen dressed in a blue and gray school uniform, arrived from the kitchen carrying a silver tray with a porcelain coffee set. Linder immediately identified her as Kendall’s stepdaughter, Caroline. She set the tray on a low table and began distributing cups of dark Arabic coffee and tumblers of mineral water among the men without raising her eyes. It took all of Linder’s self-control to tear his eyes away from the girl, for she bore an unnerving resemblance to her mother, whom Linder had known at approximately the same age.
Denniston had assured him that Kendall’s family would not visit the apartment, and so Linder was caught off guard. Kendall, too, seemed surprised to see Caroline. As soon as she emptied the tray, he signaled for her to leave it behind and return to the kitchen. Linder looked away from the girl as she retreated and noticed Eaton watching him with interest as he left the coffee untouched.
“Would you like something other than coffee, Mr. Tanner?” Eaton offered.
Linder felt tiny beads of perspiration forming under his eyes and on his forehead and smelled the pungent odor of his own sweat. He returned Eaton’s gaze and wondered if his host had noticed his surprised reaction at seeing Caroline.
“No thank you,” Linder replied.
“I’m still a bit confused about your group’s objectives, Mr. Tanner,” Eaton continued, leaning forward in the same manner as when he asked about Rockwell and President Buchanan. “Is your primary goal to resettle your fellow Mormons on their ancestral lands? Or is it to gain some measure of autonomy for Utah? Or do you aim to oust the Unionist dictatorship entirely?”
“I would have to say all of the above,” Linder answered, recovering his balance. “Our immediate goal is to gather our fellow Latter-day Saints wherever they might be and bring them back to Utah. But, after having our religion outlawed and over a million of our people forcibly relocated to northern labor camps, we aim for autonomy on our territory until Unionism is completely eradicated.”
“I see,” Eaton replied in a flat voice. “And how do you believe Roger and I might help you?” Linder sensed that Eaton’s interest might be flagging. By now, the old man had heard pitches from nearly every rebel faction alive. He had to make the MRM stand out as special, but how?
“Financially, for the most part,” Linder answered while he racked his brain for a better answer. “But we need help of all kinds, of course.”
“And you would use the funds for…?” Eaton asked without looking up from his coffee.
“Relocation support to smuggle our people back into the Utah Security Zone, communications equipment, identity documents, training,” Linder replied. “Whatever it takes to help our returnees make a new start.”
Philip Eaton paused to finish his coffee, then crossed his legs once more and settled back into the sofa. Though Eaton looked relaxed, a sixth sense told Linder that a curve ball was on its way.
“If you don’t mind, please tell me more about what your people have experienced under the Unionists. I understand that the regime cracked down hard on Utah when your governor refused to commandeer LDS church emergency supplies to benefit the California refugees who came to stay. I’d like to hear your take on what happened then.”
Linder took a deep breath and resettled himself in his chair. It was a curve ball, a juicy one, and he was ready to clobber it.
“Never in history,” Linder began, fixing his eyes on Eaton’s, “has any community offered a more generous response to victims of a natural disaster than the relief that Utahns and the LDS Church gave to the exodus of California refugees flowing through our state. When federal relief supplies ran out, Utahns and the LDS church kept on giving, often at the expense of local people who had suffered from devastating earthquakes along the Wasatch Front.”
“So what brought on the refugee crisis?” Eaton probed. When Roger Kendall tried to answer, Eaton silenced him with a headshake. Clearly, Eaton had something particular in mind and wanted to hear it directly from his Mormon visitor.
“It seems to me that the problems started when FEMA reneged on its promises to bring in more federal relief supplies to facilitate the eastward movement of refugees into Wyoming and Colorado,” Linder answered. “FEMA bled Utah dry and when we had no more to give, the President-for-Life sent in the Army to seize whatever they could find and hand it over to the refugees. When the state government voted to resist, federal agents arrested the governor, his cabinet, key members of the legislature, the LDS church leadership and anyone who dared to resist or protest.”
“And then?” Eaton demanded.
“There began the largest forced migration of peoples in American history, ten times larger than the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II. Over a million Latter-day Saints were rounded up and sent north to hastily built labor camps in Alaska and the Yukon. Thousands died along the way and many more in the first year of captivity. The state-controlled press has gone absolutely silent on it.”
“You said that the Utah detainees were sent to labor camps,” Eaton went on, now sitting at the edge of his seat. “Has your organization been able to maintain communications with your people being held in those camps?”
“Certainly,” Linder responded. “It’s one of the most important functions we have until our people are set free. But it’s been extremely difficult. Security at those northern camps is tighter than Area 51.”
“How about non-Mormons?” Kendall asked eagerly. “Are you also in contact with other outlawed religious groups in the northern camps, like the Quakers, Christian Scientists, Seventh Day Adventists and the like?”
“Of course,” Linder obliged. “You know the saying, ‘First, they came for the Jews.’ We learned that one right away.” He was on a roll at last, building up the credibility he would need to draw the two men into his web.
“How about the MIA’s from the Manchurian War?” Kendall wanted to know. “Have you run across any of them in the camps, or any Russian or Chinese POWs?”
“Interesting question,” Linder temporized. He knew well that the fate of missing veterans from the Manchurian War was a highly charged issue all across the country and remained a tightly guarded secret, even within the DSS. If the apartment were bugged as Denniston had claimed, it would be wise to avoid the topic.
“Sorry, can’t help you there,” Linder responded with a sh
rug. “It’s as if any troops who made it back to Alaska disappeared the moment they arrived on American soil. Strange.”
“Do you have any idea why?” Kendall probed. It was a thorny question, and by now Linder felt he had scored enough points to let it go by.
“Not yet, but we’re working on it,” he replied.
Before Linder could say more, the kitchen door swung open and a dark-haired woman backed into the room, carrying a large tray of sweet oriental pastries of the kind that had been served at the restaurant less than an hour before.
The instant she turned around to face them, Linder recognized her as Patricia Eaton, now Patricia Kendall, Roger’s wife. At thirty-eight, she remained a stunning beauty. Linder could not resist staring at her glistening dark eyes, mahogany hair, flawless olive complexion, and her trim athletic figure. She wore a simple sleeveless linen dress that called attention to her noble profile and her sleek shoulder-length hair, which was tied at the nape of her neck with a plain blue ribbon.
Though it had been nearly two decades since he had seen her last, the sight of her thrilled him anew and for several long seconds he could not resist the urge to stare. She must have sensed this, for all at once she raised her eyes to cast a puzzled glance his way. Could she have recognized him after all these years, even through his disguise? He hoped not, for his own safety and hers, yet was disappointed when she looked away.
Mercifully, Philip Eaton broke the silence and introduced him to her as Joe Tanner.
All at once, Linder found himself at a loss for words.
“How thoughtful,” he stammered while accepting a small plate of pastries.
Patricia acknowledged the remark with a polite nod and a distant smile, apparently too preoccupied to pay him further notice. Still, the sight of her had thrown him dangerously off balance. Why now, he asked himself? He had not thought of Patricia in years. Why, of all people from his past, had she surfaced at this moment, stirring up the best and the worst feelings in him? And now that she had appeared, what would become of her and her family if he succeeded in the operation he had come to carry out?
Almost against his will, Linder’s eyes followed Patricia Kendall’s shapely legs on her return to the kitchen. As surprised as he was to see her, Roger seemed even more surprised to find his wife at the flat. Kendall frowned and pursed his lips as he watched Patricia pass out of sight through the kitchen door.
Gathering his wits, Linder set his mind to calculating what changes might be required in his approach to Philip Eaton now that Patricia and her daughter occupied the flat. At the same time, he studied Philip Eaton’s expression for signs of favor or disfavor. His was a difficult face to read, as Eaton seemed very much the dispassionate judge, fully immersed in the facts of each case, yet resolved to decide it solely on the merits. As if to confirm this impression, Eaton took one last sip from his coffee cup, returned it to the silver tray and spoke as if rendering a verdict.
“Over the years I have donated substantial sums to all sorts of resistance groups,” the old man began. “Many who sought my help were personal friends. Today, I regret to say, I have little to show for it. As worthy as your movement may be, Mr. Tanner, I’m going to decline your request. The truth is, I don’t have faith any longer in armed resistance to the Unionists, whether mounted from inside or outside the country. Nor do I believe in negotiating with their kind.”
“Then you’re willing to give the Unionists free rein?” Linder objected, startled at being rejected so hastily. With Bednarski and Denniston listening in, he could not allow himself to accept defeat without a struggle.
“I have no love for the Unionists,” Eaton replied. “But I think the time for taking up arms is over. I believe that Unionism, having suppressed the creative energies of the American people, has no future. I see it falling into decay until a new generation sweeps it aside with a fresh supply of talent, energy, and hope for a better life.”
“But where does that leave those of us who have to live under their tyranny?” Linder persisted. “Are we to lie down and die until Unionism withers away of its own accord?”
“Certainly not,” Eaton replied. “All I can tell you is that, during my years of supporting the rebellion, I haven’t succeeded at anything except sending good men to their graves. I realize that I haven’t discussed this with Roger or Patricia, but I think it’s time for me to step aside and let others lead.”
Roger Kendall seemed bewildered by Eaton’s suggestion. Patricia, in contrast, placed her hands on her father’s shoulders with a smile of approval mingled with relief.
Linder could sense that the old man was not to be swayed but, since the conversation was being monitored by the DSS, it would be unwise for him to give up without offering at least one last argument. Once his rejection was complete, he could wash his hands of Bednarski’s and Denniston’s ill-conceived project, go back to Limassol, and part company with Denniston once and for all. Best of all, the reproachful spirits of Philip Eaton and Roger Kendall would not be joining those who came to torment him in his nightly dreams. And perhaps, one day he and Patricia… But that was a thought for another time.
“With all due respect, Mr. Eaton,” Linder resumed after a long pause, “most of our Movement’s activities are in the humanitarian area. Perhaps if we earmarked your contributions for relief work and refugee resettlement?”
Eaton smiled sympathetically but shook his head.
“In practice, all funding is fungible. Whatever we gave you for resettlement would free up funds for military or political action. Please excuse me for saying no.”
“All the same, sir, our backers in Europe have a great deal of respect for you,” Linder persevered. “Even a very small contribution from you would help us raise money elsewhere. Would you consider a token contribution, earmarked for relief work…?”
Eaton rose slowly with an amiable laugh.
“Mr. Tanner, the issue is closed. But please come with me out onto the balcony for a moment. There’s something I’d like to share with you.”
He gestured for Roger Kendall to stay seated. Patricia moved out from behind the couch and sat by her husband’s side, staring off into empty space. Linder held the image of her in his mind, knowing that he would not likely see her again.
Eaton took Linder by the arm and led him to the edge of the balcony. Though it seemed odd, Linder felt a thrill at having won a small degree of Eaton's confidence. Perhaps he could find a graceful way out of this mess now that he had more time to think and could speak privately.
“Can you smell the fragrance?” the old man asked, taking a frangipani blossom between his fingers and inhaling deeply. “Gardening was my late wife’s hobby. When she died, I made it mine. This spring I’ve begun to teach what little I know to Patricia and Caroline.”
“A good way for them to remember you,” Linder noted.
“You have an unusual accent, Mr. Tanner,” Eaton continued. “Have you ever lived in the Midwest?”
“Briefly, when I was a child,” Linder answered, aware that traces of Cleveland remained detectable in his speech to someone from the area.
“More than briefly, I think,” Eaton replied. “I suspect you have far more of Ohio in you than of Utah. And a Latter-day Saint would never smell of alcohol. And as for Porter Rockwell, I expected someone in your position would have a bit more to say about the greatest Mormon guerrilla fighter who ever lived.”
Linder bit his lip and looked out over the Mediterranean. “Why didn’t you say any of that indoors?”
“Because I wanted to make you a counteroffer away from anyone else’s ears. Now, I assume that you are either an officer of State Security or an agent of theirs who can pass my offer forward through the proper channels. Knowing that State Security would like nothing better than to get their hands on me and end my support for the insurgency, I would be prepared to surrender myself to your government on one condition: that they leave Patricia, Caroline, and Roger alone, forever."
Eaton paused
and watched for Linder's reaction. In that moment, Linder felt the blood drain from his face and saw that Eaton noticed it, too. His dilemma was that, while Eaton’s offer might be a reasonable one, Headquarters would never accept preconditions from a rebel. Even if they accepted Eaton’s surrender, they would still go after Kendall and Patricia and young Caroline. Yet, Eaton had made the proposal only because Mormon Joe Tanner’s cover had been blown sky high. To reject Eaton’s offer in a vain effort to salvage that cover would merely compound the error and bring the entire blame for the operation’s collapse onto his own head. What he needed was a different solution that would save not only his own skin but also Patricia and Caroline’s. He opened his mouth to speak but noticed that Eaton had more to say.
“Now, as for my finances," Eaton went on with emphasis, "I expect that the Unionists are as eager to get their hands on my money as they are on my person. The plain truth is that I’ve spent nearly all of the funds under my control supporting the resistance. Not only the funds entrusted to me by our contributors, but my personal wealth, as well. What remains of the latter is held in trust to provide a fresh start for my daughter and her family. If I turn myself in, these trusts must be left untouched. So, Mr. Tanner, or whatever your real name is, do I make myself clear? Will you convey my offer to your superiors?”
Linder looked into Eaton’s eyes and sensed that what Eaton said was true. The old man’s fate and that of his daughter’s family now rested with Linder.
“I’ll pass it along, Mr. Eaton. I can’t promise they’ll accept your offer, but for what it’s worth, I’ll go to bat for you.”
Eaton nodded his assent and both men turned their eyes toward the sea. Atop a nearby apartment building, a sudden flash of reflected sunlight drew Linder’s attention to a pair of technicians adjusting what looked like a parabolic microphone. The dish was aimed directly at Philip Eaton’s balcony and when the technicians saw Linder watching them, they ducked behind a chimney.
Exile Hunter Page 5