Chapter 6. Undercover
Mike started his new scheme tentatively with a simple early autumn four-day tour that he fully expected to make a substantial loss, especially after early bookings proved to be very sparse. As it happened, however, a month before the chosen dates a local travel agency failed, and some of its disappointed clients saw Turnbull Coaches' advertised mini-holiday as an acceptable substitute for their cancelled arrangement, not at all what they had really wanted but better than nothing. There were so many in fact that the tour was considerably over-subscribed and profitable, enough he thought to warrant repetition a month later, but the hotels could not accept the block bookings at such short notice. Prospects were better for the following spring. For the rest, several satisfied clients suggested possible destinations not served by other companies.
When the opportunity arose, Mike therefore set out prospecting for a second time. He wondered if he might again bump into Josie on one of her European sallies, but of course it was the kind of coincidence most unlikely to recur. He now had her own address and might have written to tell her of his plans, but had left it too late and in any case he could hardly expect her commitments to be modified just to suit his convenience.
His exploration yielded mixed results, but enough that met his criteria to make up two respectable circuits, and he planned for them to be the basis of the 2001 season's programme. Results from a circular about them to his known contacts suggested that they should be popular, and with the company's more routine business still prospering, he felt that in the following year he might be justified in ordering a second touring coach for the purpose. If so he would probably go back to Beaumont, but he would look at other builders as well.
He was making some adjustments to an itinerary one Friday evening in October when he received a curious call from his solicitor's secretary; there was no cause for alarm, but could he conveniently attend a meeting in Mr. Dodgson's office the following Wednesday morning? There were two important people who particularly wished to speak to him.
"No cause for alarm" is about as reassuring as a cry of "Don't panic!" and fretting over what it might portend nagged at the back of Mike's mind for the whole weekend and beyond. He found concentrating on his work particularly difficult on the Tuesday, and as Terry Haskins was not especially busy he handed over to him for the afternoon and went for a walk to clear his head.
Arriving next morning for the meeting, he was introduced to Mr. Staveley from the US Embassy and Mr. Gibbons, affiliation unspecified but clearly a Brit. Evidently this was going to be rather formal. Staveley started off by thanking Mike for taking the trouble to see them, then got down to the substance of his business which he emphasised was highly confidential. "I understand that last year you inherited some real estate in Idaho, known as Garstein's Place, and visited it in the August."
"Yes, that's right. Is there some problem there? The attorney mentioned a possible question about the title to it."
"Oh no, we aren't in the least interested in that. This is a much more serious matter."
"Now you've really got me worried."
"There's really no need to be, I assure you. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the property itself or its ownership. It's bound to seem a very curious business, and I'm afraid I can't be at all specific about it, not at this stage at any rate. The question is whether you found anything unusual there?"
"What sort of thing?"
"That's the problem; we've very little idea. All we can suggest is an object that seemed incongruous in that setting, perhaps, or maybe a message of some kind. I'm sorry to be so vague, but we're groping in the dark and clutching at straws."
Mike half expected him to go on about leaving no stone unturned and a string of other clichés, but he was spared that. "Well, now you mention it, there was quite an elaborate message, though I shouldn't have thought it would be of any interest to you."
"I think it's best if we decide that. What was the message about?"
"Well, it was more a story than a message, in fact. It was from Alexander Forster from whom I inherited the place. It had previously belonged to a friend of his. When he last visited this friend, he found him worried sick over breaking a promise to bury his wife's ashes in a particular spot they loved."
"Aha! - Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but this is beginning to look rather promising. Was there anything about where that spot might be?"
"Yes, I'm coming to that. It was on the other side of the mountains, in the Grand Teton National Park. Forster ferried him there, and they duly buried the ashes, but then the friend himself suddenly died - a heart attack, I suppose. Forster couldn't move the body and apparently did nothing about it afterwards, so he wanted me - or whoever he was addressing - if it wasn't too much trouble to go and see whether whatever was left of it was still there."
"Yes, this is just the sort of thing we want. So I suppose he must have said where this place was?"
"Yes, he left quite detailed directions."
Staveley leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. "This is almost too good to be true. Do you still have those directions?"
"No; at least I've no idea where they are. I may simply have lost them, but I get cluttered up with dead paperwork if I'm not strict about it, so I probably threw them out ages ago."
"Damn! I might have known there'd be a hitch." He slumped despondently into his chair, but then had another idea. "Is there any chance you could reproduce them?"
"Maybe, but I doubt if they'd be much help. Even with them, I had a bit of a job finding the place. They're a bit difficult to describe verbally, so Forster had provided a rough map,. but there's one crucial marker that I'd never have recognised without a drawing of it that he'd left, and I doubt if I could reproduce it."
"What sort of marker?"
"A very oddly-shaped tree stump."
"Would you please try?"
Paper was produced, and Mike did his best but could not get it right; he was fairly sure he would recognise it if he saw it, but it wasn't clear enough in his mind. "So you think you could find the place if you went back?"
"Go back? Hang on a tick, what's all this about? It's a hell of a way to go just to find a pot of ashes."
At this point Gibbons objected, citing the "need to know" principle, but Stavely overruled him. "We're proposing to put this gentleman to a great deal of inconvenience, and I think he can reasonably claim a right to know why he should help us. We can't compel him, you know, and it probably wouldn't do any good if we tried. We need willing assistance."
Gibbons reluctantly conceded this, but insisted that before they went any further, Mike would have to sign the Official Secrets Act. "What? I'm not signing anything before I've read it."
"Very wise, Mr. Crapton."
"Crampton, if you please!"
"Oh, sorry, what an unfortunate misprint."
That error broke the tension. Gibbons chuckled and corrected his brief. "Anyway, I have it here; the relevant bit is quite short, take a look."
Mike did so, and wondered what all the fuss was about. "Nothing more than common sense, really."
"I'm very glad you see it like that."
Gibbons then asked if Dodgson would mind leaving them and make sure they were not disturbed. They didn't actually need a sound-proof room, but if he found any of their conversation substantially audible he should let them know.
Staveley then explained that nearly six years earlier, a Dr. Donald Harris, a specialist at the Idaho National Laboratory, had been kidnapped by a terrorist organisation to which his knowledge could have been useful, although perhaps as a smoke-screen they appeared more immediately interested in him as a hostage in negotiations to have some of their number released from jail. As part of efforts to get him back, Garstein (not his real name) had managed to infiltrate the gang and photograph documents that he thought would help to identify the personage, known only to be someone prominent, who was running it. The hints meant nothing to Gars
tein, but he thought they would probably be significant to anyone who regularly moved in those circles. However, on the "leaf in a forest" principle, he had hidden the film with half a dozen others when he made his get-away.
"The distinctive mark on the canister obviously had to be very discreet. The clerk to whom he handed it in admitted afterwards that he had been in a bad temper that day - hung over, I suspect, though he didn't say so - and his impatience must have flustered Garstein, who it turned out later was already in a very nervous state - probably a result of the strain he'd been under. Be that as it may, through whatever cause, he unfortunately handed the wrong one in."
"Wasn't the mistake noticed?"
Staveley sighed. "Not at first. Apparently the clerk asked what was in the package, but couldn't be given an explanation of its importance for reasons of security, so he took no particular care with it. In fact he stuck it in his desk and forgot about it for six months. It was only when he was fired for other reasons that he had to clear the desk, came across it at the back of a drawer and simply stuck it in the internal post."
Gibbons tut-tutted, shook his head sadly, and sighed as though finding the situation all too familiar. Staveley glanced at him in mild irritation, then continued.
"When it came to Garstein's boss he wondered why on earth he'd been sent what looked like a bunch of ordinary vacation shots. It was only when he recognised Garstein on one of them that he made the connection and realised what must have happened. By then his - that is, Garstein's - nervous condition had developed into a kind of breakdown, he was suffering from delusions and when our men went to see him he thought they were part of the gang after his blood. I believe he recovered partly afterwards, enough for a more or less normal life though not for questioning to do any good. With his wife's permission the place was searched while they were out, but nothing relevant was found. However, it was a hurried job and something as small as a roll of film might have been missed. Now that you tell me he buried his wife's ashes later on, I just hope that he'd recognised his mistake, found the right film and hidden it where it was least likely to be found. Don't ask me for a logical reason, though. You see what I mean about clutching at straws."
"Would it really be any use after all this time?"
"Well, Harris is evidently still being kept alive and reasonably well; from time to time the gang send photographs to accompany their demands, although those are now for ransom rather than release of their colleagues. I'm rather surprised they're still bothering, but it's fortunate for us - and for him. This is obviously a very long shot, but if the top man can be identified from data on the film and discretely arrested, there's just the faintest possibility of finding clues to Harris's present location and possibly mounting a rescue mission. Straws again, I'm afraid. Supposing it got that far the attempt would still be extremely risky, but so would leaving a man with his knowledge in unfriendly hands, and to be brutally frank, even a failed rescue could deny them that knowledge, or at least his application of it. We've considered the pros and cons very carefully and the scheme seems just about worth trying, so would you be willing to help? It's the only way we have a chance of success, however slight. All expenses paid, naturally."
Mike was impressed by Stavely's earnestness, but explained that it was more than a matter of expenses; he had a business to run and it needed practically all his attention. "But surely you have to be away sometimes, and I imagine you must have a capable deputy to cover on such occasions? No man is indispensable, and all that. What is the business?"
"A bus company. Yes, I have a deputy, but he's also one of my best drivers, we don't have all that many and there's an unexpected rush of business just now. I can't pull him off his main job."
Staveley and Gibbons conferred for a moment and came up with a suggestion; if they were to second a first-rate PSV driver to his firm for the week of Mike's absence, at national expense, would that meet his objections? He had to consult Terry, who took some time to be found and brought to the telephone. With great reluctance, and only when assured that Mike's absence was unavoidable for reasons that he was not allowed to say (Gibbons winced at that, but it was too late to do anything about it), he accepted the arrangement and so it was settled.
Staveley then told him that one of his embassy staff was due to fly back to Idaho the following Monday, and would be company for him if he was willing to travel that day. Mike saw through that one at once; he was to have a minder. Still, he had no objection, and it was arranged that they should meet at the check-in.
Sam Barker turned out to be a cheerful, burly young man who might have been a Rugby forward, or rather American football of course. They were both ushered very smartly through the VIP section of Security, for reasons that Mike thought probably connected with the slight oddity in the hang of Barker's jacket, and settled themselves for the wait in the first-class lounge. This was something rather different from his previous experience, but he commented that if it were forced upon him he might in time come to accept it without too many complaints. Offered a range of beverages, most of them highly alcoholic, Barker declared himself teetotal and settled for coffee - for such occasions only, Mike suspected - but urged him not to stint himself unduly.
On the aircraft, the first-class cabin was also very different from the cramped conditions of his first Atlantic crossing. The flight attendant, a rather attractive young negress (to hell with political correctness, he thought; there was nothing derogatory in the term) seemed determined to thrust more alcohol upon him, so that he eventually accepted a Drambuie miniature to go with his coffee and was not inclined to argue when she left another with him "for later". The meal presented to him was vastly better than he remembered, too. The in-flight entertainment was not really to his taste, but he had a good alternative: remembering his father's comments about Mrs. Bennett, overheard by chance many years earlier, he had determined to read 'Pride and Prejudice' in full as for some reason he had never done before, and found a paperback edition in the airport bookshop. That occupied him well enough for the time not spent in dozing or chatting with Barker.
At Denver the authorities, whatever they were, had saved him the interminable wait for the scheduled connection by laying on a private jet to Jackson Hole, where he was introduced to Captain James Martin in charge of the operation. Martin, a man with a brisk, business-like manner whom Mike judged to be in his late twenties, immediately made himself agreeable. He also seemed to have a good relationship with the two squaddies in the party; it was noticeable, however, that they showed no sign of presuming upon it, and Mike imagined that any transgression of that kind would be slapped down very firmly.
It was too late to start work that day, so Mike went to bed early according to local time and had a good night's sleep in a Jackson hotel. They started off early the next morning, although Mike had been awake for about four hours. He suggested that although they were south of the lake, there would be less risk of confusing his memory if they approached from the north as he had done before, and Martin readily agreed. On the way he asked how Mike came to be involved, and was intrigued by the whole story.
The temperature had dropped sharply during the night with a few inches of snow, but in view of the notoriously capricious climate Martin had thought to bring boots for the party with a range of spares, and hoped that one of the pairs would fit Mike. It was a shade large, but he could manage. Although the vegetation around the viewing point had encroached further, Mike found the right path eventually. It seemed rather more distinct than he remembered, and in the clearing itself there were signs that the surrounding trees had been trimmed back recently, but the pillar and the plaque were just as he remembered them. One thing did surprise him, however: "Hello, that's new!"
"What is?"
He pointed at a crude seat, large enough for two or three people, that someone had made out of fallen timber. One of the squaddies tried it and pronounced it not too uncomfortable for a brief rest. Then he started bouncing, gently at first, but Mart
in told him to desist: "No need to test it to destruction."
The four stones had been covered by snow, but their locations were obvious and the area around them was soon cleared. The snow had been if anything a blessing, since it had insulated the ground from the frost and made digging that much easier than it might have been.
Martin, who now confessed to having been rather sceptical about the practicality of the whole expedition, was greatly relieved that everything had so far gone according to plan. He supposed that if the film were there at all it would be with the ashes of Garstein's wife, and Mike thought that was almost certainly so, but since there was nothing either on the site or in his memory of Forster's instructions to suggest which of the stones might be the right one, they would probably have to investigate all four unless they struck lucky earlier.
Martin had assumed that all the ashes would be enclosed in the customary urns, and that the film if present at all would be in one of them, but Mike pointed out that although that seemed very probable, no urn was actually mentioned in his instructions, so they had better proceed rather carefully. Martin took the point, but was a little concerned that it might upset the timetable for the operation, although fortunately that seemed so far to be not at all critical. The squaddies were duly warned to dig carefully, a little at a time.
They were working on the second interment when a woman came bustling along the path, stopped in horror when she saw what was going on, and berated them furiously for vandalising a sacred burial place. Martin let her have her say, then apologetically produced his authorisation and quietly explained that he was under orders and pursuing a serious official investigation; he was not permitted to say more about it, except that someone's life might depend upon it. "We'll treat any remains we find with the utmost respect, and put the whole site back as closely as possible to what it was when we've finished. You're welcome to stay and make sure if you wish, and for that matter to carry on with whatever you came to do."
In view of the secrecy enjoined on him, Mike was startled at this and was about to question it, but Martin signalled to him to be silent, and indeed the woman's response was "I only came to see what was happening here after I noticed all the tracks leading to the path. I can't hang about here all day while you lot mess around."
"Then if you tell me where you can be found, I shall report when we've finished and you can inspect to your heart's content."
She was still unhappy but perforce agreed to that, and digging was carefully resumed. All four interments proved to be of urns that were recovered undamaged and carefully opened, in one instance with the help of a little easing oil that Martin had fortunately thought to bring. The contents were sifted separately into a saucepan shielded from the gentle breeze, but in each case consisted only of ashes, and Martin cursed quietly in frustration, then remembering the supposedly sacred nature of the place apologised to no one in particular. Each collection was returned to its original urn through a funned of rolled card.
Despite all precautions, a little ash escaped and some blew into Mike's face. He sneezed, and fishing for a handkerchief, pulled out a few coins, one of which rolled into a still-open hole where it vanished into the loose soil at the bottom. It was probably only a dime, but instincts formed in years of penury reasserted themselves and he scrabbled for it. Every movement seemed to send it further down and he borrowed a spade to get underneath. Even so, he never did retrieve the coin, because he lost interest when up came a slightly battered 35 mm film canister.
Martin noticed and shouted "Don't open it!"
Mike felt insulted: "What sort of fool do you take me for?"
"None at all, but better be safe than sorry."
"Oh, fair enough. I suppose this really is what you're looking for?"
"It sure looks like it, but in case it hasn't been processed we'd better wait until we can get it into a darkroom."
"Perhaps you'd better check the other holes more thoroughly, too; this might be just a decoy."
"Good point, Mr. Crampton. We'll do that."
However, nothing else of interest appeared, so the urns were carefully and reverently re-interred. The custodian was fetched, she pronounced herself tolerably satisfied, and Martin diplomatically invited her to join him in a prayer. At that she blushed, apologised for her earlier outburst and went so far as to offer refreshments after their efforts, a suggestion gratefully appreciated but gracefully declined, much to the squaddies' disgust. When it was safe to say so, Martin consoled them with "It would probably only be tea anyway," and produced the cans of beer that he had surreptitiously brought for the occasion.
For operational reasons the team had to return to Idaho Falls. The job had taken less time than had been allowed, it was still only mid-afternoon, and with his homeward flight booked for the following day Mike asked if he might attend to a little business of his own in the town. "I didn't know you had any."
"Yes, I've a lawyer looking after my interests here, and there's something else I want to discuss, too."
"I see. Well, it was you who actually found what we were looking for, so I don't see how we can decently refuse you. How long will you need?"
"Two hours should be enough, I think." Martin had no objection to that and arranged transport, so Mike was able to check with Weinberg whether there were any outstanding issues over Garstein's place.
Fortunately there was nothing that needed his attention, but Weinberg was understandably curious. "You didn't come all this way just to ask that question, did you?"
"No, there was something else I had to do."
He was aware of seeming decidedly shifty, but Weinberg saved the need for any more awkward evasions by humorously taking the wrong end of the stick: "If there's a lady involved I shan't pry any further." Mike laughed: it was as good a cover as any he could have devised.
Then he went to the travel agency that he had used before and asked to speak to the head, a Mr. Dennison. He introduced himself as managing a travel company in England, without mentioning at that stage how small a part of his business that actually was. "I've noticed back home that there don't seem to be any packages offered specifically for the Yellowstone area; if it's included at all it's as an odd day in a more general tour, usually starting in New York or Washington. Now I realise it would be a specialised niche, but I think there might be a market for a longer stay, perhaps camping and wild life or geothermal interests, and possibly with a West Coast extension. Do you think from your own experience that it might be worth considering bypassing the East Coast altogether?"
"Well, people often do spend a week or two in the parks, but of course they aren't coming from so far away. Hmm. It would have to be at the top end of the market; we couldn't expect people to tolerate economy class from Europe all the way here."
Shuddering at the recollection, Mike agreed. "And that dreadful connection at Denver would be unbearable, so unless the schedules are altered it might be worth arranging a charter. I suppose we should look into the possibility of approaching by way of Seattle instead, but there may be the same problem there; I didn't think to check."
Dennison observed that Jackson would be a more natural starting point, and Mike agreed. "But tours could start there and finish here, or the other way round, to save covering the same ground twice."
"That's a reasonable suggestion; I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask for the present. Here's my card; you'll want to know more about me, of course, so I suggest you speak to Harry Weinberg; it was he who recommended you to me."
"Ah yes, Harry and I are old friends. I'll do that, and get in touch before long."
Returning home, Mike was more than usually preoccupied for a couple of weeks, as on top of all the usual stuff a few complications had arisen that Terry had thought best left for the boss. Nothing came from Dennison in that time, and Mike supposed he had found the costs too high or some other obstacle. He had almost forgotten his suggestion when the best part of five months later, a letter ar
rived with impressively researched details that Mike was invited to go back and discuss if they chimed well enough with his own ideas. They looked very interesting indeed and he telephoned promptly to that effect. Dennison thought the meeting should take no more than half a day, and had no objection when Mike suggested holding it in the morning so that he could attend to other matters in the afternoon; he would gladly book a hotel room in Idaho Falls the for the following Wednesday night, in Ashton for Thursday and a car for the journey.
He arrived near midnight and checking in at the hotel, found the night porter polishing his shoes using a weeks-old issue of the Post Register to protect the desk surface. The headline RETURN OF INL SCIENTIST caught his eye and reminded him of his visit the previous October, so he asked if he might have a closer look. "Take it, Sir, I've done with it. We only kept this one because the manager's son used to work at INL and was coming back for his mother's birthday."
The page was dominated by a photograph of a well-built man, apparently youngish but clearly the worse for wear with a nasty scar across the forehead. Skimming through the text, Mike came across the name Donald Harris which confirmed his interest. Stripped down to essentials, the story was that new information recently acquired had enabled the long-kidnapped specialist to be located and freed from captivity, although with serious injuries sustained in the battle that wiped out most of the gang holding him. He had now recovered well enough to convalesce at home, although for reasons of security and privacy the address was not disclosed, and he wished to thank sincerely all those who had been instrumental in releasing him; that applied especially to the two who had died in the raid, and he offered sincere condolences to their families. Evidently, Mike thought, the long shot with Garstein's film had paid off vastly better than could realistically have been hoped, and on the whole the rescue too had been surprisingly successful.
He commented on that aspect during the preliminaries of his meeting the next morning. Dennison was of course completely unaware of the extraordinarily tenuous possibilities that had been realised in the preparations for the operation, but from what had been published agreed that it was a remarkably satisfactory outcome, and then turned to the matter in hand. It ended with an arrangement for a pilot tour to be included in the next season's brochure.
Mike thought of paying a courtesy call on Weinberg, who however was out visiting another client, so he left a verbal message of good wishes, then headed north and was glad to find Iris Carter at home, although Joel was working in St. Anthony. She greeted him warmly and was delighted to show him proudly all the improvements that they had made to the house; as a sudden afterthought she asked anxiously if he approved of them. "Very much so. This is your home, and within reason you can do whatever you like to make it more comfortable for yourselves."
"That's very kind of you, Sir, and we do appreciate it. Now you will stay for a bite to eat, won't you?" Mike could think of no reason to decline it that would not seem intolerably churlish and so felt obliged to accept, although with some apprehension in view of the blow-out he remembered from the previous occasion. Perhaps someone had dropped a hint to her, or maybe she was short of supplies, but the meal proved to be merely substantial rather than gargantuan and he was able to do something like justice to it.
While they were eating he asked how they were faring generally, but her answer was non-committal and he suspected that they were still having some difficulty in making ends meet with any overlap. "You know," she added, "it took us quite a while to get used to living here in the forest, having to manage with only a trickle of electricity and so on, although Joel's thinking of getting a bigger generator and that would make quite a difference, but now we've settled in we really love the place. We'd hate to have to leave it." Mike took that as a hint,. so assured her that he had not the slightest intention of turning them out and as far as he was concerned, the place was theirs as long as they needed it. Indeed, he thought briefly of asking Weinberg if he could find a way of giving them legal tenure without raising too many awkward questions; however, considered in relation to a place that didn't legally exist, it seemed a logical impossibility.
Taking his leave, he suddenly realised that he had forgotten to telephone the Hamiltons and warn them of his intention to visit the area, but he hoped they would not take his unexpected arrival amiss and might have news of Josie, as he had heard nothing from her for some time. For that matter, neither had she heard anything from him, apart from a Christmas card that hardly counted. He had never been much good at personal correspondence himself, as Carol Alsopp in particular would have had every justification in complaining. Why he should think of her just then he could not imagine. Nevertheless he wondered what she was doing now; probably married with several children, but he was unlikely to find out as he had not maintained the family contact. Neither did he particularly regret it.
As he approached he could hear Bill again splitting logs and had a sense of having slipped back in time, but the greeting he received now after a moment of surprise was very different from that on his original visit. "Michael! I hardly recognised you. Good to see you again, though. Why have you taken so long? It must be getting on for two years. Eighteen months, at any rate."
"There just wasn't an occasion." He forbore to mention his last visit to the area, but on that trip it would have been out of the question and he probably ought not to speak of it anyway, though what harm it might do now he could not imagine.
"Sal will be delighted you've come, and so will Josie. She's here too."
Mike's heart jumped at that and he was glad that no one saw his blushes. Bill went to the door and shouted "Sal! Josie! Guess who's here!"
From inside there was a call of "Coming!" In fact it was Josie herself who appeared first, did a double take, then rushed at him, flung her arms round his neck and gave him a real smacker. Sal appeared a moment later and greeted him equally warmly if in a more sedate, matronly manner. "This is a real occasion. Why on earth didn't you say you were coming? We'd have had a proper welcome for you. Josie's told us about how splendid you were that time her coach got wrecked."
"Oh, that, it was no trouble at all, really. I was only too glad to help. It was such a joy to see her again. And as for not telling you I was coming, I'm sorry, I simply forgot. I wanted to see the Carters - you remember I referred you to Iris when I needed someone to vouch for my good character - and I'm ashamed to say it put warning you out of my mind."
"Well, perhaps we can forgive you for that. What do you say, Josie?"
"I'm not so sure. It's a heinous offence. What sort of penalty can make up for it?"
"Don't ask me. I've no idea."
"I've got it, how about a really stupendous kiss?"
"That's one I'll be delighted to pay."
It was a long, sustained embrace and he made the most of it, thinking that fortune was really smiling on him. It left her gasping for breath. The she became more serious. Taking his hand, she said "I'm so glad you've come just now, Mike. You couldn't have picked a better time. There's someone here I particularly want you to meet."
He wondered who on earth that could be, but more immediately was puzzled by something he could not quite identify, something unexpected about her manner, deeper than the excitement of her initial greeting. He took a little while to pin it down, but it eventually clicked; instead of the air of slight melancholy that he had previous felt in all her quiet moments, there was now a kind of sparkle about her, a lightness and gaiety he had never sensed before - not of course that he had had the opportunity to know her as well as he would have liked. It was as though an immense weight of care had been lifted from a naturally buoyant nature so that it could burst out after years of suppression.
She led him to an inner room, where a big man with a leg in plaster supported on a stool was sitting reading with his back to the door. "Don, you'll never guess who's here"
"Who's that?" As he turned, Mike recognised the scar on his forehead from the photograph he had
seen in the Idaho Falls newspaper.
"Mike," she said, "come and meet my husband."
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