That wasn’t exactly true. I was aware of the names of two fellow members. Hal Harrington, the software millionaire, and another who was a journalist.
I shrugged. “If you would like me to stay, I will.”
“It is also my understanding that one of your members was supposed to destroy all documents relating to your group’s activities. But he didn’t.”
That was my understanding, too, but I said nothing.
“Members of your group had quite a scare a few years back when a New York Times reporter nearly came into possession of some of those documents. It was my last year in office.”
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Even for a former president, Wilson knew way too much about the Negotiators.
“I really have no knowledge, sir—”
The door opened and I stopped in midsentence. It was Harrington, the intelligence guru Wilson said he no longer trusted. I no longer trusted him, either. Hal was the man who’d kept records that should have been destroyed.
Surprised, I looked from the president to Harrington. Typically, Harrington was wearing a tailored suit and tie. Atypically, he looked distressed.
Wilson took several breaths of oxygen, then said gruffly, “Tell him the truth.”
Harrington cleared his throat. “I was using the stuff we had on your pal Tomlinson to keep you working for us. I don’t apologize for that, damn it. We need assets like you, Ford.
“But now that you’re both guaranteed a pardon”—Harrington grimaced at the former president—“I guess the only leverage I have is your sense of duty. I discussed it with President Wilson and we thought that if two plank members of the Negotiators asked you to keep working, you might reconsider.”
I turned from Harrington to Wilson, then looked at the door. “I’m confused. You said a meeting of three plank members. Who’s the third?”
President Kal Wilson was staring at me with his intense green farmer’s eyes. He continued staring until a gradual and numbing awareness forced me to face him. He nodded. “That’s why I couldn’t risk running for a second term.”
I sat back in my chair digesting this, remembering Wilson in my lab exactly one month ago saying, “I ran across other globe-trotting Ph.D.s with backgrounds as murky as yours. Scientists, journalists . . . even . . . politicians.”
Wilson said, “I’m right about this, Ford. Stay.”
I RETURNED TO FLORIDA UNDECIDED.
We all accumulate past regrets and I began to fear my indecision would become another. Shortly after I got home, I sent the president a telegram—an anachronistic touch I thought he would appreciate.
RIGHT AGAIN STOP AS USUAL STOP AWAITING
INSTRUCTIONS STOP FORD
Two days later, I was beneath my stilt house, patching a hole in the shark pen, when I got word Kal Wilson had died.
I am still awaiting my instructions.
Also by Randy Wayne White
Sanibel Flats
The Heat Islands
The Man Who Invented Florida
Captiva
North of Havana
The Mangrove Coast
Ten Thousand Islands
Shark River
Twelve Mile Limit
Everglades
Tampa Burn
Dead of Night
Dark Light
NONFICTION
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)
Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook
with Carlene Fredericka Brennen
Hunter's Moon Page 26