The Marchand Woman

“Howard’s part of this bureaucracy of yours and possibly that explains why he has faith that everything possible is being done. I’m sorry to be blunt but I want to know what’s going on.”

“We’re doing all we can. Surely you must believe that.”

“Specifically what does that consist of?”

“At the moment it consists of a massive attempt on numerous different fronts to acquire information. We can’t make any moves while we’re blind. You can understand that.”

“Do you know where they are? The hostages?”

“No. No idea.”

“Do you know who the terrorists are?”

“We have suspicions but not facts. We believe they may be a splinter group of anti-Castro Cuban exiles—left over, so to speak, from the Bay of Pigs days. Determined to foment the overthrow of the Castro government. We’ve sent investigators—most of them from the Federal Bureau of Investigation—into south Florida to find out what they can from the members of the Cuban community there. At this point in time they’ve been able to shed no light on this. I can’t really tell you any more than that.”

“What do the governments plan to do—the Mexicans and the others?”

“About meeting the demands? They’re still arguing the point among themselves.”

“And Washington has nothing to say about this?”

“I’m sure the normal pressures have been applied, Mrs. Lundquist. That’s out of my department.”

He made a point of looking at his watch.

She said, “It’s kind of you to grant me this time. I realize you’ve only done it because somebody somewhere must owe a favor to my ex-husband, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“Please feel free to call on me at any time.”

She didn’t rise from the chair. “Mr. O’Hillary. I know you’ve been less than candid with me. I know it’s inevitable—it’s the way you are, the way you operate, it’s ingrained. Information is doled out on a need-to-know basis and I, as a sideline noncombatant, don’t need to know anything at all from the official point of view. But I think you know a great deal that you haven’t told me and if I find out later that this was the case I intend to make a noise. I have a certain amount of clout myself, particularly with the press, and I’m capable of making a rather loud noise. It seems to me your agency is under quite a cloud already these days—I’m sure you want to avoid any further embarrassments if you can. Am I making some sort of sense to you?”

“What do you want? Truth or pretense? The truth is we don’t know where those people are, Mrs. Lundquist.”

“The truth but not the whole truth. Tell me this: If you did know where they were, what would you be doing about it?”

Her statement dangled like a baited hook. She saw O’Hillary begin to smile; she’d caught him out—he hadn’t credited her with enough cleverness.

She said after a moment, “You probably wouldn’t do a damn thing. Very possibly you know exactly who these Cubans are and where they’re hiding. But they’re on our side, aren’t they?”

O’Hillary cocked his head a bit to one side; the quizzical hint of a smile didn’t change. He seemed to be waiting for a rider to her statement.

She said, “For all I know they have your tacit support. Even possibly your active support.”

“Kidnaping an American Ambassador? Hardly.” O’Hillary folded his arms across his chest—a blatant indication of rejection, both of the accusation and of Carole. “You’re quite wrong.”

“If this were a scenario for a Hollywood movie,” she said, “and I were reading it as the director, I’d have to ask the screenwriter why the secret agents aren’t doing the standard secret-agent things. Why haven’t you made it clear to these terrorists that if any harm befalls these important American hostages, then the CIA will spare no expense to track down these animals, wherever in the world they may choose to hide, and exterminate them?”

“Gunboat diplomacy of that sort went out quite a while ago, Mrs. Lundquist. I understand your feelings very well. One of the hostages in that party happens to be a fairly good friend of mine. I’m keenly concerned for him, just as you are for your son. But I’ve had to learn, painfully over the years, that indignation is a pointless response to terrorism.”

“Is it? I’m not sure of that. Maybe I’m not jaded enough.”

“This would hardly be an appropriate time to beat our breasts and thunder threats of retribution against these Cubans. They’d only laugh at us—at best—or start murdering hostages to prove their seriousness. That’s what we’re trying to avoid. We’re keeping a very low profile on this, but it’s not for lack of keen concern.”

His unflappability u

“That’s classified.”

“Of course you do. And if you’ve been keeping tabs on them you must have known something was in the wind. Possibly even known about this kidnaping before it took place. And if you knew about it why didn’t you put a stop to it?”

“How?”

The single word seemed to reveal the extent of O’Hillary’s knowledge. She hated him then.

He stood up. “I really must get back to work, Mrs. Lundquist. The minute anything breaks we’ll be in touch with your ex-husband. I’m afraid there’s nothing further I can tell you. Except perhaps this. I think you credit us with far more power in the world than we possess. We’re talking about Cuban terrorists who committed a crime in Mexico, managed to involve two other Latin American governments, and probably are hiding out somewhere between Durango and Rio de Janeiro. Only in the most indirect sense is this an American affair. We can’t dictate policy to the government of Venezuela, no matter what the pundits may suggest—anyone who follows the ups and downs of OPEC policies knows that much. We simply don’t rule the world. You need to understand that. Even if we did, as long as totalitarian solutions are unacceptable, then problems like this one will not be solved.”

He held out his hand to shake hers; he said with a smooth smile and a soft cadence in his voice, “‘Be wary of what you desire—you’ll get it.’ Emerson, I believe.”

It was one of those impressive curtain lines you spoke as you went out the door; O’Hillary wasn’t leaving, but he turned away from her and walked toward a filing cabinet.

There was nothing left to be said and she saw no point in spoiling his contrived finale. She left his office and, on her way past the secretary’s desk, glanced at the girl’s intercom. The On button was depressed. Either the secretary had taken the conversation down or she’d taped it.

Carole, unsurprised, waited for the guard to escort her to the elevator. She felt neither anger nor disappointment; she felt drained.

She awoke conscious of having dreamed—something fearful that left her short of breath—but she could not recover it.

She’d left a wake-up call for eight; it was seven-twenty. Friday.

Sitting bolt upright she said, “Robert?”

She arrived ahead of public visiting hours and was forced to wait on the Twenty-first Street entrance, fuming while she cooled her heels on the sidewalk. The State Department building was modern and massive, seven stories, heavy with import but not with style. After two minutes of it she could stand it no longer. She found a public phone.

Despite everything the telephone company could do she finally reached Howard. “Tell the bastards to let me in.”

Thus armed she got past the guard. The receptionist signed her in; she made her way to the familiar cubicle. It wasn’t much—a partitioned roomlet in government green.

She said, “Stand up when a lady comes into your office, you son of a bitch.”