Resistance_ The Gathering Storm Part 11

As Hale entered the lobby he was nervous. Because no matter what he told himself, he knew Ca.s.sie was smarter than he was, and it would be easy for him to make a fool of himself. So with a sense of dread he climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door.

There was the click click of high heels on hardwood, followed by a momentary rattle as she turned the k.n.o.b and opened the door. Suddenly all of Hale's fears melted away when she smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek. of high heels on hardwood, followed by a momentary rattle as she turned the k.n.o.b and opened the door. Suddenly all of Hale's fears melted away when she smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Nathan! Please come in."

She was wearing pearls, a black c.o.c.ktail dress, and matching heels. It was an elegant yet s.e.xy look that took Hale's breath away. Ella Fitzgerald could be heard singing "How High the Moon" in the background as Ca.s.sie took Hale's overcoat, thanked him for the bottle of wine, and preceded him into a cozy living room that was lit by a standing lamp and half a dozen candles.

"Thank you for the wine-that's very sweet of you," she said. "How bout a drink? We can open the bottle, or I can offer you a bourbon on the rocks, a gin and tonic, or a screwdriver. Amazingly enough they had orange juice at the market."

"I'll take the bourbon," Hale replied as he looked around. Although the furnis.h.i.+ngs weren't fancy, a good deal of thought had gone into the way they were arranged, and there was very little clutter. "I like your apartment."

"It is nice, isn't it?" Ca.s.sie said brightly, as she went over to the side table where a selection of gla.s.ses and bottles stood. "It's very difficult to find a place to live here in Denver, so I was lucky to hook up with Vicki. She's my roommate. Please, have a seat. Your drink will be ready in a minute. We're having pot roast by the way. I hope that's okay ... I went looking for steaks, but they didn't have any. That's how it is in stores now. You take what you can get."

"I love pot roast," Hale said truthfully, "and I haven't had any in years."

"I like it, too," she agreed as she brought his drink over. "Although it takes quite a while to cook. That gives us time to talk though." She sat next to him on the sofa. "So, what did you do with your afternoon?"

Hale took a sip of his drink and told Ca.s.sie about the line, the people he'd met, and his failure to learn anything regarding Susan's fate. That led him to the trip back to the ranch, what he had discovered there, and the journey with Tina and Mark. They were on their second drink when a slow dance by the Ink Spots came on the radio.

Ca.s.sie stood and held out her hands. "You're a nice man, Nathan," she said as he put his drink down. "A lot of people would have left those children to fend for themselves. Now, come here ... I want to dance."

Dancing of any kind was at the top of the list of things that terrified Hale the most, but the opportunity to hold her in his arms was too good to pa.s.s up. So he got up from the chair and took her hands.

Moments later he was somewhere else, lost in the fragrance she wore, and the softness of her body. His feet moved, but not very much, as the two of them swayed to the music. Hale nuzzled Ca.s.sie's hair, reveled in the soap-smell of her, and held her close.

Then, when Ca.s.sie looked up into Hale's golden yellow eyes, it was as if an unspoken agreement had been reached. He kissed her, her lips melted beneath his, her hands came up to caress the nape of his neck, and their bodies seemed to meld.

At some point the dancing stopped, as hands explored, and important discoveries were made.

"Please," Ca.s.sie whispered into Hale's ear, "please." Ca.s.sie whispered into Hale's ear, "please."

Hale swept Ca.s.sie off her feet, carried her into the bedroom, and was about to lay her on a single bed when she said, "No, Nathan ... The other one."

Which bed made no difference to Hale, who lowered her onto the white bedspread, and took up where he'd left off. Women's clothes-especially evening clothes-were something of a mystery to him, and it was necessary for Ca.s.sie to help from time to time. But the process was very enjoyable, and by the time the black dress lay on the floor, Hale was half-naked himself.

"You aren't my first," Ca.s.sie said softly. "But it's been a long time."

Hale understood and kissed her concerns away as he removed the last of her clothing. Then he paused to look at her. The only light in the room came from candles, and one half of her face was in flickering shadow as she peered back. Her coral-tipped b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small but pert. He reached out and drew a line between them down to her belly b.u.t.ton. She smiled dreamily.

"Do you like what you see?"

Hale answered the question with a series of kisses that wandered from place to place until Ca.s.sie's breathing quickened and her fingers began to fumble with his belt buckle. Then it was Hale's turn to help as he stood long enough to get rid of the uniform trousers before taking his place between Ca.s.sie's long slender legs.

The bed was too narrow for them to lie side by side, but that was fine with Hale as Ca.s.sie's hand found him and pulled him in. It had been a long time for both both of them, so Hale was careful to take his time, nudging his way into her wet warmth, their mutual pa.s.sion building. Ca.s.sie made little sounds in the back of her throat and wrapped her legs around his torso as she urged him on. of them, so Hale was careful to take his time, nudging his way into her wet warmth, their mutual pa.s.sion building. Ca.s.sie made little sounds in the back of her throat and wrapped her legs around his torso as she urged him on.

"I want you, all all of you," she growled softly as the age-old rhythm began to build. Then they were there, climbing to the very peak of pa.s.sion, before falling into an ocean of pleasure. of you," she growled softly as the age-old rhythm began to build. Then they were there, climbing to the very peak of pa.s.sion, before falling into an ocean of pleasure.

The intensity of the moment was beyond anything Hale had experienced before, and once it was over, Ca.s.sie continued to shudder beneath him. Then she began to cry.

That was a development Hale wasn't prepared for and he felt a wave of concern.

"Ca.s.sie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Ca.s.sie replied softly, as her chest heaved. "Women cry for all sorts of reasons."

"Oh," Hale replied. "I understand."

But he didn't, not really, and he was glad when the crying stopped. They lay there for a while, happily entwined in each other's arms, as the afterglow gradually faded away. Then came a shower, which they chose to take together, and it might have led back into the bedroom, had there been more time.

After toweling herself off, Ca.s.sie threw on a terry-cloth robe, and went into the kitchen. The candlelit dinner was consumed at the kitchen table. Hale had thrown on an olive drab tank top and his uniform trousers, but his feet were bare. The wine was good, the pot roast and vegetables were delicious, and he thought it was the best meal he had ever been lucky enough to eat.

But time pa.s.sed quickly, and suddenly it was 0200 hours, which left Hale with only an hour to summon a cab, and make the trip to the airport. Both of them did what they could to keep the conversation light as Ca.s.sie put in a call for a taxi and Hale finished dressing.

Fifteen minutes later the cab was waiting in the street below, Hale was kissing Ca.s.sie goodbye, and the magical evening was over.

"I'll come back as soon as I can," Hale promised as he looked into her eyes.

Ca.s.sie smiled, or tried to, as she straightened his tie. "I'll be here."

But both of them knew that nothing was certain, that everything was in doubt, and that the evening together might well be the only such time they would ever have. Ca.s.sie stood at the window and watched as Hale went out the front door and entered the spill of light from a nearby streetlight. He turned to wave.

Then he was inside the taxi, it was pulling away, and Ca.s.sie was alone.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," Ca.s.sie said, as she thought about what had been done to him. And was was being done to him. "So very, very sorry." being done to him. "So very, very sorry."

Ca.s.sie went to bed after that-and sought to lose herself in sleep.

But when the sun rose, and sent streamers of light down into the bedroom, Ca.s.sie was still awake.

CHAPTER NINE.

ROLLING THUNDER.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Tuesday, November 27, 1951 The skies were clear, and a cold wind was blowing in off the Atlantic, as President Grace's Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler, climbed the narrow stairs that led to a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building.

An FBI agent was there to greet him. His name was Milt Wasowitz. He wore a gray snap-brim fedora, a dark blue trench coat, and a pair of very s.h.i.+ny shoes. He had heavy brows, a broad face, and pendant jowls. The two men had been working together for the better part of a week by then, and were on a first-name basis.

"Morning, Bill," Wasowitz said cheerfully. "You look like h.e.l.l warmed over."

Dentweiler winced. "And I feel worse than I look. Older women can be extremely demanding, Milt. They know what they want, and won't give up until they get it."

Wasowitz smiled sympathetically. "I'll have to take your word for that, Bill. Maggie and I have five kids, and by the time I get home, the only thing she wants is a back rub and a gla.s.s of wine."

Both men laughed as they entered the apartment. It was furnished with pieces of mismatched furniture, and bereft of personal photos, knickknacks, and personal items. Dentweiler had seen hotel rooms with more personality.

"This is how you found it?" he inquired.

"That's correct," Wasowitz acknowledged. "It was clean as a whistle. There wasn't so much as an empty beer bottle in the trash."

"Fingerprints?"

The FBI agent nodded. "Plenty of them ... Most of which belonged to Secretary Walker and his wife. The rest were a match to the building manager, the maintenance man, and previous tenants."

Dentweiler nodded thoughtfully. Originally, when the Walkers were reported missing, everyone a.s.sumed that the couple had been kidnapped. But without a ransom note, speculation turned to the possibility of a double homicide, or a murder-suicide, as an all-points bulletin went out to street cops everywhere.

Then, as the investigation continued and photographs of the couple appeared in the papers, a man reported that a woman who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker had purchased a used station wagon from him. Except that she gave a different name, paid for the car with cash, and was tight-lipped about her plans.

As more details emerged, the likelihood arose that the power couple had fled Was.h.i.+ngton voluntarily. A possibility that was of considerable concern inside the Grace administration, due to Walker's knowledge of and his opposition to Project Omega. If Walker went public with his allegations, it would feed the flames of public discontent already being fanned by Freedom First.

All of which explained why Dentweiler had been ordered to work with authorities to find out what had taken place, and report back to President Grace. The secret hideaway was the latest piece of a larger puzzle.

"So they took off," Dentweiler concluded as he polished his gla.s.ses with a white handkerchief.

"That's the way it looks," Wasowitz agreed soberly. "We have an APB out for the car ... But no luck so far."

"Okay," Dentweiler replied, settling the gla.s.ses over his ears. "But if you find the station wagon and/or the Walkers I want to hear about it immediately. And no leaks to the press. Understood?"

"Understood," Wasowitz replied solemnly.

"Good," Dentweiler said as he turned toward the door. Then he turned back.

"And Milt ... When you go home tonight, try taking some flowers with you. Who knows? You might get lucky."

President Grace didn't like the British amba.s.sador, and never had. Mostly because Lord Winther was an aristocrat and Grace didn't trust aristocrats. So as Grace circled his desk to greet the diplomat, he had what his staffers referred to as "the number one smile" firmly in place.

"Amba.s.sador Winther," he said warmly, "it's a pleasure to see you! Please, have a seat ... Some tea perhaps? I know how Englishmen love their tea."

Winther was an austere-looking man, with gray hair that was parted in the middle, wintry blue eyes, and a carriage reminiscent of the Army officer he had once been. He was wearing a three-piece Savile Row suit, complete with a restrained bow tie and a gold watch chain that formed the letter V across a flat stomach.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Winther replied gravely. "A cup of tea would be nice."

The two men were joined by members of their staffs, including Secretary of State Moody for the Americans, and Canadian Amba.s.sador Pimm on behalf of the beleaguered Commonwealth. A world-spanning organization which was more imaginary than real in the wake of so many Chimeran victories.

The first fifteen minutes of the meeting were spent on tea, pastries from the White House kitchen, and small talk. Then Winther launched into what was clearly a carefully rehea.r.s.ed plea. The essence of which was that rather than have the allies remain on the defensive, the British government hoped to interest the Americans in a joint task force which would attack Chimeran a.s.sets in Canada before the aliens could settle in there. Then, if successful, the effort could be extended to England and beyond.

It was a good idea, or might have been years earlier, before the death of 150 million people in Russia, 450 million in Europe, and untold millions in Asia. But like many governments around the world, the United States had been slow to react to the Chimeran menace, and the British plan was no longer realistic.

It was something Winther and Pimm already knew, deep down. Grace could see it in their eyes. So he heard them out, promised to give their proposal serious consideration, and was grateful when the pair left.

Grace's secretary had an office that adjoined his, and once the visitors were gone, and Moody with them, Dentweiler entered from there. Grace was back behind his desk by that time and nodded as his Chief of Staff appeared.

"Good afternoon, Bill. What were you up to last night? You look tired."

"I had to work late," Dentweiler lied smoothly. "How did it go with Amba.s.sador Winther?"

Grace made a face. "I can't stand the man, but I still feel sorry for him. And the other displaced diplomats as well. The city's full of them. How about you? Any progress on the Walker thing?"

Two guest chairs were positioned in front of the antique desk, which was made of timbers from the British vessel Resolute Resolute. Dentweiler chose the seat to the right. "Yes, Mr. President, I have. Based on all the available evidence, it's clear that Walker and his wife left voluntarily. And given the way they went about it, I think it's safe to a.s.sume that they mean us harm."

"d.a.m.n the man!" Grace said as he brought his fist down hard onto the surface of the desk. A photo of Mrs. Grace jumped and fell flat, and Dentweiler could see the anger in his eyes. "What will Walker do?" the chief executive demanded. the man!" Grace said as he brought his fist down hard onto the surface of the desk. A photo of Mrs. Grace jumped and fell flat, and Dentweiler could see the anger in his eyes. "What will Walker do?" the chief executive demanded.

Dentweiler shrugged. "I suspect he's been in touch with the Freedom First people, who will be eager to take him in. Walker is from Chicago, and Freedom First's radio broadcasts originate there, so that's a likely destination. Once he arrives, my bet is that he'll be on the air fifteen minutes later."

"But Chicago is occupied by the Chimera," Grace objected.

"True," Dentweiler agreed, "but that's where the Freedom Firsters get their credibility. They live underground, in bas.e.m.e.nts and sewers, and come up to fight. The stinks have made repeated efforts to root them out, and so far they've failed to do so."

Grace looked thoughtful. "Even if Walker goes on the air, so what? No one would believe him ... Especially after we accuse him of treason."

"Unless Walker has something we don't know about," Dentweiler put in. "Detailed notes from the cabinet meetings, perhaps. That might be credible enough to do some real harm."

"Then we need to stop Walker before before he can reach Chicago," Grace said darkly. he can reach Chicago," Grace said darkly.

"He's got a healthy head start," Dentweiler cautioned.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Grace wanted to know. "Get ahold of the FBI, the Domestic Security Agency, and all branches of the military. Put them to work. I want Walker arrested, and failing that, I want him dead! Do I make myself clear?"

Light glinted off Dentweiler's gla.s.ses as he nodded.

"Yes, Mr. President. Very Very clear." clear."

"Good," Grace said, as he came to his feet. "My schedule says we're due at the Lincoln Memorial in half an hour-and you know how I feel about punctuality."

The Lincoln Memorial was intended to resemble a Greek temple, and thanks to tons of Yule marble and thirty-six Doric columns, it succeeded. That-plus the brooding presence of the statue within-made it a favorite with tourists and politicians alike. And now, after a million-dollar-plus renovation, President Grace himself stopped by to inspect the repairs and say a few words.

Which was why radio reporter Henry Stillman and freelance cameraman Abe Bristow were waiting outside, and they weren't alone. About thirty other journalists were present as well, along with a crowd of roughly fifty tourists, all of whom hoped to catch a glimpse of the President.

Stillman had a long gaunt face, a no-nonsense chin, and was dressed in a well-cut gray suit. He flamed another in a long chain of Camels he had smoked that day, clicked the Zippo closed, and dropped the lighter into his coat pocket.