Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

"What?" Simpson asked. He was looking back over his shoulder.

"Nothing,"

"So what the fuck was that?"

"A weirdo," Hannah said grimly. "Forget it. Let's go talk with Ramblur and the others on the list. When we get back, I think I might do something stupid."

Dr. Pan Rudo was as Hannah had pictured him from Dr. Finn's tale: thin, graying, elegant, and friendly in a mannered way. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-sixties, fine lines snagging his dark eyes and netting his mouth. He folded his hands on his desk and shrugged. Behind him, several stories down, the office window gave a view of the UN Plaza, crowded with people heading home after the work day. The walls of the office were lined with plaques and photos: Dr. Rudo with Albert Einstein, with the ageless Winston Churchill, with Marilyn Monroe, with every president from Carter to Bush. "I find myself at a loss, Ms. Davis. I can't imagine why you would be interested in poor, misguided Dr. Faneuil."

"I'm not exactly sure why either, Dr. Rudo," Hannah admitted. "Let's just say that I'm being a little over-thorough and maybe a bit paranoid."

Rudo smiled at her. "Ordinarily, I'd say that's an unusual and attractive asset in your occupation. So how may I help you?"

Hannah gave Rudo a condensed version of what had led her to Dr. Finn. Rudo listened attentively, his hand steepled under his chin, nodding occasionally. When she had finished, he spread his hands wide in a gesture of sympathy. "I see why you might wonder," he told her. "I remember Kenya all too well. Dr. Faneuil was a terrible and tragic waste of incredible talent, and we all owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Finn for exposing him."

"I ran a background check," Hannah said. "Dr. Faneuil began to work for the Red Cross and various other charitable health organizations in the early sixties. He went to Kenya in 1974, and fled in 1985 in the aftermath of the AIDS revelation. The records indicate he was known to be in Vietnam by 1986, and then … well, nothing. He disappears from all the records I could find."

"And you wonder if possibly he didn't return here with his vendetta against jokers still in mind?"

Hannah shrugged.

Rudo smiled. "Then I can set your mind at ease, Ms. Davis. I happen to know that Etienne Faneuil died in what is now called Free Vietnam in 1988 when it was still the Socialist Republic. He is buried there, in a village called Xuan Loc about 35 miles east of Saigon, if I recall correctly."

"You're certain? The records I have don't indicate that."

Rudo laughed, gently. His graceful hands touched the Mont Blanc fountain pen laying alongside the leather desk pad, then returned to his lap as he sat back in his chair. "You're very persistent Ms. Davis. But WHO has excellent sources all over the world, and I have both a very good memory and a certain vested interest in Dr. Faneuil, since I was peripherally involved in funding him in Kenya. Yes, I'm certain. I received the news of his death with mixed emotions, I must admit — in many ways, Etienne did much good in his time, as well as much evil."

"What about his nurse, Margaret Durand? She helped him with the genocide."

Rudo frowned. "I didn't know her well. I believe she followed Dr. Faneuil to Vietnam but I don't know what became of her. Just a moment …" He leaned forward again and touched a button on his phone system. "Dianne," he said. "Before you go, make a note to call Aaron Cofield first thing tomorrow morning. Have him start checking for any information he might have on the present whereabouts of a Margaret Durand — she was Etienne Faneuil's nurse. Tell him that I'll give him a call with additional information later."

"Yes, Doctor," a voice answered, tinny through the small speaker. "Have a good evening."

"Thank you." Rudo touched the intercom button again and looked at Hannah. "There. I will send you the results. We probably have better international contacts, even into Free Vietnam despite all its recent uproar." Rudo sighed. "Remember, Ms. Davis, that Dr. Faneuil would be in his mid-seventies if he were still alive. I would imagine Margaret would be sixty or older. Does that fit your fire setter's profile?"

"Not really," Hannah admitted. "Dr. Rudo, thanks for your time. I'd appreciate your looking into Faneuil and Margaret Durand."

"You still think this might be something more than simple arson and murder?"

"I don't know, Dr. Rudo. I try not to have any opinion about it at all and just let the facts speak for themselves. Honestly, I don't think any of this will pan out, but I feel that I have to examine every possibility."

Rudo smiled again and stood, extending his hand. "That is best, certainly. If I can be of any more help to you …"

His handshake was firm and warm. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been more than helpful already. I have another appointment this evening, as a matter of fact, someone else who might know something about Durand."

"So you've been looking her up, also."

"Yes. Actually, her background is more interesting than Dr. Faneuil's."

"Fascinating. Then I'll simply wish you luck." He started to walk Hannah toward the door, then stopped. He cocked his head to one side slightly, as if appraising a painting or sculpture. "Forgive me for saying this, but as a psychologist, I notice things. Your accent tells me that you're not native to the city, and I suspect that you're not entirely happy here. If I can be of any help in that area …"

"Am I that transparent?" Hannah asked, genuinely shocked. She tried to laugh; it sounded utterly false.

Rudo chuckled with her. "No, Ms. Davis. I just … well, pick up on these things. My offer's genuine. Sometimes a neutral ear …" He smiled again.

"I'll keep it in mind," Hannah told him. The way work is going, the way my relationship with David has gone sour … "Maybe …" she said, not realizing until a second later that she'd spoke aloud.

"Please do. Trust yourself, Ms. Davis. You strike me as both dedicated and intelligent. I'm sure you will find your arsonist, and very soon."

"It was this picture, Mr. Dearborn. A rather famous picture, from what I'm told. When I saw her file, when I saw where she'd worked and what had happened there, I checked the Wolfe book out of the library. I also found out that you lived in New York now."

" True Brothers ." Dearborn gave her a lopsided grin. "Wolfe might be a fine writer, but he ain't a pilot, and no amount of poetic language can replace that. I never could read his book, but I remember the picture."

The retired Navy captain had an apartment in the Village overlooking one of the little parks. He took the book from Hannah, studied the photo reproduced there through his bifocals. Dearborn looked almost skeletal. "Ahh, we were handsome then," he said, handing it back to her. His hand trembled with a palsy. He's on medication , the tenant downstairs had told her. Really sick. Sometimes it makes him a little, well, rambling. She'd tapped her head.

"We had hair," Dearborn said, chuckling. "Lots of it. We thought nothing could kill us. Nothing, ever. We were immortal."

He chuckled again, then leaned back on the couch. A television, the sound off but the picture still on, flickered in the corner of the room. All around, there were pictures of Dearborn, standing alongside a series of aircraft. A half-dollar was sitting on the coffee table. Dearborn picked it up and began flipping it. Heads. Flip. Heads. Flip. Heads. He noticed Hannah watching him and put the coin down again.

"Yes, that's Margaret Durand," Dearborn said. "Peggy, we called her. She was our flight nurse for the project. Thayer took the picture at Pancho's, in fact. He used my camera; I had an old Argus C-3. Lot of those shots on the walls taken with it. In fact, I think it's still around here somewhere. Life bought the reprint rights from us … afterward. Wolfe did, too." He licked dry, cracked lips. "Maybe except for Peg, I'm the only one left of the bunch, as I guess you've found out. The only one … Sometimes I think about that, and it scares me. I don't have much time left myself: colon cancer. Not too many people know or care what happened back then…."