tell ya, Mister Big Linebacker, the man in Langley, Virginia, who you can’t talk to nohow, says you better come up with somethin’ on this Thunder Head and come up quick! I mean none of us want to live in Palermo, you know what I mean
?”
“Redundancy aside,
‘Per cento anno, signore
’ ” said Goldfarb. “We’ll be in touch.” The CIA consultant replaced the telephone, leaned back in his swivel chair, and sighed audibly as he addressed the attractive couple in front of his desk. “Why me, oh Lord, why me?” he asked, shaking his head. “You’re positive you’re right?”
“I wouldn’t put it so strongly, Hyman,” replied the woman in a clipped British accent that bespoke several generations of expensive breeding. “No, we’re not
positive
, I don’t think anybody could be, but if there
is
a Thunder Head, he’s simply nowhere to be found, as you so clearly explained to the gentleman on the phone.”
“I used your words, of course,” added Goldfarb. “And I question the title of ‘gentleman.’ ”
“With good reason, I suspect,” said the woman’s male companion, also obviously British. “We employed Plan C. We were Cambridge-based anthropologists studying a great if diminished tribe whose ancestors were brought over to the Crown by Walter Raleigh in the early seventeenth century. If there really
is
a Thunder Head, by all logic he should have rushed forth to claim the Crown’s recognition, as well as the long-buried remittance, which at the time was no doubt minor, but by any standard anenormous sum today. He didn’t; therefore, our conclusion: he doesn’t exist.”
“But the brief to the Supreme Court
does
,” insisted the consultant. “It’s
crazy
.”
“Simply incredible,” agreed the Englishman. “Where do we go from here, Hyman? I gather you’re ‘under the gun,’ as we used to say in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, although I always thought it was a rather banal expression conveying more melodrama than was necessary.”
“It both is and it isn’t,” said Goldfarb. “We’re dealing with an off-the-wall megillah, but it’s still an extremely dangerous situation.… What are those judges
thinking
of?”
“Justice and the law, I daresay,” offered the woman. “At a cost we all recognize as beyond the extraordinary. Regardless, dear Hy, and forgive me for saying it, but the man on the phone you say is no gentleman is basically correct. Whoever’s hiding behind the mantle of this Thunder Head—or whoever
they
are—that’s the key.”
“But Daphne, by your own admission, you can’t
find
him.”
“Then perhaps we didn’t look hard enough, Hyman. Eh, Reggie?”
“Dear girl! We trekked all over that blasted backwater bog with horrible lodgings and
no
civilized facilities, I remind you, and got absolutely nowhere. No one made any sense at all!”
“Yes, I know, dear, but there was
one
who didn’t
want
to make sense, do you recall my mentioning it?”
“Oh, him,” replied the Englishman, his tone dismissing the memory. “Nasty young fellow, quite sullen, really.”
“
Who
?” Goldfarb instantly sat forward.
“Not sullen, Reggie, simply uncommunicative, incoherent, actually, but he understood everything we were saying. It was in his eyes.”
“Who
was
he?” pressed the CIA consultant.
“An Indian brave—that’s the word, I think—in his early twenties, I’d judge. He claimed not to understand English very well and just shrugged and shook his head when we asked him several questions. I didn’t think much about itat the time—the young are so hostile these days, aren’t they?”
“He was indecently dressed, if I do say,” interrupted Reginald. “Hardly more than a loincloth, really. Rather disgusting. And when he leaped up on that horse, I can tell you he betrayed a definite lack of equestrian skill.”
“What
are
you talking about?” asked a bewildered Goldfarb.
“He fell off,” answered Daphne. “Dressage is hardly his strong
?”
“Redundancy aside,
‘Per cento anno, signore
’ ” said Goldfarb. “We’ll be in touch.” The CIA consultant replaced the telephone, leaned back in his swivel chair, and sighed audibly as he addressed the attractive couple in front of his desk. “Why me, oh Lord, why me?” he asked, shaking his head. “You’re positive you’re right?”
“I wouldn’t put it so strongly, Hyman,” replied the woman in a clipped British accent that bespoke several generations of expensive breeding. “No, we’re not
positive
, I don’t think anybody could be, but if there
is
a Thunder Head, he’s simply nowhere to be found, as you so clearly explained to the gentleman on the phone.”
“I used your words, of course,” added Goldfarb. “And I question the title of ‘gentleman.’ ”
“With good reason, I suspect,” said the woman’s male companion, also obviously British. “We employed Plan C. We were Cambridge-based anthropologists studying a great if diminished tribe whose ancestors were brought over to the Crown by Walter Raleigh in the early seventeenth century. If there really
is
a Thunder Head, by all logic he should have rushed forth to claim the Crown’s recognition, as well as the long-buried remittance, which at the time was no doubt minor, but by any standard anenormous sum today. He didn’t; therefore, our conclusion: he doesn’t exist.”
“But the brief to the Supreme Court
does
,” insisted the consultant. “It’s
crazy
.”
“Simply incredible,” agreed the Englishman. “Where do we go from here, Hyman? I gather you’re ‘under the gun,’ as we used to say in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, although I always thought it was a rather banal expression conveying more melodrama than was necessary.”
“It both is and it isn’t,” said Goldfarb. “We’re dealing with an off-the-wall megillah, but it’s still an extremely dangerous situation.… What are those judges
thinking
of?”
“Justice and the law, I daresay,” offered the woman. “At a cost we all recognize as beyond the extraordinary. Regardless, dear Hy, and forgive me for saying it, but the man on the phone you say is no gentleman is basically correct. Whoever’s hiding behind the mantle of this Thunder Head—or whoever
they
are—that’s the key.”
“But Daphne, by your own admission, you can’t
find
him.”
“Then perhaps we didn’t look hard enough, Hyman. Eh, Reggie?”
“Dear girl! We trekked all over that blasted backwater bog with horrible lodgings and
no
civilized facilities, I remind you, and got absolutely nowhere. No one made any sense at all!”
“Yes, I know, dear, but there was
one
who didn’t
want
to make sense, do you recall my mentioning it?”
“Oh, him,” replied the Englishman, his tone dismissing the memory. “Nasty young fellow, quite sullen, really.”
“
Who
?” Goldfarb instantly sat forward.
“Not sullen, Reggie, simply uncommunicative, incoherent, actually, but he understood everything we were saying. It was in his eyes.”
“Who
was
he?” pressed the CIA consultant.
“An Indian brave—that’s the word, I think—in his early twenties, I’d judge. He claimed not to understand English very well and just shrugged and shook his head when we asked him several questions. I didn’t think much about itat the time—the young are so hostile these days, aren’t they?”
“He was indecently dressed, if I do say,” interrupted Reginald. “Hardly more than a loincloth, really. Rather disgusting. And when he leaped up on that horse, I can tell you he betrayed a definite lack of equestrian skill.”
“What
are
you talking about?” asked a bewildered Goldfarb.
“He fell off,” answered Daphne. “Dressage is hardly his strong
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