Exile Hunter by Preston Fleming Page B

a puzzled glance his way. Could she have
recognized him after all these years, even through his disguise? He
hoped not, for his own safety and hers, yet was disappointed when she
looked away.
    Mercifully, Philip
Eaton broke the silence and introduced him to her as Joe Tanner.
    All at once, Linder
found himself at a loss for words.
    “How thoughtful,”
he stammered while accepting a small plate of pastries.
    Patricia acknowledged
the remark with a polite nod and a distant smile, apparently too
preoccupied to pay him further notice. Still, the sight of her had
thrown him dangerously off balance. Why now, he asked himself? He had
not thought of Patricia in years. Why, of all people from his past,
had she surfaced at this moment, stirring up the best and the worst
feelings in him? And now that she had appeared, what would become of
her and her family if he succeeded in the operation he had come to
carry out?
    Almost against his
will, Linder’s eyes followed Patricia Kendall’s shapely legs on
her return to the kitchen. As surprised as he was to see her, Roger
seemed even more surprised to find his wife at the flat. Kendall
frowned and pursed his lips as he watched Patricia pass out of sight
through the kitchen door.
    Gathering his wits,
Linder set his mind to calculating what changes might be required in
his approach to Philip Eaton now that Patricia and her daughter
occupied the flat. At the same time, he studied Philip Eaton’s
expression for signs of favor or disfavor. His was a difficult face
to read, as Eaton seemed very much the dispassionate judge, fully
immersed in the facts of each case, yet resolved to decide it solely
on the merits. As if to confirm this impression, Eaton took one last
sip from his coffee cup, returned it to the silver tray and spoke as
if rendering a verdict.
    “Over the years I
have donated substantial sums to all sorts of resistance groups,”
the old man began. “Many who sought my help were personal friends.
Today, I regret to say, I have little to show for it. As worthy as
your movement may be, Mr. Tanner, I’m going to decline your
request. The truth is, I don’t have faith any longer in armed
resistance to the Unionists, whether mounted from inside or outside
the country. Nor do I believe in negotiating with their kind.”
    “Then you’re
willing to give the Unionists free rein?” Linder objected, startled
at being rejected so hastily. With Bednarski and Denniston listening
in, he could not allow himself to accept defeat without a struggle.
    “I have no love for
the Unionists,” Eaton replied. “But I think the time for taking
up arms is over. I believe that Unionism, having suppressed the
creative energies of the American people, has no future. I see it
falling into decay until a new generation sweeps it aside with a
fresh supply of talent, energy, and hope for a better life.”
    “But where does that
leave those of us who have to live under their tyranny?” Linder
persisted. “Are we to lie down and die until Unionism withers away
of its own accord?”
    “Certainly not,”
Eaton replied. “All I can tell you is that, during my years of
supporting the rebellion, I haven’t succeeded at anything except
sending good men to their graves. I realize that I haven’t
discussed this with Roger or Patricia, but I think it’s time for me
to step aside and let others lead.”
    Roger Kendall seemed
bewildered by Eaton’s suggestion. Patricia, in contrast, placed her
hands on her father’s shoulders with a smile of approval mingled
with relief.
    Linder could sense that
the old man was not to be swayed but, since the conversation was
being monitored by the DSS, it would be unwise for him to give up
without offering at least one last argument. Once his rejection was
complete, he could wash his hands of Bednarski’s and Denniston’s
ill-conceived project, go back to Limassol, and part company with
Denniston once and for all. Best of all, the reproachful spirits of
Philip Eaton and