“I’m afraid that’s what I’ll mainly be doing.” The other man drew a sheet of paper from his briefcase and consulted the notes on it. “Kenneth Alexander Tannahill was born August 25, 1933 in Troy, Vermont, a little town near the Canadian border. His parents moved away shortly afterward. A former neighbor, to whom they wrote a couple of letters, said they’d gone to Minnesota, but he couldn’t remember precisely where. A North Woods hamlet. Everything’s shadowy, nothing on record but the bare minimum of official stuff and a few old stories in an upstate newspaper.”
Excitement tingled in Moriarty. “Do you mean this could be an assumed identity? Suppose the real Tannahills all died, say in an accident. A man with money, who wanted to cover his tracks, could set a detective agency to locating such a deceased family, one that suited his needs.”
“Maybe.” Stoddard sounded skeptical. “Damn hard to prove.”
“Draft records from before the end of conscription?”
“I’d rather not try springing anything like that loose for you, Senator.”
“No, I suppose not. Unless we can turn up clues that justify it to the proper authorities.”
“Tannahill has never claimed he was ever in the service. We got that much. But a lot of men his age never were, in spite of Korea and Vietnam, for a variety of reasons. He’s given no hints as to why he wasn’t. Uh, it isn’t that he acts evasive or secretive. Associates describe him as a genial sort with a ready fund of jokes and quips; though he does require competence from his employees, and gets it. He simply has a knack for turning conversation away from himself.”
“He would. Go on. Never married, I believe?”
“No. Not homosexual or impotent. There have been a few women over the years whom we’ve identified. Nothing especially serious, and none of them bear him any grudge.”
“Too bad. What kind of trail has he left on the West Coast?”
“Essentially zilch. He first surfaced in New Hampshire, bought his house and grounds, started his magazine, all as a—not exactly an employee of Tomek Enterprises. ‘Associate’ or ‘agent’ might be a better word. At any rate, Tomek finances him, and I’d guess that a tot of his trips are for purposes of reporting back to the old man.”
“Who’s pretty shadowy himself, isn’t he?” Moriarty stroked his chin. It puffed out a bit under his fingers. “I’ve been thinking more and more that that line may well be worth pursuing.”
“Senator, my advice to you is to drop this whole business. It’s expensive as hell, it takes up staff time you badly need in an election year, and I’m ninety-nine percent convinced it could never produce anything politically useful.”
“Do you wink I am only a politician, Hank?”
“I’ve heard you describe your ideals.”
Moriarty reached decision. “You’re right, we can’t go on chasing ghosts. At the same time, I feel it in my bones, something here won’t bear the light of day. Yes, I have personal motivations too. Exposing it would be a coup; and I’m sick of TannahilPs baiting and want to lash back. We’ll have to leave off the effort to get background information, I suppose, but I won’t give up entirely.” He bridged his fingers and peered over them. “Where is he at the moment?”
Stoddard shrugged. “Someplace this side of the moon … probably.”
Moriarty bit his lip. The Chart Room had been extra vicious about the decline of the American space program. “Well, he’ll have to come back eventually. I want his house and his office under surveillance. When he does show up, I want a twenty-four-hour tail on him. Understand?”
Stoddard began to form an answer, swallowed it, and nodded. “Can do, if you don’t mind paying what it costs.”
“I have money,” Moriarty said. “My own if necessary.”
8
“WHAT is wrong?”
Natalia Thurlow’s question cut—or probed, like a sword early in an engagement. Hanno realized that she would no longer be denied. Nonetheless he stood for a while yet, staring out of Robert Cauldwetl’s living room window. The late summer dark had fallen. Where his body staved off reflections he saw lights in their thousands, down the hill and through the lower city to the peace that lay mightily upon the waters. Thus had Syracuse basked in wealth and happiness, with the greatest mechanicians of the age to perfect her defenses; and meanwhile the austere Romans prepared themselves.