David Hunter looked at her long and thoughtfully. “No, Florence, I can’t. I could try, but it would be fruitless. He has to follow his own advisor.”
“I didn’t know he had one.”
“He doesn’t, in this world.”
She stared, rattled for the moment. This was David, after all.
“I hope I didn’t turn you off with that. I’d hate to think you wouldn’t phone me anymore. But I wasn’t joking; his advisor really isn’t of this world. And Flo, more than that: messiahs have to die. And they pick their time, or try to.”
She still stared. Messiahs? After a moment she made the mental adjustment, and shifted gears. “You’re asking me to let be? Let whatever happens happen?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
She exhaled audibly. “That’s hard advice to take, David.”
“It’s hard to give.”
She looked blankly past the camera at an undefined space in the upper left area of the room, then pulled her gaze back to his. “If you say so, that’s what I’ll do.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Flo. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“One thing. Laurel’s been dead for two years now. And as for me, I don’t intend to run again. Remember what you asked me, that evening thirty-three years ago?”
He smiled. “Yes, I do.”
“Ask me again sometime. I’m not a good-looking female athlete anymore, but give it a thought.”
His mouth curved up just a bit. “I’ll stay in touch.”
* * *
The ringing jerked Colonel Robert Gorman, U.S. Army, retired, out of his book. The caller ID meant nothing to him. He poked a button. “Gorman,” he answered.
“Robert, this is Millard. I—wondered if you’d care for a game of chess this afternoon.”
The colonel almost said he didn’t know Forsberg played, but thought better of it. Chess was not what the man had in mind.
“Huh! It’s too rainy for golf. Yeah, I’ll beat you a game or two of chess. At my place. You know how to find it?”
“I have your address.”
“Good. When’ll you get here?”
“In an hour.”
“Okay. That’ll give me time to run the girls out.”
There was silence.
“Only kidding, Millard. I never bring girls in. I meet them somewhere else.”
Forsberg decided to ignore it. “Have you read the Post today?” he asked.
“Always. I can’t start the day without the funnies.”
“In an hour, Robert. And thank you.” The ex-FBI director hung up.
Thank you? That was out of character. Gorman cradled his phone, chuckling. Reading the funnies would be as unreal to Millard Forsberg as having girls in for sex. He had no doubt what Forsberg wanted to talk about. They’d talked ten days earlier, after Rod Beauchamp’s funeral. Forsberg had decided the president had had Beauchamp murdered. Gorman was no fan of Florence Metzger, but he still wasn’t buying that theory, and had said so, plainly.
Forsberg hadn’t argued, or even acted resentful. Instead he’d shifted the conversation to what was really bothering him. On his Northwest tour, in June, Ngunda Aran had done group healings. Small groups, to be sure, but talk of his being the Messiah had flourished like mushrooms on horseshit. The guru himself, though, had dropped out of the news for a while. Then, this morning, the papers had announced a big Dove bus tour in the Midwest and South, another Mississippi Valley tour, but different. He’d do group healings all along the way. It was to start at La Crosse, Wisconsin, and “wander” its way south to New Orleans. The route and stops would be announced on radio and television a day in advance.
The ex-director had become agitated just talking about it. Gorman had no doubt that Forsberg wanted Ngunda assassinated during the tour, and was looking for help. He already, of course, knew people in the FBI who were safe to approach. Now what he no doubt wanted was a line on some military people he could rope in on it.
What Gorman didn’t know was whether he himself was willing to be involved even peripherally. If they got caught, their asses would be in the hottest part of the fire. But on the other hand, if people in government—other people—could be shown to have killed Ngunda, it might well spark an explosion serious enough to result in a military takeover. Not likely, but possibly, and a consummation devoutly to be wished.