Exile Hunter by Preston Fleming Read Free Book Online Page A

bring business contacts to
his flat. I’ll be here through tomorrow. How about meeting him
then?”
    “Unfortunately, we
have plans after today, and I’d really like Philip to meet you,”
Kendall replied in a casual tone that conveyed carelessness rather
than guile. Do you have a few more minutes? It’s only a block or
two.”
    Linder weighed his
options, remembering Denniston’s admonition to go as far as he
could without overdoing it. Though he did not feel right about going
to Eaton’s apartment, he risked Bednarski’s second-guessing if he
did not. In this business, there was no overdoing it until you
failed.
    * * *
    Philip Eaton’s flat
occupied the northwest corner on the fourth floor of a stately red
granite apartment block in the crowded Achrafiyé section of
predominantly Christian East Beirut. Kendall and Linder boarded an
ornate antique birdcage elevator and ascended through a central
stairwell to the fourth-floor landing, where Kendall unlocked a heavy
steel door of the kind widely used for decades to deter break-ins in
the war-torn city. The door opened onto an unusually spacious marble
foyer with Persian rugs and walls full of polished brass trays
showing inlaid Arabic calligraphy in silver and copper. Beyond the
foyer was a vast sunken parlor furnished in teak and leather with a
scattering of Egyptian carved wooden screens and leather poufs,
suggesting a distinctly masculine style.
    Kendall led Linder past
the parlor through folding French doors to the veranda, which boasted
a panoramic view of the blue Mediterranean. There, Kendall pointed
out the old Foreign Ministry building, the rebuilt port and the
restored commercial district beyond. Potted gardenias, jasmine, and
dwarf frangipani trees lent an intoxicating sweetness to the air, and
Linder noticed that music was playing from concealed speakers. He
knew the recording: a tango directed by the Cuban bandleader Xavier
Cugat, one of his father’s favorites. The next song was a meringue
that called to mind the rumbas, congas, sambas, and cha-chas that he
had learned to dance as a teenager.
    A few moments later,
the steel door clanged again and Kendall led Linder back to the
parlor to find his father-in-law, who suddenly emerged from the rear
of the flat. Philip Eaton was a smaller man than Linder recalled from
his youth or imagined from the photographs in his file. He stood no
more than five feet eight inches tall and, with his silver hair and
mustache, appeared older than his sixty-eight years. His most
striking features were his sparkling gray eyes, conveying empathy and
irony, and his capacious forehead, suggesting a powerful and
broad-ranging intellect.
    “Excuse me, Philip,”
Kendall began, apparently oblivious to the security breach he was
committing by bringing Linder to the apartment. “We called from the
restaurant several times but your line was busy. Do you have a moment
or should we reschedule for tomorrow?”
    A look of
disappointment flashed across Philip Eaton’s face before he
answered with a warm welcoming smile. “Since you’ve come all this
way, I see no need to reschedule. Please come with me.”
    Linder sensed at once
that the Philip Eaton of today was quite unlike any other rebel exile
he had met. Here was a man of great wealth and accomplishment who
lived relatively modestly and, despite having suffered major losses,
remained serenely upbeat. As a rebel, Philip Eaton stood on the
opposite side of a gaping political chasm from him, yet Linder could
not help but like the man.
    Roger Kendall
introduced his father-in-law quickly and offered Linder a chair
facing the sofa, where he and Eaton were lined up to sit. Philip
Eaton’s eyes lingered on his visitor until all three were seated.
    “Chase Phipps spoke
very highly of you and your organization, Joe,” Eaton opened.
“Chase is very old friend of mine and I value his opinion. Lately
he’s been distressed over the Unionists tightening their grip over
the economy, but he