“Then tell me where Iris is.”
“I haven’t any idea. As you know, I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for days; your people intercepted everything. How did she manage to get away?”
“One of the guards let her out. I thought he was one of our boys but it seems she worked on him and he left with her. I’ve alerted all the Centers; so far no one’s seen her.”
Just before Grand Central Station, the crowd began to roar with excitement and Paul held up the jar of ashes which glittered in his hands; the crowd went wild and tried to break through the police lines. The cortege drove a bit faster and Paul set the ashes down; he looked triumphant but tired, as though he’d not slept in a month: one eyelid, I saw, was twitching with fatigue.
“When are we to have a directors’ meeting?” I asked as we crossed the bridge which spanned the Hudson. “We’re still legally a company. We must elect a new board chairman.”
“As soon as we find Iris,” said Paul. “I think we should all be there, don’t you? Two to two.”
“Perhaps three to one on the main things,” I said, allowing this to penetrate, aware that his quick mind would study all the possibilities and arrive at a position so subtle and unexpected as to be of use to me if I, in turn, were quick enough to seize my opportunity.
At the airport, a detachment of airborne troops were drawn up before a festooned reviewing stand. Near by the Marine Band played incongruous marches while in the center of the stand, surrounded by cameras and dignitaries, stood the smiling President of the United States.
2
The next day while I was examining the various accounts of the last ceremony, the chief editor came into my office, his face blazing with excitement: “Iris Mortimer!” was all he could say.