Skylark (28 page)

The evening of my release from the hospital I spent sleeping, waking to groan, eat, and
take more painkillers, and sleeping some more. The worst injury was a fairly deep knife wound
high on my left shoulder, and I had received another nasty slash in the bicep of my left arm. The
rest were scratches, bruises, and cuts from the window glass I had stepped on as I dashed off
after Smith. I felt rotten and very sorry for myself in my brief intervals of consciousness.

Pain makes people selfish. I spared a thought now and then for Daphne, but Jay, who
had spoken to Thorne on the manager's telephone, reported no change in her condition.

I heal fast. By lunchtime Wednesday, I was almost ready to deal with the real
world--and my father was ready to talk about Milos's papers.

I had not forgotten them, of course, and I could tell from Dad's gray exhaustion that he
was suffering from something worse than jet lag. He had had at least one chat about the papers'
import with Jay and Ann the evening before, when they brought me back from the hospital, but
they had talked in Dad's room while I slept off the ride from Ludlow. By the time I woke up
Wednesday morning, Dad had run the gauntlet of reporters and driven off in the Fiat. He
returned at eleven-thirty looking more cheerful.

Ann ventured out at noon and bought picnic supplies in the village, a "photo
opportunity" the resident journalists did not hesitate to take advantage of.

"And there I stood," she said, exasperation turning her face pink, "my arms full of
squidgy parcels while they shouted their damnfool questions at me. That nice boy behind the
desk, you remember him, Lark, honey, just
swept
to my rescue. I came real close to
kissing him in a public place."

"I wish I'd seen that." Jay began unloading her as one might unload a pack camel. He set
out beer, mineral water, a lump of paté, two cheese wedges, a long cucumber, two
tomatoes, a jar of mustard, a stick of butter, and four blood oranges from Spain on the small table
in our room.

I watched, propped against the headboard, as Ann drew her Swiss army knife from the
depths of her purse and set about turning the groceries into a meal. I could have sat at the table,
but there were only three chairs including the one Dad brought in from his room, so I kept to the
bed.

My father was watching Ann, too, and listening to Ann and Jay banter as they prepared
a selection of goodies for me. I was still definitely one-handed. We all ate our fill from the paper
plates Ann had brought.

"It's been years since I tasted one of these." Dad popped the last segment of blood
orange into his mouth. "A treat, Ann. Thank you."

She smiled at him and went to rinse off her sticky fingers at the hand basin with which
all English hotel rooms are furnished. "Mamma had a cousin down in Florida who raised the
sweetest blood-oranges? He lost the tree in a hurricane. Took the heart right out of him."

Dad sighed. "That's my problem. This monograph of Milos Vlaçek's has taken the
heart out of me."

Ann went back to her chair. "What do you intend to do about the papers, Professor
Dailey?"

"What are they?" I interrupted. "Come on, guys, I've got a vested interest..."

Jay shot me a warning glance. I bit my lip.

Dad was rubbing the bridge of his nose. He does that when he's putting his thoughts in
order. My father is not a blurter. We waited. Finally he sighed again. "They are documentation of
evil, Lark. And your friend is a witness of unimpeachable integrity. His word will have
weight."

"Milos is a distinguished poet, Lark." Ann's eyes shone.

"And one of the Czech intellectuals who signed Charter 77," my father added. "Have
you heard of that?"

I shook my head. I was busy digesting the fact that I had embroiled myself in the life of
yet another poet. I am haunted by poets.

"Charter 77 is a human rights declaration, and its signers pledged themselves, among
other things, to monitor violations of human rights in Czechoslovakia. You may think of them as
a network of witnesses. A good many of them, including your friend, Vlaçek, have been
imprisoned by the Czech government."

Jay retreated to the connecting door and closed it. He didn't say anything, but he was
watching Dad with frowning concentration.

I forced myself to keep still.

"When the parcel arrived Friday," Dad went on, "I took it to Erzibet Rosen. You
remember her, Lark."

"Yes, of course." Professor Rosen taught Slavic languages and literature for SUNY and
had been a friend of my parents since she escaped from Czechoslovakia during the Soviet
invasion of 1968. "She must have translated the document right away."

"She brought me an English language print-out at noon Saturday, and we had..." He
hesitated. "We had an impassioned discussion of what should be done about it. She wanted to
take it directly to the press and the FBI." He glanced at Jay. "I was not confident that that was the
wisest course. In the end, we compromised, and I decided to fly to England as soon as
possible."

There was another pause. He was rubbing his nose again. "When he was released from
prison last year, Mr. Vlaçek found work as a janitor in a factory town. In December, Flight
103 crashed at Lockerbie. Almost at once Vlaçek began to hear rumors among clerical
workers in the factory that the Czech government had supplied certain terrorist organizations
with the explosive semtex."

A plastique manufactured in Czechoslovakia. My mind was working slowly, but I drew
the new connection.

"Oh, no." Nausea rose in my throat. One of Dad's most promising students had been
killed on Flight 103, and my father was devastated by the tragedy. "Oh, Dad, I'm sorry."

He got up and walked to the window, staring out at the village green below.
"Vlaçek began to gather testimony--and through the underground network of dissidents, to
arrange interviews with key observers. He has documented the government's complicity in the
bombing. The names in the papers are coded. When I called on Vlaçek at the hospital this
morning, he assured me that he could supply the key. Indeed, he dictated it to me. He memorized
it."

I recalled Milos's facility with quotations from Shakespeare. He knew
Macbeth
by heart--in English. He had an excellent memory.

Dad said, with deliberation, "I came to England to assure myself of your safety, Lark,
and, if I could, to ask Milos Vlaçek what he wanted me to do with the information."

"But the British government has a copy."

"Yes. Even without the names of witnesses, the document is powerful. I trust the
London police have given the information it contains to the commission investigating the
crash."

I shifted on the bed, easing my physical discomfort. My mind felt leaden. There had
already been shocking suggestions that the CIA was warned of the impending crash, that the
airline itself was warned, but that the warnings had not been passed on to the passengers. I did
not have to be told that information could be suppressed.

Dad sat down again, heavily, like an old man. "Vlaçek left Czechoslovakia in
February, and friends in London found work for him. A young dissident, a musician, was able to
smuggle the document out of Czechoslovakia the week you and Ann attended the booksellers'
convention."

"It was the kid in the bomber-jacket," Jay said. "The one who delivered the manuscript
at the Barbican."

"Milos says he's a rock musician," Ann added, eyes gleaming. "The Czech government
persecutes
rock musicians, Lark. Can you imagine?"

Thinking of the forces of repression running rampant in the U.S., notably in Ann's neck
of the woods, I could easily imagine the persecution of rock musicians. I nodded. "Go on,
Dad."

"Vlaçek's friends arranged with the Henning Institute to spirit him away from the
hospital as soon as he could be transported. They do not trust the present British government to
make the information public. They were also concerned lest Czech agents make another attempt
on Vlaçek's life. Until the information is general knowledge, or at least too widely
disseminated to be suppressed, his life is in danger."

I levered myself up. "Take the document downstairs and hand it out to the press."

Dad frowned. "That was Erzibet's first impulse. And I do understand her urgency. And
the need to protect Vlaçek. However, there is a criminal investigation going on. I think the
proper course is for me to give the document to the Scottish authorities at once."

"People should know," I burst out.

"People will know," Dad countered. "Apart from the photocopy you sent me and the
transcription on Erzibet's hard disk, I sent copies of the translation to fifty leading historians in
the U.S. and Europe. This morning I mailed them the key with a covering letter. I asked them to
hold the information until the Scottish inquiry is officially ended. If the Czech government's
involvement is not made public by that time, I will instruct my colleagues to release the
information to the media."

I reflected. "But an official investigation could take years. What about Milos's
safety?"

Jay said, "I suggested George tell the press the truth, that Vlaçek is being hounded
by agents of the Czech secret police. He is a poet, after all."

"Without mentioning Lockerbie?"

Dad gave a small, almost mischievous smile. "Freedom of expression is a hot issue.
There is this business of Salman Rushdie. I'll suggest that a similar attempt is being made to
silence another creative voice."

"Both of you have Byzantine minds." I eased back on the pillows. "Ma knows every
publisher of poetry in the western world. Couldn't she arrange for one of them to bring out an
edition of Milos's work in translation?" When they looked at me, Ann with sparkling eyes, I
added, acidly, "A touch of verisimilitude for an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative."

Dad's smile broadened. "An excellent idea. I'll call Mary from the manager's office.
She's waiting for an update on your condition anyway, Lark, and contacting publishers will give
her a salutary distraction from worrying about her daughter."

I felt the deft sting of parentally-induced guilt and winced. "I suppose you're going north
to Scotland."

"Ann has agreed to accompany me as far as York," Dad said placidly. "We'll return the
Escort to the car hire office and I'll take the train to Edinburgh from there. I have an appointment
in Glasgow Friday afternoon with an officer of the Galloway and Dumfries constabulary." He
sounded almost cheerful, and it occurred to me that being able to do something, even after the
fact, might help ease his grief. I hoped so.

Ann began to tidy away the remains of our picnic. "I'll hire a car with an automatic
transmission in York, so I can visit Haworth. Then I'll come back to London."

"Do we have to go back to London at all?" My question was disingenuous, mere griping.
With Daphne in the hospital I knew Thorne would want us under his eye. And we would owe
Trevor and Daphne another week's iniquitous rent.

* * * *

Lord Henning was sprung on me that afternoon without warning. By then I was feeling
much better, but I took a nap after lunch on general principles. I was wakened by the rumble of
voices in Dad's room.

I levered myself to sitting position with my good arm and sat on the edge of the bed,
contemplating the shadowy hotel room. The drapes were drawn, and all three chairs had
vanished.

When the worst twinges subsided I rose and picked my way over to the basin. The
mirror above it assured me that bruises turn green. A nasty one had slid down my left cheek. My
hair stood up in cranky curls. I took my hairbrush to it, dabbed on a bit of lipstick, and smoothed
my blouse. The sling still pinioned my left arm. I was wearing jeans, and I didn't bother to put on
slippers. My feet were bandaged anyway. I padded across the flat gray carpet.

Dad's door stood ajar. I pushed it open and stood on the threshold, blinking.

Two men--strangers--leapt to their feet. Dad rose more slowly. Jay, who had been
leaning against the far wall, straightened, and so did Ann, who was perched on the edge of the
bed. All five of them stared at me as if I had caught them talking about me. I probably had.

I blinked again. "Don't let me interrupt." I recognized one of the strangers. "Hello, Mr.
Williams. I thought you were the Hambly butler."

"I performed that office, certainly." Williams's eyes smiled behind horn-rimmed glasses.
He must have had a spare pair. "Your summons was, er, peremptory."

The other man took a step toward me and held out his hand. "How d'ye do, I'm
Henning." He was older than Jay, dark, with a slight overbite.

I bit back the impulse to say, "I'm Dodge," and murmured something vague as we
touched hands. Lord Henning's was rather cold. Ann was watching me with shining eyes. I
wondered if she expected me to curtsey.

The three men fussed, settling me into one of the chairs. Jay and Ann held off. When I
was seated, Dad said, "Mr. Williams believes you should hold a press conference, Lark."

"Me?" I gaped at him.

Jay ruffled his mustache, hiding a grin. "He thinks the press would back off if you made
a statement."

I turned to Williams, who was sitting on my left. "That's a wonderful idea. I can see the
tabloids now. 'Yank Bird Bashes Dog-killer, Leaves Stately Home in Ruins.'"

Lord Henning gave a small cough.

I rounded on him. "I wish
I
were in the Canary Islands. You were crazy to fly
back."

"Er..."

Williams said gravely, "I'll write the statement for you, Mrs. Dodge. Something brief
and unsensational."

"Dad!"

My father looked guilty. "I think it's a good idea, my dear."

"You didn't see the noxious tripe they printed when Miss Beale was murdered. Tell
them, Ann."

Ann said, "I'll be with you, honey."

"Traitor." I shut my eyes and tried to think. They were bullying me. On the other hand,
the press were keeping us penned in. "All right. I'll do it." I opened my eyes. "On my
terms."