Frame 232 (10 page)

“I need someone powerful,” she said out loud, “yet completely trustworthy.” Then she added bitterly, “Yeah, no problem.”

She turned back to the computer and started a fresh Google search. She typed in
most trustworthy powerful people
. Ironically, Walter Cronkite came up on the first page.
He would’ve been perfect,
she thought,
but since he’s no longer with us . . .

Former president Jimmy Carter also appeared on the list, and for a long moment Sheila seriously considered him. He was long out of office now and wouldn’t have any political ambitions. He had also, in her opinion, proven himself to be a man of outstanding character; his tireless humanitarian efforts had defined his postpresidential career.
But he’s really getting up there in years, and how would I go about contacting him in the first place? Who among his staff would give me the time of day if I approached them with this?
She kept trolling through the search results, discarding one after another.

Then she came to a link that brought her to a halt. It was a young billionaire from New Hampshire. She did a new search with only his name and got more than 4,500 hits. He was considered an adventurer of sorts who specialized in unsolved mysteries. He financed his activities out of his own pocket and, according to one article, never asked for any kind of compensation from those he helped. One blogger referred to him as a “modern-day cross between Robin Hood and Jack Webb from
Dragnet
.” Another site described him in less-than-glowing terms as a bored rich kid who stuck his nose in places where it didn’t belong. It
wasn’t until the fourteenth page
 
—a reprinted article from a CNN archive
 
—that Sheila made up her mind. According to the piece, this man had lost more than a hundred million dollars in assets when a foreign government seized one of his company’s factories in retaliation for refusing to reveal the identity of the citizen who had aided him in his search for Michael Rockefeller.

The man’s name was Jason Hammond.

HAMMOND’S GULFSTREAM G550
soared northward over Pennsylvania, two thousand feet above a cloud field and surrounded by a shimmering blue that stretched into eternity. Inside the cabin, Hammond sat at a tiny table with an executive telephone that had about a hundred buttons on it.

“So you would say the TIGHAR people cooperated with you at every stage?” the caller asked through the speaker. This was Reuters journalist David Weldon, and the acronym referred to The International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery.

“They were great,” Hammond said. “Just terrific. As you might imagine, they wanted to get this mystery solved as much as I did. It really was an honor to be a part of it.”

“But they worked on Earhart’s disappearance for years, some of them for decades. And here you come along, more or less a stranger, with your money and your connections. Don’t you think a little jealousy and resentment are to be expected?” Weldon added quickly, “I’m not trying to be, you know, a jerk or anything. I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Sure, I understand. I didn’t sense any of that. I didn’t see
myself as some kind of savior to the project, but rather someone helping to find the last few pieces of the puzzle. They would’ve found those pieces whether I was there or not.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am. It was funding they lacked most of all, David, and I was happy to provide it.”

David Weldon was the only member of the media Hammond would speak with. Weldon was in his midtwenties and technically still just a junior reporter, years away from veteran status. But Hammond liked the way he approached his work. He asked good questions, and he didn’t waste time on nonsensical stuff. In Weldon’s last position, he was fired because he refused to dig into the private life of a Hollywood celebrity to find out if the man’s ten-year-old daughter was really dying of an inoperable brain tumor. Hammond was impressed by that kind of integrity.

“Incredible. Okay, well, I think I’ve got everything I need.”

“Good. If you have any other questions, feel free to give me a call. And I’ll send you my notes as soon as I’ve had the chance to transcribe them out of my indecipherable script and onto a computer screen.”

“Thanks, Jason. Really, thank you.”

“Sure.”

Hammond tapped the speaker button, and the red light went out. The only sounds in the cabin now were the steady hum of the engines and the hiss of the oxygen vents. He looked toward the flight deck a few feet away, where his copilot, or at least the back of him, was partially visible.

Hammond rose and went in. “Sorry I took so long with the call. How’s it going up here?” He got back into the pilot’s seat, which was something of a production since he was just a hair under six foot three.

“Fine, just fine.” Noah Gwynn was a smallish man of sixty-two with a round face and wispy white hair sticking out from under his felt cap. Other than a slight belly swell, he was in very good physical shape for his age. “How was the interview?”

Hammond set his headphones into place and positioned the mic in front of his mouth. “No problems. David’s great.”

“That’s why you talk to him, right?”

“You bet.” Hammond checked all the gauges, then took a moment to admire the early morning light that was breaking over the horizon. He rubbed his hands together and said, “So I’ve been looking into the death of Princess Diana. I was researching it pretty heavily before we got involved with the Earhart search, and I think I might have found someone willing to shed some light on
 
—”

“Jason . . .”

“
 
—a few of the inconsistencies in the Paget report.”

“Jason.”

“Hmm?”

Noah cleared his throat. “We need to talk about some things. Some business things.”

Hammond tensed and nodded curtly. “When we get back.”

“Of course. I guess I should also mention that Father Outerbridge called to ask if there was any chance maybe this week you’d be willing to come to
 
—”

Noah was cut off by air traffic control asking for their position. Hammond took the chance to respond even though it was normally the copilot’s responsibility.

Hammond kept himself too busy for the remaining fifteen minutes of the flight to revisit the conversation. He was an experienced pilot, making a smooth descent and
working the controls confidently, but Noah knew his boss was just going through the motions. When the estate came into view, Noah peered over to gauge Hammond’s reaction. There was no longer even a trace of his former enthusiasm. This was a completely different person
 
—one whom, after six very long years, Noah still did not know quite how to handle or help.

Noah hated seeing this transformation
 
—hated it because it was unavoidable. The energetic, enthusiastic Jason Hammond had morphed into the one that was unreachably troubled. On the surface, the conversion manifested itself in simple changes
 
—a faded smile that was now more forced than inspired, eyes that previously held the gleam of excitement thinning with pain and distraction, and a tensed, ready-to-take-on-the-world body loosened by the exhaustion of an interminable struggle.

As they made their approach, more details lensed into view. At the heart of the property was the forty-four-room main house, white with black trimmings except for the dusty red of an enormous chimney. The mansion was surrounded by three guest cottages, a pair of tennis courts, a swimming pool, a greenhouse, and extensive landscaping that included a sizable garden for fruits and vegetables.

To the east, accessible by a brief dirt road that cut through the hardwood forest like a scar, was a house larger than the cottages but smaller than the mansion. It had its own pool and garden and sat a short distance from the edge of a cliff that offered an unfettered view of the Atlantic Ocean. Noah had lived here for much of his adult life. To the west, a longer path led to a modest pond that, in spite of being natural rather than man-made, formed an almost-perfect oval shape and thus bore the name Nearly Oval Pond.

Running south of the main compound, a paved road snaked through the woods for nearly a quarter mile before reaching a security gate and guardhouse at the front of the property. To the north lay the runway, which halted at the base of a gentle hill covered with wildflowers and tall grasses. At the peak of the hill, and farther on about the length of a football field, was a smaller palisade. At the bottom, accessible only by a set of winding steps that were slowly being consumed by thorn tangles, were a small dock and boathouse nestled in the corner of the bay.

Hammond eased the little jet to a landing, retrieved his personal items, and went out. The Ford Expedition was exactly where they had left it the previous month. It started without a fuss when Noah got behind the wheel. As they drew closer to the main house, Hammond said, “Drop me off at the back, would you?”

Noah thought about reopening the discussion, then remembered the old axiom about knowing when and where to pick your battles.

The entrance Hammond wanted was not technically at the back of the house but rather the southeast corner. There was a time when it had been used only by staff. What made it practical in this regard was that it opened to a staircase that led directly to the second and third floors of the east wing and enabled them to conduct their business invisibly.

Hammond climbed out of the Expedition with a quick thank-you, opened the door, and was gone.

In his bedroom, Hammond dropped his knapsack on the floor and proceeded into the adjoining bathroom, where he took a long, hot shower. Then he got into bed, buried himself
under the sheets, and fell into a deep sleep. The dreams came soon thereafter, as he knew they would, and jolted him awake.

He slid up on one elbow, breathing hard. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Three orange pill bottles stood between the alarm clock and the lamp on the nightstand
 
—psychotropic medications prescribed by three different physicians. He had never opened them and never would.

He peeled the sheets back and got up. His heart was still pounding as he crossed the room to the walnut bookcase.
Paris-London Connection: The Assassination of Princess Diana
was on the top shelf. Just as he reached for it, he saw his Bible one shelf below. The top and bottom edges of the black spine were frayed, the two bookmark ribbons still buried in the pages. Familiar passages, once trusted and beloved, began surfacing in his mind.

I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles.

When I called, you answered me; you made me bold and stouthearted.

After remembering this last, he drove these thoughts violently away, and his jaw tightened as an old, familiar defiance
came to life inside. Taking the Princess Diana book down, he returned to bed and began reading.

Loitering by the bedroom door, Noah couldn’t hear any noise coming from inside. He wondered whether Hammond was still asleep. Even if he was, there were things that needed tending to, so he knocked softly.

“Yes?”

“Jason, it’s me. Do you have a moment?”

A pause. Then, “Sure, come on in.”

When Noah entered, Hammond was holding one hand across his forehead, and the other held a book upright on his chest. Noah saw it was
Paris-London Connection
, the independently published paperback about Princess Diana’s possible assassination.

Hammond set the book on the nightstand and moved into a sitting position.

“Did you have a good rest?” Noah asked with a smile. He held a manila folder in his hand, a pen between two fingers.

“It was okay. What about you?”

Noah pulled a chair over and sat down. “I haven’t had the chance yet.”

“You need some sleep.”

“I know. I’ll catch up tonight.”

“Okay. So what’s up?”

“I’d like to go over a few business-related concerns that need your immediate attention. Things that have been waiting a bit too long.”