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out the window, Ryerson, who had been fidgeting in the seat beside her, spoke up. "Morgan expects too much," he said. |
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He sounded oddly plaintive. Everyone wants to be loved, she thought wryly. Even this sour man. "From whom?" |
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"From me. He expects me to wait patiently until he feels like letting me know what I can write about." He became more animated, more intimate. "And from you. He expects you to wait until he has time to arrange a cover-up for the people who killed your husband, and then to go along with it." |
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"Do you know who killed my husband, Mr. Ryerson?" |
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"If you mean do I believe your story, the answer is yes. I believe you saw an American submarine, and that it shot your plane down." The words smacked of peevish satisfaction. |
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"I came south with more questions than answers," Anna said. "Somehow, to those who say they sympathize with me, my questions have become accusations." |
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"You saw what you saw," Ryerson said, nodding. |
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"Yes, I did. But what was it?" |
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"I don't understand you." |
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"I saw a submarine. That's all." |
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"Well, then," Ryerson said. He took out his notebook again. "Tell me exactly what that sub looked like." |
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"Like any submarine, Mr. Ryerson. I'm not an expert." |
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"But what was its nationality?" |
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"It wasn't flying a flag." |
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"But you couldn't say it was not American." |
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"It was a submarine, Mr. Ryerson. That's all I know." |
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"What about pictures? Did you take pictures?" Ryerson leaned forward in his eagerness, his stale, cigarette-laden breath assailing Anna's nostrils. |
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She drew back in distaste. This conversation was all too familiar; wherever she went someone always wanted to hear her story again. Some of her interrogators in the Maritime Command Intelligence and the RCMP had been hectoring, disbelieving her; some had been sympathetic but doubtful. Those |
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