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Page 215
out the window, Ryerson, who had been fidgeting in the seat beside her, spoke up. "Morgan expects too much," he said.
He sounded oddly plaintive. Everyone wants to be loved, she thought wryly. Even this sour man. "From whom?"
"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."
"Do you know who killed my husband, Mr. Ryerson?"
"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.
"I came south with more questions than answers," Anna said. "Somehow, to those who say they sympathize with me, my questions have become accusations."
"You saw what you saw," Ryerson said, nodding.
"Yes, I did. But what was it?"
"I don't understand you."
"I saw a submarine. That's all."
"Well, then," Ryerson said. He took out his notebook again. "Tell me exactly what that sub looked like."
"Like any submarine, Mr. Ryerson. I'm not an expert."
"But what was its nationality?"
"It wasn't flying a flag."
"But you couldn't say it was not American."
"It was a submarine, Mr. Ryerson. That's all I know."
"What about pictures? Did you take pictures?" Ryerson leaned forward in his eagerness, his stale, cigarette-laden breath assailing Anna's nostrils.
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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