Cradle Of Solitude

“I don’t know,” she told him. “Maybe he was charged with carrying out some kind of secret negotiation for the president and someone else took his place. Decoys were often used. When the war ended, and Parker didn’t come back, the impostor had to keep impersonating him to keep the secret from getting out.”

Bernard laughed at the idea even as he walked back to his station, and after a moment, Annja couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

It sounded crazy, even to her. After all, the simplest explanation to any problem was often the correct one, to paraphrase the principle behind Occam’s Razor. In this case, it was far simpler to believe the letter was either a forgery or, if it was authentic, that it had been stolen from Parker at some point near the end of the war.

And yet…

It would be a much more interesting story if my theory was right, she thought.

Crazy or not, there was one thing she could do to begin getting at the truth, at least.

Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, she hit the speed dial and waited for the phone to be answered thirty-six hundred miles away in New York City.

“Doug Morrell’s office.”

“Hi, Doug, it’s Annja.”

Doug Morrell was her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters. He was younger than Annja, more than a bit self-involved and had little to no actual knowledge of historical events prior to the previous decade, but had somehow managed to land his current position regardless of that fact. It probably had to do with his uncanny knack for capitalizing on historical issues and turning them into the kind of television fodder fans of the show ate like candy.

He could be highly annoying, but he had also covered her back on more than one occasion. In an odd way, Annja counted him as one of her friends.

“Who do we know at the Smithsonian?” she asked him.

“What’s this we stuff? Apparently you don’t know anyone. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be calling me.”

Annja had a lot of contacts at the Smithsonian but she’d called on so many people for favors over the years, and knew she’d probably need more in the future, so she wanted to use the show’s contacts if at all possible. Besides, this discovery was of historical significance and had nothing to do with the unusual adventures she was constantly being drawn into. “I meant we as in we the show, not as in you and me,” she told Doug.

“Of course you did. But since you, meaning you, yourself and, well, just you don’t know anyone at the Smithsonian and, miracle upon miracles, I do, this would seem to be an ideal time for me to extract some payment for all the phenomenal episodes I’ve been forced to squelch thanks to your lack of interest and participation.”

He can’t be serious, she thought.

She needed him to focus, and that meant she had to nip this in the bud right away.

“Trust me, Doug,” she said, “no one would have bought the amphibious chupacabra episode. Those injuries were from jellyfish stings, plain and simple.”

“That’s funny. I seem to remember your area of expertise was Renaissance history, not marine wildlife. Or at least it was, last time I checked.”

“It doesn’t take an expert to know that was a stupid idea, Doug.”

“Right. Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t like the ghost shark idea, either.”

She didn’t have to respond to that one; her silence said it all.

“Oh,” Doug replied, indignant. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?”

Apparently he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Sighing, Annja said, “Look, Doug, we both know that—”

The dial tone pulsed in her ear.

She pulled the phone away, shook it and listened again.

He’d hung up on her!

“Why that little…jerk!”

Ignoring Bernard’s chuckles from the other side of the room, Annja hit the redial button.

“Doug Morrell’s office.”

“You hung up on me!”

“See that? I knew there was a reason we paid you to host the show. You’re remarkably observant.”

Honey not vinegar, Annja, honey not vinegar, she told herself.

She tried a different approach.

“I’m sorry, Doug. I’d be happy to discuss the ghost shark episode with you when I get back to the States,” she told him, ignoring the fresh round of chuckling that erupted from the other side of the room.

“I want a favor.”

“What?”

“I’d be happy to put you in touch with my contact at the Smithsonian, but it’s going to cost you a favor.”

I know I’m going to regret this, she thought. She sighed. “What is it?”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean right now. Just sometime in the future. You’ll owe me a favor, that’s all. Deal?”

“Owe you a favor? Are you out of your mind?”

“It was good talking with you, Annja. Enjoy the rest of your vacation and I’ll—”

“Fine,” she said, biting off her anger along with the end of the word. She knew she shouldn’t have laughed at the chupacabra thing but owing Doug a favor? No good could possibly come of this.

“What do we need the Smithsonian to do for us?” Doug asked.

Gritting her teeth, she said, “I need to have a letter authenticated.”

“Why didn’t you just call them up and ask yourself? It shouldn’t take more than a few months.”

Annja was shaking her head. “It’s not that simple, Doug. I’m helping the French police with an investigation in the catacombs—”

“Whaaat? The catacombs? You’re running an investigation in the catacombs and you didn’t tell me? I’ll send a crew over immediately.”

“It’s not like that, Doug. There’s nothing here of interest to the show. The authorities stumbled on the skeleton of a man in a Civil War uniform and—”

He interrupted her again. “Wait, I thought the catacombs were full of skeletons. What difference does it make that they found one in a French uniform?”