MARSHAL WAITED UNTIL HE COULD APPROACH Weston alone in the library annex, then quietly suggested they take a short walk outside. The president’s helicopter had just taken off. When Weston started to object, Marshal took him by the elbow and firmly led him toward a door.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said when they were outside. He looked and sounded nervous. He handed a white envelope to Weston. They’d gone behind the annex building, where they could talk without being overheard.
Weston opened the envelope, which contained four photographs.
“Who gave you these?” he gasped.
“One of the construction people up at the dam,” Marshal said. “You know him. Jensen. He’s lucky he’s alive. He got out about an hour before it washed out. Wanted to let us know about this. Of course, he also wants to be paid.”
“How did he get here?” Weston was still staring at the photographs. The quality was grainy, but the images were remarkably clear.
“Hitched a ride in an Army helicopter from Fort Campbell,” Marshal said. “A squad was sent down to provide security for the president. He pulled some strings and got aboard. Said he had some important information about the earthquake.”
The photographs that Weston was studying so intently showed John Atkins and Elizabeth Holleran inside the dam at Kentucky Lake. A security camera had taken the pictures when they were on one of the catwalks.
“They know all about those cracks,” Marshal said, angrily. He caught himself and lowered his voice. “They were snooping around in there after you had that meeting with all those people in Mayfield. The one where you said the cracks weren’t serious.”
A big man in a bulky, down-insulated overcoat, he towered over Weston. “What are we going to do?” he asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” Weston said. “In case you forgot, the dam was destroyed in the quake. They can’t prove anything.”
“They can start asking questions,” Marshal said, becoming agitated.
“Calm down and forget this,” Weston said, carefully putting the photographs back in the envelope and placing it in his jacket pocket.
“No fucking way,” Marshal snapped. “How many people died when that damn broke? A thousand? Two thousand?”
“Keep… your… voice… down,” Weston said. “You need to get a grip on yourself. We’re not to blame for what happened at the dam.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Marshal said, taking Weston by the arm again.
Weston pulled away, squaring back his shoulders. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he hissed, turning away and striding back toward the building. “Meanwhile, doctor, you’re going to do what you’re told.”