They were busy all day Saturday preparing for a mission to disable the production lines at a camera factory that was making aerial reconnaissance equipment. Carter worked diligently on his explosives, as he usually did. But he was quiet; there was none of the usual chit-chat and stream-of-consciousness that made working by his side such an adventure. Newkirk and LeBeau were starting to get worried.
"We should talk to mon Colonel. Perhaps he is not well," LeBeau whispered to Newkirk moments after Carter shooed them out of his lab. "He's not himself."
"He's quiet, though. Isn't that an improvement?" Newkirk asked. "Maybe he's matured."
"In two days? I don't think so." Honestly, Pierre, LeBeau was thinking. He's obviously troubled.
"Let's not bother the Gov with this, Louis," Newkirk said. "Let's see what Kinch says. Blimey, though, Carter does know a lot about Red Indians, doesn't he? Do you suppose all Americans are like that?"
"Not that I've noticed," LeBeau said, thinking hard as he said it. "Carter knows a lot of detail."
"Well, that's it, then, isn't it? He's always lost in the details. Can't see the wwwood for the trees."
Kinch, it turned out, had been sitting and thinking, which was one of his truly exceptional skills. Oh, everyone sits and thinks. But some people think and ruminate and dig themselves deeper into their convictions and stubbornness. Kinch thought and solved problems as he did so, sorting quickly and logically through fact and feeling. It was really quite an impressive skill.
He knew Carter to be one of the most genuine and kind people he'd ever met. He didn't have an ungrateful bone in his body. Thankfulness was very much in his wheelhouse; Kinch had seen him pray at meals and at bedtime and before missions. So why was he so annoyed every time anyone mentioned Thanksgiving? Why had Carter, who was never cynical about anything, called it "hokum"?
And the history. He kept coming back to the history of the native people—what had he called them? Wampanoag. They hadn't taught that in school, Kinch was sure of that. Every American school child learned the same story of the Pilgrims' journey to America. One hundred men and women set sail on the Mayflower, seeking religious freedom. After a hard crossing, they anchored at Plymouth Rock. They endured a harsh winter with help from an Indian brave named Squanto. Then they celebrated their first year and their first harvest with the Indian tribe that had been so kind and helpful. Peace was secured, and other colonies sprang up around Plymouth. The end, as Addison had put it.
Kinch frowned as he thought back on it. He remember being a kid in third or fourth grade and feeling the bile rise up in his throat as he read his history textbook. It showed pictures of slaves enjoying themselves after a hard day at work on the plantation. Even at eight or nine, James Kinchloe knew that was a whitewash. Where were the pictures of slaves laboring in the fields? And he remembered wanting to leap out of his seat and run straight home when his white tenth grade history teacher made an assignment to a class made up of colored students: Working in teams, draw up a list of the pros and cons of slavery, focusing on the economy of the antebellum south, and prepare to debate it. He'd never defied a teacher, but when he was assigned to take the "pro" side in the debate, he faked laryngitis and sat at the back of the classroom.
Kinch went to the file cabinet where the team's most important records were kept to check out a hunch. He pulled Carter's file and noted that his mother's maiden was … Wanbli. Interesting. Unusual. Kinch placed a call to a U.S. contact in London, and asked his fellow radio specialist to do a little research.
The answer came back a few hours later, just as Newkirk and LeBeau came into the radio room to see him. There was a city in South Dakota by pretty much the same name-Wanblee. It was the Lakota Sioux word for "eagle."