"Groom Lake. I visited the locale last week. It is not hospitable. The so-called lake has been dry for centuries, I would think. It is remote-it borders our test site at Yucca Flats. We will not have a problem with visitors but even if someone purposely sought it out, it is well-defensible geographically, with multiple surrounding hills and mountains. The Army Corps of Engineers is making excellent progress. They are very much on schedule. A good runway has been constructed, there are hangars and rudimentary barracks."
Truman clasped his hands behind his neck, relaxing at the good news. "That's fine, go on."
"Excavation has been completed for the underground facility. Concrete is being poured and the ventilation and electrical work will commence shortly. I am confident the facility can be fully operational within our projected time frame."
Truman looked satisfied. His man was getting the job done. "How's it feel to be general contractor to the world's most secret building project?" he asked.
Forrestal reflected on the question. "I once built a house in Westchester County. This project is somewhat less taxing."
Truman's face crinkled. "'Cause your wife's not looking over your shoulder on this one, am I right?"
Forrestal answered without levity. "You are absolutely correct, sir."
Truman leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. "The British material. Still high and dry in Maryland?"
"It would be easier to get into Fort Knox."
"How're you going to move the goods across the country to Nevada?"
"Admiral Hillenkoetter and I are still in discussion regarding transport issues. I favor a convoy of trucks. He favors cargo planes. There are pros and cons to each approach."
"Well, hell," Truman piped up, "that's up to you fellows. I'm not gonna manage you to death. Just one more thing. What are we going to call this base?"
"It's official military cartographic designation is NTS 51, Mr. President. The Corps of Engineers has taken to calling it Area 51."
On March 28, 1949, James Forrestal resigned as Secretary of Defense. Truman hadn't spotted a problem until a week or so earlier when the man suddenly became unglued. His behavior began to be erratic, he looked ruffled and unkempt, he stopped eating and sleeping, and was clearly manifestly unfit for service. The word spread that he had suffered a full-blown mental breakdown from job-related stress, and the rumor was confirmed when he was checked into the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Forrestal never left confinement. On May 22 his body was found, a suicide, a bloody rag doll sprawled on a third-floor roof under the sixteenth floor of his ward. He had managed to unlock a kitchen window opposite his room.
In his pajama pockets were two pieces of paper. One was a poem from Sophocles's tragedy, Ajax, written in Forrestal's shaky hand: In the dark prospect of the yawning grave- Woe to the mother in her close of day, Woe to her desolate heart and temples gray, When she shall hear Her loved one's story whispered in her ear! "Woe, woe!" will be the cry- No quiet murmur like the tremulous wail Of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale.
The other piece of paper contained a single penned line: Today is May 22, 1949, the day that I, James Vincent Forrestal, shall die.
JUNE 11, 2009
T hough he lived in New York, Will was no New Yorker. He was stuck there like a Post-it note that could effortlessly be peeled off and pasted somewhere else. He didn't get the place, didn't connect to it. He didn't feel its rhythm, possess its DNA. He was oblivious to all things new and fashionable-restaurants, galleries, exhibitions, shows, clubs. He was an outsider who didn't want in. If there was a fabric to the city, he was a frayed end. He ate, drank, slept, worked, and occasionally copulated in New York, but beyond that he was a disinterested party. There was a favorite bar on Second Avenue, a good Greek diner on 23rd Street, a reliable Chinese take-away on 24th, a grocery and a friendly liquor store on Third Avenue. This was his microcosm, a nondescript square of asphalt with its own soundtrack-the constant wail of ambulances fighting traffic to get the flotsam of the city to Bellevue. In fourteen months he'd figure out where home was going to be, but he knew it wouldn't be New York City.
It was no surprise that he was unaware that Hamilton Heights was an up-and-coming neighborhood.
"No shit," he replied with disinterest. "In Harlem?"
"Yes! In Harlem," Nancy explained. "A lot of professionals have moved uptown. They've got Starbucks."
They were driving in a torpid rush-hour mess and she was talking a blue streak.
"City College of New York is up there," she added enthusiastically. "There're a lot of students and professionals, some great restaurants, things like that, and it's a lot cheaper than most places in Manhattan."
"You ever been there?"
She deflated a little. "Well, no."
"So how are you so knowledgeable?"
"I read about it in, you know, New York magazine, the Times."
In contrast to Will, Nancy loved the city. She'd grown up in suburban White Plains. Her grandparents still lived in Queens, off-the-boat Poles with thick accents and old-country ways. White Plains was home but the city had been her playpen, the place where she learned about music and art, where she had her first drink, where she lost her virginity in her dorm at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, where she passed the bar after graduating top of her class at Fordham Law, where she landed her first Bureau job after Quantico. She lacked the time or money to experience New York to its fullest, but she made it her business to keep a finger on the city's pulse.
They crossed over the murky Harlem River and found their way to the corner of West 140th Street and Nicholas Avenue, where the twelve-story building complex was conveniently marked by a half-dozen squad cars from the Thirty-second Precinct, Manhattan North. St. Nicholas Avenue was wide and clean, bordered on the west by a thin strip of mint-green park, the buffer zone between the neighborhood and the CCNY campus. The area looked surprisingly prosperous. Nancy's smug look said, I told you so.
Lucius Robertson's apartment was parkside on the top floor. Its large windows captured St. Nicholas Park, the compact college campus, and beyond it the Hudson River and the heavily forested New Jersey Palisades. In the distance a brick-red cargo barge, the length of a football field, was steaming south under tug power. The sun glinted off an antique brass telescope standing on a tripod, and Will was drawn to it, seized by a boyish impulse to look through its eyepiece.
He resisted and flashed his badge, prompting, "The cavalry's here!" from a precinct lieutenant, a hefty African-American who could hardly wait to take off. The uniformed cops and detectives were also relieved. Their shifts had been stretched and they aspired to make better use of their precious summer evening. Cold beer and barbecues were higher on their agendas than babysitting.
Will asked the lieutenant, "Where's our guy?"
"In the bedroom, lying down. We checked the apartment out. Even had a dog in. It's clean."
"You got the postcard?"
It was bagged and tagged. Lucius Jefferson Robertson, 384 West 140th Street, New York, NY 10030. On the flip side: the little coffin and June 11, 2009.
Will passed it to Nancy and checked out the place. The furniture was modern, expensive, a couple of nice Orientals, eggshell walls plastered with gallery quality twentieth century oils. An entire expanse of wall hung with framed vinyl records and CDs. Next to the kitchen a Steinway grand with sheet music stacked high on the closed top. A wall unit crammed with a high-end stereo system and hundreds of CDs.
"What is this guy, a musician?" Will asked.
The lieutenant nodded. "Jazz. I never heard of him but Monroe says he's famous."