Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the Burlington-Northern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Donner's eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind sound-proofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.
An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young; no more than twenty-eight and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn't see him as anything else.
"Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen."
Jensen smiled guardedly. "It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?"
"As I mentioned over the telephone, I'm checking on some old records."
Jensen's smile thinned. "You're not from the Internal Revenue, I hope."
Donner shook his head. "Nothing like that. The government's interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I'd like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911."
"You're putting me on." Jensen laughed.
"I assure you, it's a straight request."
Jensen stared at him blankly. "Are you sure you've got the right company?"
"I am," Donner said brusquely, "if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks."
"My great-grandfather's old outfit," Jensen admitted.
"My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942 "
"Would you still have any of the old records?"
Jensen shrugged. "We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we'd saved every receipt of sale since great granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we'd need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them."
Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.
"However," Jensen continued, "and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr,, we have all our past records down on microfilm."
"Microfilm?"
"The only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that's us."
Donner couldn't believe his luck. "Then you can provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?"
Jensen didn't answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. "While we wait, can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Donner?"
"I'd prefer something with a little more snap."
"Spoken like a man from the big city." Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. "You'll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals' idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-of-town customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue."
Donner took the offered glass and downed it.
Jensen looked at him appraisingly and then refilled the glass. "Tell me, Mr. Donner, just what is it you expect to find?"
"Nothing of importance," Donner said.
"Come now. The government wouldn't send a man across half the country to itemize seventy-six-year-old sales records strictly for laughs."
"The government often handles its secrets in a funny way."
"A classified secret that goes back to 1911?" Jensen shook his head in wonder. "Truly amazing."
"Let's just say we're trying to solve an ancient crime whose perpetrator purchased your great-grandfather's services."
Jensen smiled and courteously accepted the lie.
A black-haired girl in long skirt and boots swiveled into the room, threw Jensen a seductive look, laid a Xerox paper on his desk, and retreated.
Jensen picked up the paper and examined it. "June to November must have been a recession year for my ancestor. Sales for those months were slim. Any particular entry you're interested in, Mr. Donner?"
"Mining equipment."
"Yes, this must be it . . . drilling tools. Ordered August tenth and picked up by the buyer on November first." Jensen's lips broke into a wide grin. "It would seem, sir, the laugh is on you."
"I don't follow."
"The buyer, or as you've informed me, the criminal . . ." Jensen paused for effect ". . . was the U.S. government."
12
The Meta Section headquarters was buried in a nondescript old cinder block building beside the Washington Navy Yard. A large sign, its painted letters peeling under the double onslaught of the summer's heat and humidity, humbly advertised the premises as the Smith Van & Storage Company.
The loading docks appeared normal enough. Packing crates and boxes were piled in strategic locations, and to passing traffic on the Suitland Parkway, the trucks parked around the yard behind a fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence looked exactly as moving vans should look. Only a closer inspection would have revealed old derelicts with missing engines and dusty, unused interiors. It was a scene that would have warmed the soul of a motion-picture set designer.
Gene Seagram read over the reports on the real-estate purchases for the Sicilian Project's installations. There were forty-six in all. The northern Canadian border numbered the most, followed closely by the Atlantic seaboard. The Pacific Coast had eight designated areas, while only four were plotted for the border above Mexico and the Gulf of Mexico. The transactions had gone off smoothly; the buyer in each case had gone under the guise of the Department of Energy Studies. There would be no cause for suspicion. The installations were designed, to all outward appearances, to resemble small relay power stations. To even the most wary of minds, there was nothing to suspect on the surface.
He was going over the construction estimates when his private phone rang. Out of habit, he carefully put the reports back in their folder and slipped it in a desk drawer, then picked up the phone. "This is Seagram."
"Hello, Mr. Seagram."
"Who's this?"
"Major McPatrick, Army Records Bureau. You asked me to call you at this number if I came up with anything on a miner by the name of Jake Hobart."
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere." Seagram could almost envision the man on the other end of the line. A West Pointer, under thirty-that much was betrayed by the clipped verbs and the youngish voice. Probably make general by the time he was forty-five, providing he made the right contacts while commanding a desk at the Pentagon.
"What do you have, Major?"
"I've got your man. His full name was Jason Cleveland Hobert. Born January 23, 1874, in Vinton, Iowa."
"At least the year checks."
"Occupation, too he was a miner."
"What else?"
"He enlisted in the Army in May of 1898 and served with the First Colorado Volunteer Regiment in the Philippines."
"You did say Colorado?"
"Correct, sir." McPatrick paused and Seagram could hear the riffling of papers over the line. "Hobart had an excellent war record. Got promoted to sergeant. He suffered serious wounds fighting the Philippine insurrectionists and was decorated twice for meritorious conduct under fire."