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  Their break finally came from an unexpected source. Three weeks after the investigation began, Leahy received a telephone call from a doctor at a mental hospital in Tennessee who had been following the story in the newspapers. He remembered that one of the patients he was treating drove a red car. Though he refused to release any information concerning the nature of the treatment, he identified the man and provided his address in Nashville. For reasons he would not disclose, he urged Leahy to act as quickly as possible. Within hours the suspect’s photograph was obtained from the driver's license bureau in Nashville, and FBI agents were checking the address. Leahy arrived by late afternoon, and was met by two Nashville police officers who had been assigned to assist with the investigation. The detectives and FBI agents had already been to the address, a run-down apartment complex on the south side of the city. No one was home, but neighbors reported having recently seen the man in the company of a female juvenile. Leahy recalled the thrill of excitement that had coursed through him when he had received that information.

  The stakeout of the apartment had lasted for three days, each longer and more miserable than the last. Then, in late afternoon of the third day, the red car pulled into the complex and stopped directly in front of the apartment. From his position, Leahy could see the child sitting in the front seat beside the driver. In breathless anticipation he had watched as they exited the car and the suspect took the girl by the hand. At a predetermined signal, Leahy and the other officers had rushed forward and jerked the girl away. Two officers had knocked the suspect to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back.

  On his knees, Leahy had taken Lisa in his arms and held her for a long moment. Finally, assured she was unhurt, he had taken a closer look at the kidnapper. He was a man of about his own age, balding, and trembling with fear. Then he remembered Brian Greer's description of the shiny eyes and understanding dawned on him. On the walkway where they had fallen from the kidnapper’s shirt pocket, lay a pair of sunglasses with mirror lenses.

  They were greeted by a media frenzy upon their return to Atlanta. Electronic camera flashes and TV floodlights were blinding, and the reporters were relentless with their questions. Lisa was unharmed, and her abductor was safely behind bars in Nashville awaiting extradition. The publicity following her safe return was enormous, and Leahy became an instant hero. Even though dozens of detectives from departments all over the southeast had participated in the case and helped bring it to fruition, the media needed a focal point for their stories, and he had been elected. He smiled and shook his head. Paper heroes were always forgotten when another story broke. However, the main thing was Lisa’s safe return, and that had been accomplished. Now he was looking forward to a long overdue vacation.

  The apartment felt chilly as he put on his robe and walked into the kitchen. The coffee maker had been set up the night before and he switched it on. His personal case file covering the investigation was lying on the kitchen table where he had left it before going to bed. He picked it up and pulled out an eight-by-ten photo of Lisa. Soft brown eyes smiled up at him from beneath dark curls. He thought of Richard Howell, her abductor. Without really knowing why, Leahy felt sorry for him. He had not mistreated the girl, and had cried like a child when they had arrested him. Howell’s own daughter, who bore a striking resemblance to Lisa, had died two years earlier at the hands of a drunk driver, and he had never recovered from the loss. One evening following a therapy session intended to ease the shock of his daughter's death, he had seen Lisa on television. Her father was running for Mayor at the time, and she had been present during a news conference. It was then that his sick mind finally snapped. From that moment his dead child began to live in Lisa's image. For months he had shadowed her family until he was familiar with every facet of their daily routine. It had been a simple matter to abduct her from the schoolyard during an unguarded moment.

  Leahy looked at the photograph again and traced the outline of the girl's face with his finger. He winked at her and put the picture back in the folder. He removed a second photograph and stared at the face of Richard Howell. It showed a man in the throes of mental anguish. The face, lined with pain, showed a deep, soul-killing agony. He tossed the photo onto the table and resolved not to let it destroy his mood. It was over now and he felt good. He got up, poured himself a cup of coffee, and went into the living room. He flipped on the TV, leaned back in his favorite chair, and tuned in the local news.

  There were the usual reports about murders, robberies, and some political corruption in Washington. After a few minutes the scene switched to Harold Calloway, one of the station's field reporters. He was on location outside a service station where traffic was lined up into the street waiting to buy gas. A light rain was falling and tempers were short. Horns blew in the background as Calloway walked along the line of cars, doing interviews with the drivers. Most were furious with OPEC’s latest decision to cut back on crude production, causing the price of gasoline to rise to its highest level in over a year. He watched Calloway stick the microphone inside the window of a pickup and ask the driver for his opinion of the situation.

  "Sir, do you think the government will do anything to roll back these prices?"

  The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, checkered shirt, and reddish-brown beard. "I don't think the government knows how to do anything but raise taxes. Between that and these stinking gas prices it's hard to make ends meet. Everybody I know is really getting sick of this crap."

  Calloway did a couple of other interviews with the same basic results. He turned the program back over to the anchor, who then made a report about truckers converging on Washington to stage a protest against fuel taxes. Leahy sipped his coffee and settled back in his chair. He was still feeling good when the doorbell rang.

  Now who the devil could that be at this time of morning, he thought with irritation. He walked over to the door and looked through the peephole. Two men in dark overcoats stood in the hallway. With a police officer’s caution, he opened the door part way and braced his foot against it.

  "Lieutenant Leahy?" asked one of the men through the partially open door. When Leahy did not answer right away, the man reached into his coat and pulled out a black identification case. He flipped it open and held it up. “I’m Charles Feldon, and this is Mike Summerhour,” he nodded toward the other man, who gave him a phony looking smile. “We’re with the National Security Agency. We'd like to speak with you for a few minutes if we could."

  Leahy reached out, took the ID, examined it for a few seconds, then handed it back. Feldon was about forty-five, six feet and heavy set. He regarded Leahy from behind wire-rimmed glasses. The other man was shorter, slightly balding, and about the same age as Feldon. His pale blue eyes glanced nervously around the room behind Leahy. Leahy noticed a few drops of water standing on his forehead, and saw the overcoats of both men were damp across the shoulders from rain.

  "May we come in?" asked Summerhour. He arched his eyebrows and gave a little nod.

  "Sure." He opened the door wider and stepped aside. "I was about to have some coffee. Would you like some?"

  "Sounds good if it wouldn't be too much trouble," answered Feldon, looking around the comfortably furnished room.

  "No trouble at all," Leahy responded. "Have a seat." They sank down onto a burgundy leather sofa and continued their mental inventory of the surroundings.

  Leahy walked into the kitchen and poured the coffee, keeping the men in sight through the open doorway. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, and was curious as to why the agents were here. Cases he had worked over the last few years flickered through his mind, but he could identify nothing that might be of interest to the NSA. He thought again of Richard Howell, but rejected it.

  His older brother, Edward, worked for the government, but his job was in geological research. Edward always referred to himself as the "family well digger" because of his work in seeking potential sources of oil. There was always some kind of trouble in the Mi
ddle East concerning oil, but he could not connect that with anything in which Edward might be involved. He was certain that he had no affiliation with companies doing business with Middle Eastern countries. He brought two cups of coffee back into the living room and sat them on a small walnut table in front of the sofa.

  "Now, gentlemen,” he said, “what does the NSA want with me?" He sat down in a large easy chair across from the table and crossed his legs. The leather sighed as air rushed out of the thick cushion.

  "We're sorry to disturb you at home, Lieutenant,” Feldon said. “We know you've just finished a pretty exhausting case, but before we begin would you please make a phone call to your chief? It might make things a little easier if you first hear what he has to say.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it, looking at Leahy over the top of his glasses.

  When Leahy hesitated, Summerhour shifted his weight uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “He’s expecting your call," he said.

  Leahy set his cup down and studied them for a few seconds. Suspicious, he got up and went into the bedroom, staying where he could still see the other men. He picked up the phone and dialed Chief Webster's private number. A few minutes later he came back into the living room and sat down. He stared at the NSA agents for a long moment.

  "He just cancelled my vacation and ordered me to give you full cooperation. What’s this all about?" He let his irritation show.

  Feldon removed his glasses, pulled a cloth from his pocket, and began wiping them. He glanced nervously at Summerhour, who sat staring into his coffee cup. The big man shifted to the edge of the sofa and continued wiping the glasses, avoiding Leahy’s eyes. “To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant, we know very little ourselves about what's going on." He put the glasses back on and stuffed the cloth into a coat pocket. "We're what you might call coordinators for a special government project. Our instructions were to do three things: first, contact your chief and arrange for an indefinite leave of absence for you; paid of course. So as of right now, you're temporarily assigned to the NSA. Second, make airline reservations for you to New Mexico on the first available flight. Third, give you instructions on where and when you'll meet your next contact." He paused, apparently organizing his thoughts.

  "I'm listening," Leahy’s voice had a guarded tone. Feldon’s attitude of secrecy was making him uneasy. He shifted his gaze from Feldon to Summerhour, who continued to stare into his cup. A few raindrops still clung to his forehead.

  "Your flight leaves Atlanta for Albuquerque at five o'clock this afternoon," Feldon continued. He pulled an airline ticket out of his coat and laid it on the table. "Your contact will meet you at the Albuquerque airport and give you further instructions at that time."

  Leahy glanced at the ticket, but resisted the urge to pick it up. "How will I recognize this contact?" he asked.

  "You won't," Summerhour put in, finally looking up. "The person you're to meet will recognize you."

  Leahy's apprehension grew. Less than fifteen minutes ago he was on vacation, looking forward to a long overdue rest. Now, two men from the National Security Agency were sitting in his living room involving him in a mysterious trip to New Mexico. He half expected the alarm clock to go off again and wake him from this ridiculous dream; or was it a nightmare?

  "And why am I going to Albuquerque?" he asked.

  Feldon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He picked up the coffee and swirled the liquid around in the cup. He put his lips to it and made a face. It had gone cold. "As I told you before, we don't know the details of your assignment…."

  Leahy cut him off in mid-sentence. “Cut the bull. I’m not going anywhere blindly, no matter what Chief Webster says. You either play straight with me or this discussion is over." There was no mistaking the anger in his tone.

  Feldon was taken off guard. He looked at Summerhour for support, but got nothing. Finally, he said, "Since your background has already been checked by the FBI and you've been cleared to receive certain secret information, I can tell you as much as I know; which is very little. The government has a top-secret research facility at a place in New Mexico called Apache Point. That's your destination. Whatever they have in mind for you will be explained when you arrive. I don’t know any more than that."

  "Apache Point," Leahy mused. "I never heard of the place. What kind of research is done there?"

  Feldon shook his head. "As I said, I don't know. Neither of us has ever been inside the facility itself, only the military police building outside the main complex. It's in the desert, at least twenty miles from anywhere, and very heavily guarded by Marines. There's a small road leading to it from the main highway, but it terminates about two miles from the fence. A military checkpoint is set up at the end of the road, and from there all transportation is by helicopter. They also maintain a twenty-four hour air patrol within a ten-mile radius. Nothing larger than a rabbit gets closer than that without security clearance.”

  An image of the New Mexico desert appeared in Leahy’s mind. He envisioned vast stretches of white sand and scrub brush, broken by distant mountains. In the middle of the desert was the secret facility, its outline distorted by waves of heat drifting in the dry air. Like most people, he knew the military occasionally used the desert for testing munitions and special weapons, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Outside a normal concern for the environment, he had never spent much time thinking about secret military laboratories. His sense of patriotism had always been strong, and for the most part he trusted the government to do its job. Besides, there were always special interest groups and anti-nuclear organizations to ferret out and demonstrate against any project they considered dangerous. He had always been content to sit back and let them do their thing. He picked up most of what was going on in the world from TV news reports. Nothing, as far as he remembered, involved a place called Apache Point.

  “You won’t need to pack for the trip,” Feldon continued. “Everything you need will be supplied when you arrive.” He stood up, followed by Summerhour. “One last thing,” he said. “We’ll have to ask you not to say anything to anyone about this conversation. The FBI background investigation shows you’re not married, so that won’t be a problem. Just tell any friends who might ask that you’ll be on vacation.”

  “How long can I expect to be away?” Leahy asked, getting to his feet.

  “I don’t know, and that’s the truth,” Feldon answered, “but your leave of absence is for an indefinite period. Also, don’t drive your car to the airport or ask anyone to take you. It'll be better if you take a taxi. We’ve arranged a story to cover your absence should people in your department begin to question where you are. With the exception of Chief Webster, everyone will think you’re on an extended vacation out west touring the Grand Canyon and so forth.” Feldon buttoned his coat and walked to the door.

  “Good luck, Lieutenant," said Summerhour. "I’m sorry you can’t be better informed before you leave, but it’s beyond our control. No doubt everything will be made known to you after you arrive.” He held out his hand. Leahy took it, surprised at the firmness of the man’s grip.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he responded, following him to the door where Feldon waited. A peal of thunder rolled in the distance, promising more rain. For some reason it made him feel cold, and he pulled the robe closer around his neck.

  “I know this has been a strange morning for you,” Feldon said. “I apologize again for not being more explicit.”

  “I’ve been a cop for a long time,” Leahy said as he shook hands with Feldon. “I understand the need for security. Who knows? Next time we meet it might be me who can’t give you any information.”

  “See you around,” said Summerhour with a half smile.

  He watched the two men walk down the hallway and out the door. When they were outside, he walked over to the exit door. Keeping close to the wall, he peered through the glass window and was just able to see them get into their car. It was a late model Ford with black-wall tires. Standard government issu
e, he thought. As they drove out of the parking lot he made a mental note of the tag number.

  Linda Moore, his neighbor from across the hall, was just getting home from her midnight-to-seven nursing job at the hospital. She came through the door and shook rain off her umbrella, slinging water across the carpeted hallway.

  “Rain’s been going on all night,” she complained to Leahy.

  “Yeah, it’s been quite a morning, too,” he responded. He said goodbye to the woman and returned to his apartment. He picked up the phone, and dialed the number of the police department’s crime information center. Dottie Fitzgerald, one of the dayshift clerks, answered.

  “Hi, Dottie, this is Matt Leahy.”

  “Well hey, honey child! How’s the hero today?” she kidded.

  Leahy grinned. “Thinking of you, as usual,” he answered.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she laughed. “What can I do for you, Matt?”

  “Can you run a tag registration for me?”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  He gave her the tag number from the NSA car and waited. He could hear her punching data into the computer. A few seconds later she came back on the line.

  “Sorry, Matt, but it’s not in the registration files. Do you want me to call DMV and get them to do a manual search?”

  “No, that’s okay, Dottie. Thanks.” He hung up and walked over to the coffee table where the airline ticket lay. He picked it up and slipped it out of its paper jacket. DELTA FLIGHT 207 ATLANTA TO ALBUQUERQUE was printed across the boarding pass in bold letters. Outside, a flash of lightning lit up the darkening sky immediately followed by thunder. Storm’s getting closer, he thought. He glanced once more at the ticket.