“Good to know. I will.” He picked up his bags. “Well, thanks for all the information. I’ll be off now.” He started toward the side door leading to the fenced car park.

  “Hold on there, pardner,” said the clerk. “I got to unlock the gate. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll load up the auto,” said Fleming, continuing toward the door.

  “Okay,” called the clerk, waiting until the door was firmly closed before he picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed the operator and asked for a number in Baton Rouge. When the ring was answered, he said, “This is McKinnon in Dallas. I think I got your man, just like we were told. Fella named Fleming, right? Newspaperman. English. Going to Albuquerque.”

  “Albuquerque,” said the French-accented voice in Baton Rouge, rising in disbelief. “New Mexico? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what he said. Do you want me to call deSilva, warn him to keep an eye out?” the clerk asked.

  “No. I’ll do it. You call our other men in your area and tell them what you’ve told me. Tell them what he’s driving.”

  “A Packard coupe,” said McKinnon. “I told him to use Texaco stations, for the discount.”

  “Good. Good. They’ll keep track of him for us,” said the man in Baton Rouge. “Make sure you follow him. We have to know where he’s really going, and keep tabs on him while he’s getting there. Gas stations are useful, but don’t forget about planes and cars. We don’t want him to get away from us.”

  “Whatever you say,” the clerk said, and prepared to hang up.

  “And we don’t want him finding out about Robertson’s connection to Preussin and Cathcart,” the voice in Baton Rouge warned.

  “Do you think there’s any chance of that? We don’t know for sure that’s what he’s looking for, do we?” McKinnon asked. “They’re pretty well shielded, aren’t they? Robertson won’t say anything about them.”

  “Let us hope so,” said the other man, a threat in his tone. “He has been warned not to reveal too much to the authorities.”

  “That’s my point. Preussin and Cathcart are safe. So we don’t want to raise any more of this Fleming’s skepticism We’re going to have to be careful with this.” McKinnon put his hand to his forehead. “I got to get out there and open the gate for him, before he gets suspicious.”

  “Off you go, then,” said the man in Baton Rouge, and hung up.

  McKinnon took the padlock key and bustled out of the office, holding the key aloft as he saw the Packard coupe pull out of its place and maneuver toward the gate. He struggled with the lock, and then fumbled with the chain, but was finally able to get the gate open. Standing aside, he watched Fleming drive off, belatedly swinging into the right-hand lane. He shook his head and smiled, thinking that for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was about Fleming that Soleilsur was afraid of. Reporters could be a pain, but the way you got rid of them was ignoring them; Fleming was no different than the rest.

  Chapter 16

  ON IMPULSE, Fleming decided on going west on 180, taking the route the clerk hadn’t recommended. He told himself that this was caprice, but he couldn’t shake the conviction that he was still under observation, and he felt that he would be able to catch any followers if he took the less traveled highway to New Mexico. He discovered he could maintain a decent speed in the Packard, and cover the long distance quite handily. The country was mostly flat and, after thirty miles at a good clip, boring. It would probably be as boring the other way, he thought; there was no sign that the land to the north was more varied. Besides, coming into New Mexico this way, he thought, Highway 285 would take him directly to Santa Fe, and from there he could reach Los Alamos without fuss. He was glad he wasn’t making this journey in high summer, for the late September heat was imposing enough. About ten in the morning, he pulled off the road, found his dark glasses in his suitcase, and put them on against the ferocious west Texas glare as he made his way through Albany to Snyder, where he stopped to fill his tank with petrol at the Texaco station, as the clerk suggested, to get a cup of coffee, and to try to make a call to Merlin Powell before continuing westward. It was time to check in.

  The overseas operator demanded four dollars and eighty cents in coins before she made the connection, and explained in a treacly drawl that this was for two minutes only.

  “I understand,” said Fleming, beginning to count out all the dimes and quarters he had accumulated since arriving in New Orleans, and feeding them into the appropriate coin slots, listening to them ring, clang, and bong. “Cut me off when the two minutes are up.”

  “A’right, if that’s what y’all want,” said the operator, and put the call through.

  Powell’s secretary answered. “I’m sorry, Mister Fleming, but Mister Powell is out of the building just at present.”

  That annoyed Fleming, but he said, “Tell him I called, will you?”

  “Of course, sir,” said the secretary, and rang off before Fleming could say anything more.

  The coins clattered into the innards of the phone, and the overseas operator said, “D’ y’all want me to try again? It’ll be another four-eighty.”

  Breathing a curse at Miss Butterly’s efficiency, Fleming said, “No. Never mind,” and hung up, leaving the phone booth abruptly. It bothered him that Powell would not know where he was, as he had insisted. At least he had made an effort to comply, he told himself. Miss Butterly had intervened. He strode out of the bar-cum-restaurant, leaving its smoky interior for the hot afternoon. Much as it frustrated him, he knew he would not reach Los Alamos today. He would have to break his journey somewhere—perhaps, he thought, consulting his map, he would get a room at Roswell.

  The sun, which had hung behind him, then overhead, was now dropping lower in the sky ahead of him as he stopped again in Lamesa, had a meal, topped off the petrol in his tank, then headed westward again, taking 137 north-west to the aptly named Brownfield, then picked up 380 to Roswell, shaving, he hoped, an hour or two off his journey by avoiding the southward swing to Carlsbad. Between Plains and Tatum he crossed into New Mexico. The emptiness of the land through which he was driving amazed him, for although he knew from maps that the Southwest was filled with open spaces, the extent of those open spaces, and the comparative insignificance of the occasional towns, gave him a sense of vastness that before now he had only felt on the ocean. The land was not as flat as Texas had been, and the gullys and rises created ever-changing vistas as grassland gave way to upland scrub and piñon trees.

  Roswell, when Fleming got there, turned out to be a small town made possible by the military presence of Walker Air Force Base, some little distance away. It was a dusty, dry collection of buildings, most of them not more than thirty years old; the last blaze of sunset over the mountains to the west gilded the town, imparting a kind of beauty to it that Fleming suspected would not be there in the full light of day. Men in jeans and chaps mixed with youths in uniform on the streets, a slightly uncomfortable ambience resulting from the combination. There were bars and diners and two hotels, one wood, one brick, offering rooms at a discount for men in uniform. Fleming drew up in front of the wooden hotel, a three-story affair that must have seen the Wild West in its full flower, judging by the quasi-Victorian architecture and the etched-glass windows. The sign over the main door proudly proclaimed this the Pecos Vista.

  The reception clerk was a man of advanced years, white-haired and whip-thin, with skin like an old saddle. “What can I do for you, young fella?” he asked as Fleming approached across the pillared lobby.

  “Room for one, if you please,” said Fleming, hating to admit how tired he had become.

  “That’ll be twenty-nine dollars. First night payable in advance.” He turned around the old-fashioned registry.

  “Kind of high, isn’t it?” Fleming said, pulling out his wallet.

  “You think there’s better to be had for less, no one’s keeping you here,” said the clerk.

  “Twenty-nine it is,” said Fleming.

  The clerk nodded his satisfaction. “Sign here, and put in all the information. Gotta have it, this being a missile base, for National Security,” he added, hitching his thumb in the general direction of the Air Force Base. “The FBI checks up on me from time to time.”

  Fleming signed his name, put his occupation as journalist and his home address as London, England. “Is that sufficient?”

  “If I can have a gander at your passport, it is,” said the clerk. “How long’re you staying?”

  “Just tonight.” Fleming handed the man three tens.

  “Can’t say I blame you. Nothing much to do around here, unless you’re in the military, or an Indian. Even then, there’s nothing much to do.” He chuckled at his own familiar joke. “Okay, then. You’ll want to park your car around back. Gotta do that for insurance. Breakfast’s served from six to nine-thirty, lunch at noon until three. You can still get dinner if you don’t dawdle. The kitchen closes at eight-thirty. No room service but coffee. The bar’s open until eleven.” He reached for a key to hand to Fleming. “Number 14C, at the end of the hall, top of the stairs. It faces the back of the building. It’s quieter than the street side tends to be.” He winked. “You know what I mean?”

  Fleming made a noise of agreement. “Around back you say? The auto?”

  “That’s right. You’ll see. Just follow the signs,” said the clerk, smiling to himself.

  It didn’t take long to move the car; the rear entrance to the hotel was clearly marked and brought Fleming to the lobby of the Pecos Vista’s saloon, a dark, noisy room smelling of cigarettes and beer, with cowboy music on the jukebox in the corner and men huddled on stools along the brass rail of the bar. He paused, his luggage weighing heavily in his hands, then shrugged and continued on to the front, going up the stairs and along the hall to the room he had been assigned. It was smallish, having a tall chest-of-drawers with an old mirror mounted atop it on one wall, a double bed in a brass frame with a handmade quilt spread over it against the other, a small night-stand beside it, a doily laid over it. A bed-side lamp on the stand and a floor-lamp promised night-time illumination. The door to the tiny bathroom stood half-open, and Fleming slipped into it long enough to relieve himself and have a look at his general appearance.

  His eyes were reddish with strain and fatigue, he needed a shave, and his clothes were impossible. He combed his hair and did his best to smooth the front of his jacket, trying to make himself look more respectable even as he wondered if anyone would notice. “Just a light meal,” he told his reflection, knowing he had to eat, or he would be useless in the morning. He took out his shaving kit and his small travel alarm, putting the folding clock on the night-stand and his kit in the bathroom, which was the extent of his unpacking. Leaving everything else in his luggage, he set his bags in the bottom drawers of the chest before taking the key, carefully locking the door, and going down to the restaurant, where he had a steak, a bowl of chili, and a shot of tequila before climbing the stairs again, the rigors of the long day catching up with him. He got his jacket, shirt, and shoes off before falling into bed, his holster still buckled on, his pistol lying at the small of his back; he felt as if he were still in the War, and those recollections accompanied his fall into the arms of Morpheus.

  It was sometime later when a sound awakened him abruptly. He remained still, not wanting to reveal he was no longer asleep. He was lying on his side, his right arm under him, the left crooked around the pillow, making it difficult to move surreptitiously. With all the concentration he could summon, he listened intently to discover what had brought him so suddenly out of his much-needed sleep. The room was dark, and what little light came in from the window was distorted by the curtains hung there. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shadows slither with the slight breath of air that must have come from the hall, since the window was closed. He put all his attention on listening, and was rewarded with the soft fall of a footstep, nearly silent compared to the beating of his heart. He wished he could reach his jacket, or even to dare to make a move for the revolver in the holster at the small of his back.

  A quiet, sharp click sounded as loud as a gunshot, and it focused all Fleming’s attention on the movement in his room. He had to exercise all his self-control to keep from trying a desperate move; let the trespasser assume that he was still asleep. He resisted the urge to hold his breath, certain that his intruder was listening closely, too.

  There was the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and Fleming knew this was his one chance. Easing his hand around for his revolver, he flung back the covers and quilt, sat up in bed, and drew his weapon all in one move. “Stay right where you are.”

  The figure bent over the middle drawer of the chest-of-drawers froze. “You don’t want to do anything foolish,” he said.

  “I’d take my own advice, if I were you,” said Fleming, swinging his legs out of bed, his air never wavering.

  “I’m Hotchkiss, Lemmuel Hotchkiss, FBI. You know what that is, don’t you?” The man had not moved from his crouch.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hoover’s Hounds,” said Fleming, deliberately using their uncomplimentary nick-name.

  “And proud of it.” The man waited a moment while Fleming stood up. “D’you mind if I straighten up? My back’s beginning to hurt.”

  “Do it very slowly, Mister Hotchkiss,” Fleming recommended, keeping enough distance between him and the other man to make wresting his gun from his hand problematic.

  Hotchkiss complied. “Here I go,” he said, and rose to his full height—perhaps two inches above Fleming’s. He kept his hands somewhat extended, away from his body. “Mind if I turn on a light?”

  “You were the one who chose to come in in the dark,” said Fleming. “There’s a floor lamp behind you. Step back and turn it on without turning around, using your left hand.”

  “Right you are.” He did as Fleming ordered, very slowly. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he recommended as he fumbled for the switch.

  “I won’t if you don’t,” said Fleming, raising his hand to shield his eyes a half a second before the light came on. “Don’t try it,” he said as he saw Hotchkiss start to move in the sudden brilliance.

  Hotchkiss froze in position. He was revealed as an open-faced man with dark-blond hair close-cut and beginning to grey, bluish eyes under straight brows, with the kind of features that seemed very American to Fleming; the man resembled Randolph Scott, rugged and pleasant at once. He wore black slacks and a black-and-tan checked shirt. His shoes had pointed toes and Fleming guessed Hotchkiss was wearing cowboy boots. He had no visible weapon on him, but Fleming knew better than to assume he was unarmed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said, shaking his head. “You know a thing or two about these situations.”

  “I was in the War,” said Fleming at his most blighting.

  “Sorry,” said Hotchkiss with what seemed genuine contrition. “I should have guessed.”

  Fleming took a step back. “I want you to sit down, on the floor. Do it now.”

  With a sigh, Hotchkiss did as he was ordered. “You aren’t helping yourself, Fleming.”

  “If you are who you say you are, you may be right. But given your method of introduction, you’ll have to make allowances for what I’m doing.” He took a deep breath. “Use your left hand. Take out your identification with your thumb and forefinger. Toss it onto the bed.”

  “So you don’t have to bend over.” Hotchkiss did as he was ordered. “I can give you a contact number to call, if you like.”

  “That can be arranged,” said Fleming. “Besides, I doubt the switchboard is open at this hour.”

  “You got a point,” said Hotchkiss as he watched Fleming flip the wallet open and scrutinize his ID and badge.

  “So, Special Agent Lemmuel Hotchkiss,” said Fleming, holding out the identification. “I thought you chaps only wore charcoal-grey suits?”

  “I’m supposed to fit in out here,” said Hotchkiss. “If I wore the uniform, I might as well stamp FBI on my forehead and be done with it. Not that Hoover doesn’t prefer the conservative suit-and-tie look. He insists that away from this assignment, I toe the line like everyone else.”

  “Nothing remarkable in knowing that,” said Fleming, gesturing to Hotchkiss. “You might as well get up. This is pretty convincing; if it is false, it is a most convincing forgery.”

  “You gonna put that gun away?” Hotchkiss asked, not yet moving.

  “Not quite yet, I think,” said Fleming. “I still don’t know why you came into my room.”

  Hotchkiss sighed. “Look, Fleming, we got a whole raft of expensive missiles over at Walker, and some pretty valuable planes. When foreigners show up, the brass gets antsy, and you can’t blame them, considering.” He got to his feet slowly. “They wanted me to check you out.”

  “You chose an odd way to do it,” said Fleming.

  “Hey, look,” Hotchkiss protested, brushing off his palms on his slacks. “I was told to do it this way.” He cocked his head. “If you have something to hide, would you tell me about it if I asked?”

  “No,” Fleming allowed, thinking of the authorization to use lethal force in his wallet. Hotchkiss would find that highly suspicious, he knew, and with good cause.

  “That’s what I mean,” said Hotchkiss. “So I’ll tell you something that might make you ease up a bit.”

  “What’s that?” Fleming asked, unconvinced.

  Hotchkiss grinned. “I’m left-handed.”

  Chapter 17

  “I WAS on assignment here when I got a call from Bert. He’s the owner of this hotel, does all kinds of work around the place.” Hotchkiss was relaxing now, becoming suspiciously loquacious; Fleming listened to him, curious to know why this FBI agent would be so willing to confide in him. “He said he had checked in an Englishman to room 14C, claiming to be a journalist—”

  “I am a journalist,” said Fleming. “I have papers to prove it. My editor gave me a To Whom It May Concern before I came to the States.” He was standing, his back against the chest-of-drawers, watching Hotchkiss, who was sitting on the end of the bed. He had lit a cigarette and was smoking it desultorily; he hadn’t bothered to offer one to Hotchkiss.