“Milk, if you would,” said Fleming. He pulled another cigarette from the Players pack and lit it with a match from the packet set out on the table.

  “It’s half-and-half,” she said, putting a little jug on the table. “Should take about ten minutes. Hope that’s okay.” Then she was gone to wait on another table.

  As she went away, Fleming heard the drone of airplane engines over the town, and thought back to the airplane earlier that day. There had to be all manner of airplanes in this part of America, he told himself, many of them with two engines, but could not shake the sensation that he was being pursued, a notion he insisted to himself was absurd.

  Fleming was half-way through his meal when the mechanic came through the door. He spotted Fleming and came over to him. “Rosaria’s taking good care of you?”

  “The food is excellent,” said Fleming in mild surprise. “Thanks for recommending this place.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and put it out in the ashtray.

  “Only café in town worth eating at,” said the mechanic, and put his elbows on the table. “The thing of it is, I can get my hands on a new bumper for you, from the salvage yard in Vaughn. They can have it here in forty minutes, and I can put it on in an hour or two. But it’s a rental car, and I shouldn’t do anything without the company’s permission. You’ll have to pay them for the damage when you return the car unless you can get authorization to let me do the work.”

  “I know,” said Fleming. “But they’ll charge me a deal more than you will if I bring it back with that dent.” He motioned to the waitress. “Bring some coffee for—” He gestured to the mechanic.

  “Hi, Jed,” said the waitress, a mug in hand already.

  “Hi yourself, Inez.” He winked at her. “Your aunt keeping you busy?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Inez, and put down the mug in front of him before going to take another order from a newly filled table.

  “Hard-working girl,” said Jed approvingly. “Don’t let nobody tell you Mexicans are lazy. Rosaria and Inez are the busiest people in the town.” He tasted his coffee and made a face. “Too hot.”

  “About the Packard,” Fleming prompted.

  “Oh. Yeah. I know what you mean about the company. So if you want me to fix it, unofficial-like, I will. I’ll charge you a little extra for losing the paperwork, but I think it should be okay for you. I can make a receipt for you if you have to account for the money to someone, but it won’t be for replacing the bumper. It’ll run about a hundred, hundred ten bucks.”

  “That’s reasonable,” said Fleming, hoping it was. Although he knew this plan was of questionable legality, Fleming said, “If you don’t mind doing it that way, I don’t mind.”

  “Okay, then.” He drank half the contents of his mug. “Bullet damage is hard to account for, isn’t it?”

  “If that’s what it is,” said Fleming carefully.

  “Oh, it sure is, all right,” said Jed. “Probably some Apache kid out there trying to bag a pronghorn for himself. Crazy Indians. Always shooting as if the bullets never went anywhere except where they aimed.” He finished the coffee and got up from the table. “I’ll get to work. You figure another couple of hours and you’ll be under way again.”

  “Very good.” He watched Jed go, and went back to his meal.

  Finishing his meal, he left a seventy-five-cent tip on a three-twenty meal for Inez, then went next door to the stationers, where he bought four newspapers—one from Albuquerque, one from El Paso, one from Phoenix, and one from Denver—intending to fill his waiting hours with gleaning as much information as he could about the general region. He found the town oddly devoid of places to sit, so he wandered back to the service station and asked Jed if he might have a chair he could occupy while the bumper was being changed.

  “Sure thing. There’s an old glider around back, in front of my house. You can have a nap on it, if you like. Make yourself comfortable.” Jed noticed the armload of newspapers Fleming carried and he blew out a whistle. “That’s a lot of reading, ain’t it?”

  “I thought I’d find out about this part of the world. I’m new here,” he replied. “It’ll make my story better.”

  “That you are—new here,” said Jed, and went back into the bay of his service station.

  Fleming walked down the path to the rear of the building and saw a small clapboard house behind it, an old-fashioned porch facing to the south-east, so that the worst of the afternoon sun couldn’t touch it. The glider had yellow cushions on it and creaked only a little when Fleming sat down. The slight motion took a little getting used to, but in a short while Fleming was comfortably settled, reading the papers he had brought with him.

  On the third page of the Albuquerque paper he found an article that caught his attention: Former Los Alamos Physicists Held on Spying Charges. Fleming looked closely at what followed. James Hendley continues in custody while the evidence against him mounts. His trial is set to begin in three weeks. Hendley and his British colleague, Theodore Robertson, were arrested on charges of selling atomic secrets to the Russians. Robertson is being held in England, on charges of espionage, and the search continues both here and in England for other associates of Hendley and Robertson who may also have been involved in this treasonous activity. Both Hendley and Robertson worked at Los Alamos on the Manhattan Project … There followed a summary of the nature of the work they had done—at least as much as the public could know. Prosecutors indicate that the charges may be extended to include the sale of nuclear secrets to powers other than the Soviet Union. The FBI and CIG have not confirmed or denied this most recent allegation, but they have said that the search for other conspirators has been on-going for the last year.

  Fleming nodded, remembering the furor around Robertson’s arrest. And, he reminded himself, Krandall was supposed to have been at Los Alamos during the War. Was there any connection to Robertson, or Hendley? What about these so-called associates mentioned in the article? Could Krandall be one of those? He stared up into the vast expanse of blue, wondering distantly if he was as informed as he needed to be. He decided to find out more about Robertson and Hendley, and their relationship—if any—to Krandall. He folded the paper, intending to take it with him, and was about to open the Phoenix Sun when he saw Jed coming toward him, something cupped in his hands.

  “Hey, Mister Fleming,” he called as he approached. “You got anyone out there tailing you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fleming, deliberately hiding his concern behind a friendly smile. “People do follow journalists, from time to time. Why?”

  “Well,” said Jed, opening his hands to reveal a metal box about the size of a cuff link box, with a spray of wires coming out one end of it. “I found this hooked up to the underside of your car. Either the rental company keeps close track of their cars, or someone’s trying to keep tabs on you. They can track this thing for a couple of miles away, car or plane, and you’d never even know they’re there. I seen a lot of these things in the War—Signal Corps—and I didn’t like ’em then, when they made sense. But this? It’s a crappy thing to do.” He waited a moment. “What do you want me to do with this? I hate these bastards!”

  Fleming could not tell if Jed meant the electronic box or the men who used them. “I don’t know what to say,” he told Jed.

  “I don’t blame you.” Jed scowled. “Tell you what. You came in here for bumper trouble, didn’t you? Well, who’s to say this didn’t fall off? You can’t think of some way this could have got dislodged, can you? Come on. A lot of things get knocked off cars. Your bumper got damaged, didn’t it, so it figures something like this could be dislodged. I can send it with the old bumper to the salvage yard.” He grinned at his own plan.

  “That could work,” Fleming allowed.

  “Of course it could,” said Jed. “If anyone asks—not that I think they’d have the balls to, mind you—I can say it wasn’t part of the standard equipment, so I didn’t bother to reinstall it.”

  “Do you think you’ll have to do that?” Fleming didn’t want to cause Jed any trouble—he was already bending the rules.

  “No. I think it’ll only throw off the schnooks following you. If it’s anyone other than the car rental company. It seems a bit over-kill for a car rental place to do this, so I’ll figure it’s more than that, and deal with it accordingly.” Jed gave a kind of salute. “Just you wait and see. I’ll handle everything. I’ll have them running around in circles.”

  “Why would you do that?” Fleming asked, not wanting to be too much in this man’s debt.

  “Because I don’t like snoops,” said Jed bluntly. “The whole country’s looking over its shoulder, and everything is monitored. You think none of the bastards in Washington never read the Constitution, they way they’re carrying on, accusing people of doing things they got a perfect right to do. They’re getting as crazy as the Communists they’re supposed to be getting rid of, using innuendo and suspicion instead of evidence to convict the guys they don’t like. That’s not what America’s supposed to be all about, and I’m not going to help it be that way.”

  Listening to this, Fleming felt a moment of humility followed almost at once by his conviction that Americans could be endearingly naive. “Okay,” he said, deliberately using that most American expression. “I hope it won’t get you into trouble.”

  “Who cares if it does?” Jed responded, a martial light in his eyes. “Let ’em try to make something of it.” With that, he turned, pocketed the electronic device, and strode off in the direction of his service station as if to defend it like a castle.

  Chapter 19

  FLEMING PULLED into Santa Fe shortly before five that afternoon. He was feeling a bit sleepy and light-headed, responses he attributed to the altitude, for he was more than a mile high. He took stock of the main plaza, reminding himself that this sleepy hill town was a state capital. He was hoping to find a hotel, and after a brief reconnaissance, noticed a sign down a side-street that declared itself in two languages to be the best hotel in New Mexico. He wandered down to it, inquired about a room, and asked where he could park his car.

  “Anywhere, señor, anywhere,” said the clerk.

  Not at all satisfied with the answer, Fleming went to fetch his bags, promising himself to read Sir William’s files again, seeing what information they might contain on Robertson and Krandall that could throw light on this case. He ate in his room and kept the files secreted in their hiding place except when he actually read them. Bracing a chair under the doorknob, he slept soundly that night and was awake again at six-thirty, ready to complete his travel to Los Alamos as soon as he notified Merlin Powell of his whereabouts.

  “Still in New Mexico?” the editor blustered when Fleming was finally connected to him.

  “I had some trouble with the auto yesterday, and it delayed me,” said Fleming, deliberately vague in his description.

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Powell. “Well, you can’t help that, I’d guess.”

  “Very likely not; the distances here are a force to be reckoned with, and that contributed to my delay,” Fleming agreed, certain their conversation was not private. He tried to sit on the small wedge of a stool in the booth and discovered it was too small and too low for him, so he leaned against the corner. “I’ll probably fly out of Albuquerque tomorrow, assuming there is a suitable schedule. I’ll let you know more as soon as I’ve made arrangements.”

  “See that you do.” Powell was sounding annoyed. “About the story.”

  “I don’t know if I can establish the link between Robertson and Krandall after all,” he said, and hoped that Powell wouldn’t say anything too compromising. “I haven’t turned up what we’d thought might be there.”

  “Oh?” Powell responded.

  “Yes. I haven’t come upon a connection so far. I don’t know that there is one, beyond the fact that they worked in Los Alamos during the War. That may be the whole of it. I suppose I might do a sidebar on the troubles with War-time security.” He coughed slightly. “You might want to tell Broxton that his information was faulty.”

  Powell hardly missed a beat. “I’ll do that.”

  “It may be that the connection we’re looking for happened through the POW camp here in New Mexico. That seems a long shot, but I could check it out if you like.” Fleming hoped that whomever was listening would jump to a number of wrong conclusions.

  “Hardly seems worth it, unless you find hard information.”

  “Do you want me to dig?” Fleming asked. “It would mean having to stay on a day or more.”

  “If you don’t turn up anything promising, no.” He paused. “Well?”

  “I’ll make a cursory check. So long as I’m here, I might as well take the time to make sure we’re on the wrong track, as on the right one. Don’t you think?”

  “So long as you’re there,” Powell echoed. “Shall I call Broxton, or do you want to do that yourself.”

  “I have an appointment with him—tomorrow, I think. If you’ll arrange for it to be moved to a later hour, I’ll make my report to him, and then give a full account to you.” Fleming did his best to sound bored. “All this excitement over Robertson has really got out of hand, don’t you think?”

  “People are scared, Fleming,” said Powell. “You can’t blame them, when something like the atom bomb is at stake.”

  “True,” said Fleming. “But in this case, I very much doubt there’s anything to find.” He paused again. “Still, just in case—”

  “Miss Butterly will call Lord Broxton for you,” Powell offered. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. If you would, send someone ’round to Henry Long, to find out what he knows about Krandall’s killers.” He heard Powell choke back an expletive. “That should cover it. I’ll let you know when I’m arriving.” He was ready to hang up when Powell managed one more question.

  “Anything new about Robert Swathmore?” This name was a code indicating that there were complications and potential trouble; in this case, it was a warning from Powell.

  “Could be. I’ll be on the look-out, if you like,” Fleming answered, keeping his tone of mild imposition.

  “If you would,” said Powell with a nonchalance that implied volumes. “Well, ta,” and rang off.

  Fleming left the phone booth and headed for his Packard, his bags in his hands. When he reached the auto, he saw something under the windscreen-wiper blade, and he muttered at having got a ticket. After stowing his luggage in the boot, he plucked the folded sheet from the windscreen and was about to roll it into a ball when he noticed a note written on it: LET WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

  For a good two minutes, he stared at the words, his thoughts shocked to immobility. The same words as he had seen in Kingston, and in the same hand. How on earth had they come to be on an automobile in New Mexico, unless it was also intended as a warning that he was under surveillance? But who would be watching him, and why? Belatedly he looked about the street, trying to determine who had left it there. No one caught his eye, and he was left to climb into the Packard and resume his travels to Los Alamos, accompanied by the nerve-wracking conviction that his every move was being observed by unfriendly eyes.

  The turn to Los Alamos led off into the hills, a road framed by piñon trees and red rocks. He finally approached a gate with a guard-booth under the sign incongruously identifying this as the University of California Los Alamos Laboratory. A polite U.S. Army corporal came out of the booth to inspect Fleming’s identification, then got on the telephone. After a brief discussion, the corporal said to Fleming, “Take the first right and pull into the second lot on your left.”

  “All right.” He held out his hand for his passport and letter from Powell.

  “I’ll hold these, sir, until you leave,” said the corporal, deferentially but with firm purpose. “You have your press credentials. That’s all you’ll need.”

  “If that’s the way of it.” Fleming quelled the apprehension rising in his gut. “Right, second lot on the left?”

  “That’s it, sir. Take any place marked PRESS.”

  “Thank,” said Fleming, and put the Packard in gear as the bar rose to admit him. He made his way down the dusty road between buildings that looked like an army base rather than a research installation. He made the turn and found the car park easily enough. He pulled in beside an Oldsmobile and a Jeep, noticing that the Jeep was in a military space, the Oldsmobile in a press slot. He made sure the Packard was fully locked, then headed for the clapboard building with PRESS over the entrance. He was keenly aware that this building was away from the main part of the facility, isolated by its location as much as by its purpose. As he trod up the stairs, he heard laughter from the other side of the door.

  A private sat at a desk facing the door, and beside him stood a hale, stout man, about fifty, perhaps five foot three or four, with friendly, rough features, a pleasing manner, and a splendid voice—at least six foot two and rangy as John Wayne—heard on radios all over Europe and the Pacific, the very spoken soul of all that was American. Fleming didn’t need anyone to tell him that this was Dennis Goodbrother, whose reports had followed the action from 1944 to the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

  “Excuse me,” said Fleming, interrupting the shared chuckles of the two men. “The guard at the gate told me that I should come here.” He stepped up to the desk, pulling out his credentials. “My name’s Fleming.”

  The private took the proffered documents. “English. The gate just called about you.”

  “Yes. The guard at the gate has my passport and other—” Fleming began.

  “They like to hang onto paper,” said Goodbrother, holding out his hand to Fleming. “Dennis Goodbrother. Pleased to meet you.”

  “And I to meet you,” said Fleming, liking the hearty handshake. “I know your work, of course.”

  The private handed back the identification. “What can I do for you, Mister Fleming?”

  A bit nonplussed, Fleming answered, “I’m here looking for information on Theodore Robertson”—he saw the private wince—“and Geoffrey Krandall, who worked here during the War. Krandall did something with encryption and code-breaking, as I understand it.”