“I was given them,” Fleming pointed out.

  “Hell, that doesn’t mean squat to a paranoid MP—and, by the way, around here, that doesn’t mean Member of Parliament, it means Military Police,” said Goodbrother. “You have to be careful with any kind of official material. Take my word for it. Carry those pages anywhere but in a Los Alamos file jacket.”

  “All right,” said Fleming. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He started for the door. “Thanks for all your help, Goodbrother. It was a pleasure meeting you.” This was very nearly sincere.

  Goodbrother waved negligently from the couch. “Go file your story, Fleming. I hope you don’t run into any trouble with it.”

  “So do I, Goodbrother,” said Fleming, leaving the hall behind and passing the desk where the private sat. Just before he left the press building, he noticed a large-scale wall map hanging by the door. He paused to look at it, hoping to appear casual, but taking close stock of what he saw. “Amazing country, this,” he remarked to the private.

  “Yes, sir,” said the private, no longer interested in Fleming. He went back to reading a magazine about automobiles.

  Knowing now where he was going, Fleming went to the Packard and drove out of the Los Alamos Laboratory, stopping at the guard station to pick up his passport and other identification. “About how long does it take to get to Albuquerque from here?”

  “Albuquerque? About two, three hours, depending,” said the corporal.

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, and headed for Highway 84, going north toward Colorado instead of south toward Santa Fe. It was already later in the day than he had hoped, the long wait at Los Alamos had thrown him off his intended schedule, and as he stopped in Ojo Caliente for petrol, heeding the sign that read NEXT GAS 70 MILES he took stock of his situation, aware that he would have to be careful not to draw undue attention to himself, or risk having more auto trouble. Finding no Texaco station, he drove into a Hancock, and filled up on petrol, wishing he had a reserve tin, just in case: this was the part of America where someone—such as himself—could get lost, through misadventure or active malice; he didn’t want to court either. He paid for his fuel, made sure the oil and water levels were adequate, the tires at the proper pressure, then headed off north, up narrow, twisty, impressive Highway 285, toward the Colorado border and Alamosa Municipal Airfield.

  Between Ojo Caliente and Los Piños the land was empty, the road a two-lane ribbon winding along a range of mountains rising spectacularly around him. Fleming drove with care, keeping watch of his surroundings. From time to time he would pass small villages, some of them what Americans called wide spots in the road. He saw distant ranch houses down dirt roads, and occasionally Indians making their way along the road, some on horseback but most on foot. Twice he heard the drone of airplane engines, and had to quell a sense of foreboding, remembering the tracking device that Jed had found. The isolation of this road made him feel momentary vulnerability, a response he did his best to put aside. The device had been removed, he told himself. Territory on the expansive scale as this needed to be crossed with airplanes; he had nothing to worry about.

  In the late afternoon, when the mountains cast long purple shadows along the high valleys of the Rockies, he pulled into Los Piños, driving into another Hancock service station for more gasoline and the opportunity to use the telephone. There was a booth at the side of the station, and Fleming went inside it, closing the door firmly before he dialed the operator and asked for the auto rental agency office in Dallas. He paid out the three dollars in dimes and quarters, then waited to be connected. When the telephone was answered on the other end by a honied female voice, Fleming wasn’t sure she was as familiar with his situation as the clerk he had spoken to the day before yesterday, so he quickly read the pertinent information off the rental agreement, then said, “Here’s the rub: my plans have changed and I’ll have to fly out of Colorado, Alamosa, to be precise. I know it isn’t a large air-field, and the town is fairly small, but I need to arrange to leave off the Packard, if there is some way I can arrange it. I know there’s a drop-off fee, so—”

  “Well, yes,” said the young woman. “Basically, we have reciprocals with other car rental companies. You gotta have that out here. You can leave the car you’ve rented with any licensed agency, and for twenty-two fifty surcharge, they’ll get it back to us. It doesn’t have to be a commercial rental—a vacation company will do; there should be one near the airport. Don’t you worry about a thing, Mister Fleemie. It happens all the time.”

  Fleming didn’t bother to correct her mispronunciation, saying only, “Thank you very much. I appreciate your help.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome.” Then, in a gush she added, “And they can say what they like about Yankees—you Boston boys sure are polite.” With that she hung up, leaving Fleming speechless, a condition that quickly gave way to mirth. He would have been less sanguine if he had heard her superior’s outburst an hour later.

  “You what?” McKinnon demanded.

  “Well, it is standard procedure, isn’t it?” The young woman gave him an irritated frown. “You make arrangements like this every day.”

  “Not for … for foreigners. That’s a different situation,” McKinnon blustered. “Damn it, Mandy, now I’ve got to phone Baton Rouge.” His voice dropped and he glanced furtively at the telephone as if he expected it to strike at him.

  “So?” Mandy was prettily petulant, her large blue eyes open, her lips pouting.

  McKinnon shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, and retreated to his office to make the dreaded call.

  There was a small auto-rental desk at Alamosa Municipal Airport. Fleming paid the surcharge, turned over the rental agreement and the keys, got a receipt, then went to find a flight out. He thought about calling Powell, then realized he hadn’t enough change, and didn’t want to take the time to get some. He hurried off to the ticket counter to have a look at the possibilities, telling himself he would leave a message with Powell’s night man when he finally landed.

  The first east-bound flight he could take was headed at eight-ten for Wichita, and Memphis, and after a moment’s hesitation, he bought a ticket through to Memphis, reminding himself he could get off in Wichita if he had to. On this flight the seating was catch-as-catch-can, so he chose an aisle seat near the door, where he could see everyone coming aboard, and leave as soon as the door was open, should that prove necessary. He carried his smaller bag aboard, pulled out Sir William’s and the Los Alamos files from the hidden compartment, and took advantage of the flying time to read, comparing what he saw in one set of papers with the other set, making the best of the crowded seating and poor lighting.

  Most of the passengers were sturdy western types, the sorts that Fleming had assumed existed only in films. Yet here was a pair of men in jeans and checked flannel shirts, their boots still dusty from work. After them was a businessman in a chocolate-colored suit, wearing a Stetson and silver jewelry. Behind him, a tired-looking priest chose a seat near the front, huddling down in his seat as far as it would allow him. Three nondescript men, middle-aged, very likely salesmen, judging by their outgoing behavior, sat together, one across the aisle from the other two. Then a man in an Army uniform, corporal’s stripes on his sleeve. He was followed by a white-haired woman in a somber black dress and a hat with a veil. Next came a man about twenty-two or -three in a very new dark-blue blazer over a white shirt and striped tie, his face shining—off to a new position or back to university, Fleming supposed. A woman in her thirties in slacks and a suede jacket took a seat a row ahead of Fleming; she had been pretty, but her skin was turning leathery and there was an air of hard work about her that shocked him. Last came a family—father, mother, and three children, all under the age of ten, which Fleming viewed askance; the last thing he wanted on an airplane was fussing children.

  Fleming drank coffee, knowing he had to stay awake and attentive while he reviewed the reports, making notes in pencil in the margins of the pages. About forty minutes into the flight, the stewardess offered him a sandwich, but he turned it down, not wanting to interrupt his work, or risk spilling anything onto the pages.

  At Wichita—where the cowboys and the white-haired woman got off—he decided to stay aboard to Memphis, and to go on reading, sure he was on to something. The airplane departed on time, and Fleming continued to go over the reports. He found what he wanted on the fifth photostatic copy of the Los Alamos papers, a scribbled note in the margin, so small in the reduction that he had missed it before. Peering at it now, he realized the tangle of lines said, Ref: Groan. W. Potter. He held the sheet up, scrutinizing the notation, trying to determine if he had read it correctly. Yes, that was what it said. Potter had been investigating Moan, Groan, and Sigh, according to his files. And here was a notation on the Los Alamos papers with Sir William’s own notation on it. The document was signed by a J. Cathcart, a name Fleming didn’t recognize, although he felt that rush of excitement that meant he had found something of importance at last. Sir William, Geoffrey Krandall, and J. Cathcart were somehow linked. He began to read the photostatic copy more closely, wishing he had a magnifying glass to help decypher the reduced print. He struggled to read the page, and gave it up, knowing he would need brighter light than what the airplane cabin provided. He put the files back in their folders, and once again slipped them into the concealed compartment in the bottom of his bag.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” The stewardess appeared at his arm again. “Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Actually, a little of your Bourbon would be nice. The best you have aboard.” He gave her his most engaging smile.

  “Yes, sir. Anything with it?” She beamed back at him.

  “Good God, no. But thanks for asking,” he said.

  “Bourbon, straight. Ice?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, his mind already turning back to the photostatic reproductions. If only they weren’t so hard to read, he thought. He would see if he could purchase a magnifying glass at the Memphis airport.

  About forty minutes outside of Memphis, the weather turned stormy, winds buffeting the airplane, and rain spitting at the windows. Night made it worse, for the darkness was disorienting. Fleming was glad of the Bourbon, for it helped him keep his composure while the other passengers became increasingly worried and upset. After fifteen interminable minutes of this roistering, the pilot came on the cabin speaker.

  “Sorry to announce that due to severe weather conditions, we are being diverted to Jackson, Mississippi. The airline will provide a bus to a contracting hotel, where there will be rooms set aside for your use. The night’s dinner and lodging are at our expense, along with our apologies for this inconvenience, and along with our assurance that we will get you to Memphis just as soon as possible. We’ll also pay for two telephone calls for each of you. Again, sorry for the inconvenience, folks. Mother Nature isn’t in a very good mood tonight.”

  Fleming did his best to visualize a map of the United States, trying to recall where Jackson, Mississippi, was. He seemed to recall it was south of Memphis, about half-way between Memphis and New Orleans. Or was that Little Rock? Was Mississippi farther east? In an hour or so, he would know, and he wanted to console himself with that.

  “Weather permitting,” the captain’s voice sounded again suddenly, “we will fly to Memphis at nine tomorrow morning. Please be at the airport by eight-thirty. We will have a bus from the hotel available.”

  Fleming signaled to the stewardess. “Is there some reason we must return to the airplane tomorrow?”

  “Well, sir, you paid for your ticket and we’re obligated to take you to your destination.”

  “But what if I don’t want to wait all night to get there? Perhaps I could rent an auto, and—” Fleming suggested.

  “You would have to sign a waiver, and frankly, I think anyone out on the roads in weather like this is going to run into trouble,” she said, strict as a schoolteacher. “You think it over, sir. If the weather is bad enough to keep planes out of the sky, then it’s probably a good idea not to travel in it.”

  “I’ll think it over,” said Fleming, wondering how he could find out about road conditions south of Jackson. He realized he would also need to look at a map; he had plans to change.

  Chapter 22

  IT WAS a miserable night in Jackson: persistent, wind-driven rain thrashed the roads, tossing tree limbs about and drenching everything. Water splashed up over the running-boards of the few vehicles on the road, and left wakes behind them. The bus that carried Fleming and the other passengers into town had leaky windows and a bus driver who was nursing a ferocious cold. Everyone on the bus was annoyed and inconvenienced, so there was little conversation until they pulled up in front of the Magnolia Hotel, an old, colonnaded wooden structure of a style now a century out of fashion, where Negro bell-boys hurried out to unload the luggage from the bays under the passenger cabin.

  Arriving at the registration desk a bit after half-nine, Fleming asked about auto rentals and was told that the rental desk off the lobby wouldn’t open until morning. The clerk then repeated all the admonitions the stewardess had delivered, and recommended Fleming take the night to think about it.

  “May I make a telephone call?” Fleming asked.

  “Sorry. The phone lines are down.” The accent was strong but comprehensible. “We probably won’t have service until some time tomorrow, if the storm lets up. We could lose the lights.” The registration clerk shrugged. “It’s no different all the way to the Gulf.”

  “That seems pretty wide-spread. Is the storm really so severe?” Fleming had been through a few Caribbean storms and knew how devastating they could be, but he had not considered what a bad blow could do to southern America. “How wide-spread can it be?”

  “Seems like it goes from the Gulf to Missouri, or so the news said before they stopped broadcasting,” said the clerk. “I put you in room 313. That’s on the third floor, to the left of the elevator.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming, abandoning his questions and taking the proffered key. He carried his own luggage, and earned a covert frown from the bell-boys.

  The elevator was operated by a middle-aged Negro in a hotel uniform. He asked the room number and started the cabin moving upward so creakily that Fleming wasn’t convinced they would arrive at their destination before morning.

  Leaving the elevator, Fleming felt a distinct sense of relief. Looking both ways along the corridor, he saw illuminated signs for stairs at both ends, and told himself that he would have to be careful, since anyone could come up the stairs virtually unnoticed; he would block his door if he could. He was making his way along the corridor and had just reached his room when the lights flickered and went out. Fleming swore, and heard other outbursts from behind closed doors. The darkness in the hallway was the more intense for its suddenness, looming and engulfing. Fleming told himself he was tired and letting his imagination run wild. He longed for a torch to light his way as he felt for the lock and managed to let himself into his dark room. One hand extended in front of him, the other holding his bags, he touched the wall and used it to guide him into the room. He knocked against the luggage rack, and continued on, finding a dresser, a closet door, three curtained windows, and, finally, a bed. He put his luggage on the bed and sat down next to it, feeling discouraged for the first time since he began his journey.

  Some while later, there was a knock at the door. “House staff, sir,” said a well-modulated voice. “I have a branch of candles for you.”

  Fleming was delighted to hear this. He got up and went to open the door, hesitating at the last moment. “House staff?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re bringing candles to all the rooms, sir.” The voice was calm and sensible.

  Chiding himself for being a fool, Fleming opened the door, and faced a Negro with a rolling cart filled with five-branch candelabra, all of them lit. “Very good,” he approved.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the Negro. “I’ll be back shortly with a few more candles, in case yours burn down.” He handed Fleming a candelabrum and accepted a fifty-cent tip with good grace. “Very nice of you, sir.” Then he moved on to the next room.

  Fleming took the candelabrum and set it on the broad headboard, letting its pleasant illumination shine down on him as he opened his luggage. He decided to have another look through Sir William’s files, for in candlelight, he could not make out the reduced pages in the Los Alamos report. As he set to work, he had a quick, disturbing thought: no one knows where I am. This seemed troublesome and exciting at once, for it could mean he was no longer being followed. When the bell-boy returned, he took the extra candles and went back to work. He banished his worries and set to reading, Sir William’s files spread out on the bed around him. As he struggled to read in the soft candle-glow, the rigors of the long day caught up with him, and he gradually drifted off to sleep.

  His own coughing awakened him sometime later. There was smoke in the room, though none of Fleming’s candles—two of which had guttered—was the cause of it. Quickly he gathered up the papers, shoved them into the files, stuffed them into his luggage, grabbed it up, and rushed for the door. He could hear shouts of disorder in the corridor, and somewhere far below, a steady clang was sounding. Throwing his door open, Fleming rushed into the hallway, and blinked against the billows of smoke. The only light in the hallway was supplied by candles, and just a few of them, so that it was all but impossible to see any distance along the corridor in the steadily increasing smoke.

  Someone in a bathrobe shoved past him, shouting, “It’s on the floor below. We gotta get out of here!”

  A woman shrieked, and Fleming could hear her sobbing. He paused. “Are you in need of help, ma’am?”

  “I’m scared of fire,” the woman’s voice wailed.