“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, A-my Records Bureau. You asked me 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 Hobart. 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.”

“When was he discharged?”

“They call it `mustering out’ in those days,” McPatrick said knowledgeably. “Hobart left the Army in October of 1901.”