THE COLORADANS

August 1987

Mel Dormer routinely checked the room for electronic eavesdropping equipment and set up the tape recorder. "This is a test for voice level." He spoke into the microphone without inflection. "One, two, three." He adjusted the controls for tone and volume, then nodded to Seagram.

"We're ready, Sid," Seagram said gently. "If it becomes tiring, just say so and we'll break off until tomorrow."

The hospital bed had been adjusted so that Sid Koplin sat nearly upright. The mineralogist appeared much improved since their last meeting. His color had returned and his eyes seemed bright. Only the bandage around his balding head showed any sign of injury. "I'll go until midnight," he said. "Anything to relieve the boredom. I hate hospitals. The nurses all have icy hands and the color on the goddamned TV is always changing."

Seagram grinned and laid the microphone in Koplin's lap. "Why don't you begin with your departure from Norway?"

"Very uneventful," Koplin said. "The Norwegian fishing trawler Godhawn towed my sloop to within two hundred miles of Novaya Zemlya as planned. Then the captain fed the condemned man a hearty meal of roast reindeer with goatcheese sauce, generously provided six quarts of aquavit, cast off the towhawser, and sent yours truly merrily on his way across the Barents Sea."

"Any weather problems?"

"None-your meteorological forecast held perfect. It was colder than a polar bear's left testicle, but I had fine sailing weather all the way." Koplin paused to scratch his nose. "That was a sweet little sloop your Norwegian friends fixed me up with. Was she saved?"

Seagram shook his head. "I'd have to check, but I'm certain it had to be destroyed. There was no way to take it on board the NUMA research vessel, and it couldn't be left to drift into the path of a Soviet ship. You understand." Koplin nodded sadly. "Too bad. I became rather attached to her."

"Please continue," Seagram said.

"I raised the north island of Novaya Zemlya late in the afternoon of the second day. I had been at the helm for over forty hours, dozing off and on, and I began to find it impossible to keep my eyes open. Thank God for the aquavit. After a few swigs, my stomach was burning like an out-of-control forest fire and suddenly I was wide awake."

"You sighted no other boats?"

"None ever showed on the horizon," Koplin answered. Then he went on, "The coast proved to be a seemingly unending stretch of rocky cliffs. I saw no point in attempting a landing-it was beginning to get dark. So I turned out to sea, hove to, and sneaked a few hours sleep. In the morning I skirted the cliffs until I picked out a small sheltered cover and then went in on the auxiliary diesel."

"Did you use your boat for a base camp?"

"For the next twelve days. I made two, sometimes three field trips a day on cross-country skis, prospecting before returning for a hot meal and a good night's rest in a warm

"Up to now, you had seen no one?"

"I kept well clear of the Kelva missile station and the Kama security post. I saw no sign of the Russians until the final day of the mission."

"How were you discovered?"

"A Russian soldier on patrol his dog must have crossed my trail and picked up my scent. Small wonder. I hadn't bathed in almost three weeks." Seagram dropped a smile. Donner picked up the questioning more coldly, aggressively "Let's get back to your field trips. What did you find?"

"I couldn't cover the whole island on cross-country skis, so I concentrated on the promising areas that had been pinpointed by the satellite computer printouts." He stared at the ceiling. "The north island; the outer continuation of the Ural and Yugorski mountain chains, a few rolling plains, plateaus, and mountains-most of which are under a permanent ice sheet. Violent winds much of the time. The chill factor is murderous. I found no vegetation other than some rock lichen. If there were any warm-blooded animals, they kept to themselves."

"Let's stick to the prospecting," Donner said, "and save the travel lecture for another time."

"Just laying the groundwork." Koplin shot Donner a disapproving stare, his tone icy. "If I may continue without interruption-"

"Of course," Seagram said. He pulled his chair strategically between the bed and Donner. "It's your game, Sid. We'll play by your rules."

"Thank you." Koplin shifted his body. "Geographically, the island is quite interesting. A description of the faulting and uplifting of rocks that were once sediments formed under an ancient sea could fill several textbooks. Mineralogically, the magmatic paragenesis is barren."

"Would you mind translating that?"

Koplin grinned. "The origin and geological occurrence of a mineral is called its paragenesis. Magma, on the other hand, is the source of all matter; a liquid rock heated under pressure which turns solid to form igneous rock, perhaps better known as basalt or granite."

"Fascinating," Donner said dryly. "Then what you're stating is that Novaya Zemlya is void of minerals."

"You are singularly perceptive, Mr. Donner," Koplin said.

"But how did you find traces of byzanium?" Seagram asked.

"On the thirteenth day, I was poking around the north slope of Bednaya Mountain and ran onto a waste dump."'

"Waste dump?"

"A pile of rocks that had been removed during the excavation of a mine shaft. This particular dump happened to have minute traces of byzanium ore." The expressions on his interrogators' faces suddenly went sober.

"The shaft entrance was cunningly obscured," Koplin continued. "It took me the better part of the afternoon to figure which slope it was on."

"One minute, Sid." Seagram touched Koplin's arm. "Are you saying the entrance to this mine was purposely concealed?"

"An old Spanish trick. The opening was filled until it was even with the natural slope of the hill."

"Wouldn't the waste dump have been on a direct line from the entrance?" Donner asked.

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But in this case they were spaced over a hundred yards apart, separated by a gradual arc that ran around the mountain's slope to the west."

"But you did discover the entrance?" Donner went on.

"The rails and ties for the ore cars had been removed and the track bed covered over, but I managed to trace its outline by moving off about fifteen hundred yards and studying the mountain's slope through binoculars. What you couldn't see when you were standing on top of it became quite clear from that distance. The exact location of the mine was then easy to determine."

"Who would go to all that trouble to hide an abandoned mine in the Arctic?" Seagram asked no one in particular. "There's no method or logic to it."

"You're only half right, Gene," Koplin said. "The logic, I fear, remains an enigma; but the method was brilliantly executed by professionals-Coloradans." The word came slowly, almost reverently. "They were the men who excavated the Bednaya Mountain mine. The muckers, the blasters, the jiggers, the drillers, the Cornishmen, the Irishmen, Germans, and Swedes. Not Russians, but men who emigrated to the United States and became the legendary hard-rock miners of the Colorado Rockies. How they came to be on the icy slopes of Bednaya Mountain is anybody's guess, but these were the men who came and mined the byzanium and then vanished into the obscurity of the Arctic." The sterile blankness of total incomprehension flooded Seagram's face. He turned to Dormer and was met by the same expression. "It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy."

" `Crazy'?" Koplin echoed. "Maybe, but no less true."

"You seem pretty confident," Donner muttered.

"Granted. I lost the tangible proof during my pursuit by the security guard; you have only my word on it, but why doubt it? As a scientist, I only report facts, and I have no devious motive behind a lie. So, if I were you, gentlemen, I would simply accept my word as genuine."

"As I said, it's your game." Seagram smiled faintly.

"You mentioned tangible evidence." Donner was calm and coldly efficient.

"After I penetrated the mine shaft-the loose rock came away in my hands, and I had only to scoop out a three-foot tunnel-the first thing my head collided with in the darkness was a string of ore cars. The strike of my fourth match illuminated an old pair of oil lamps. They both had fuel and lit on the third try." The faded blue eyes seemed to stare at something beyond the hospital room wall. "It was an unnerving scene that danced under the lamp's glow mining tools neatly stacked in their racks, empty ore cars standing on, rusting eight-gauge rails, drilling equipment ready to attack the rock-it was as though the mine was waiting for the incoming shift to sort the ore and run the waste to the dump."

"Could you say whether it looked as if someone left in a hurry?"

"Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I'd say the departure was very methodical.

"You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity," Donner said flatly.

"I'm coming to it now." Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side.

"The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado."

Seagram leaned back in his chair. "The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island."

"Possibly," Koplin said. "However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado."

"Such as?"

"The body in one of the bunks for one."

Seagram's eyes narrowed. "A body?"

"With red hair and a red beard," Koplin said casually. "Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who rose in a storm, February 10, 1912."'

Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed "A name that at least is a start." He stopped and looked at Koplin. "Were there any personal effects left lying around?"

"All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers 'Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties it to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the Rocky Mountain News, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost." Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.

"Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium," he said.

"There is one more thing," Koplin said quietly. "The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something."

"It might at that." Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. "Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us."

Donner nodded. "I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers."

"Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business." Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. "We owe you more than we can ever repay," he said softly.

"I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain," Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. "That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that when you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection."

"Consider it done."

"And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt."

"You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you."

"I mean the man who killed the Soviet patrol guard and his dog, and carried me off the island."

Donner and Seagram looked at each other thunderstruck.

Donner was the first to recover. "Killed a Soviet patrol guard!" It was more statement than question. "My God, that tears it!"

"But that's impossible!" Seagram finally managed to blurt. "When you rendezvoused with the NUMA ship, you were alone."

"Who told you that?"

"Well . . . no one. We naturally assumed--"

"I'm not Superman," Koplin said sarcastically. "The patrol guard picked up my trail, closed to within two hundred yards, and shot me twice. I was hardly in any condition to outrun a dog and then sail a sloop over fifty miles of open sea."

"Where did this Dirk Pitt come from`.'"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. The guard was literally dragging me off to his security post commander when Pitt appeared through the blizzard, like some vengeful Norse god, and calmly, as if he did it every day before breakfast, shot the dog and then the guard without so much as a how-do-you-do."

"The Russians will make propaganda hay with this." Donner groaned.

"How?" Koplin demanded. "There were no witnesses. The guard and his dog are probably buried under five feet of snow by now they may never be found. And if they are, so what? Who's to prove anything? You two are pushing the panic button over nothing."

"It was a hell of a risk on that character's part," Seagram said.

"Good thing he took it," Koplin muttered. "Or instead of me lying here safe and snug in my sterile hospital bed, I'd be lying in a sterile Russian prison spilling my guts about Meta Section and byzanium."

"You have a valid point," Donner admitted.

"Describe him," Seagram ordered. "Face, build, clothing, Koplin did so. His description was sketchy in some areas, but in others his recollection of detail was remarkably accurate.

"Did you talk with him during the trip to the NUMA

"Couldn't. I blacked out right after he picked me up and didn't come to until I found myself here in Washington in the hospital."

Donner gestured to Seagram. "We'd better get a make on this guy, quick." Seagram nodded. "I'll start with Admiral Sandecker. Pitt must have been connected with the research vessel. Perhaps someone in NUMA can identify him."

"I can't help wondering how much he knows," Dormer said staring at the floor. Seagram didn't answer. His mind had strayed to a shadowy figure on a snowcovered island in the Arctic. Dirk Pitt. He repeated the name in his mind. Somehow it seemed strangely familiar.

The telephone rang at 1210 A.M. Sandecker popped open one eye and stared at it murderously for several moments. Finally, he gave in and answered it on the eighth ring.

"Yes, what is it?" he demanded.

"Gene Seagram here. Admiral. Did I catch you in bed?"

"Oh, hell no." Sandecker yawned. "I never retire before I write five chapters on my autobiography, rob at least two liquor stores, and rape a cabinet member's wife. Okay, what are you after, Seagram?"

"Something has come up."

"Forget it. I'm not endangering any more of my men and ships to bail your agents out of enemy territory." He used the word enemy as though the country were at war.

"It's not that at all."

"Then what?"

"I need a line on someone."

"Why come to me in the dead of night?"

"I think you might know him."

"What's the name?"

"Pitt. Dirk. The last name is Pitt, probably spelled P-i-t-t."

"Just to humor an old man's curiosity, what makes you think I know him?"

"I have no proof, but I'm certain he has a connection with I NUMA."

"I have over two thousand people under me. I can't memorize all their names."

"Could you check him out? It's imperative that I talk to him."

"Seagram," Sandecker grunted irritably, "you're a monumental pain in the ass. Did it ever occur to you to call my personnel director during normal working hours?"

"My apologies," Seagram said. "I happened to be working late and-"

"Okay, if I dig up this character, I'll have him get in touch with you."

"I'd appreciate it." Seagram's tone remained impersonal. "By the way, the man your people rescued up in the Barents Sea is getting along nicely. The surgeon on the First Attempt did a magnificent job of bullet removal."

"Koplin, wasn't it?"

"Yes, he should be up and around in a few days."

"That was a near thing, Seagram. If the Russians had cottoned onto us, we'd have a nasty incident on our hands about now."

"What can I say?" Seagram said helplessly.

"You can say good night and let me get back to sleep," Sandecker snarled.

"But first, tell me how this Pitt figures into the picture."

"Koplin was about to be captured by a Russian security guard when this guy appears out of a blizzard and kills the guard, carries Koplin across fifty miles of stormy water, not to mention stemming the blood flow from his wounds, arid somehow deposits him on board your research vessel, ready for surgery."

"What do you intend to do when you find him?"

"That's between Pitt and myself."

"I see," Sandecker said. "'Well, good night, Mr. Seagram."

"Thank you, Admiral. Good-by."

Sandecker hung up and then sat there a few moments, a bemused expression on his face. "Killed a Russian security guard and rescued an American agent. Dirk Pitt . . . you sly son of a bitch."

United's early flight touched down at Denver's Stapleton Airfield at eight in the morning. Mel Dormer passed quickly through the baggage claim and settled behind the wheel of an Avis Plymouth for the fifteen-minute drive to 400 West Colfax Avenue and the Rocky Mountain News. As he followed the westbound traffic, his gaze alternated between the windshield and a street map stretched open beside him on the front seat.

He had never been in Denver before, and he was mildly surprised to see a pall of smog hanging over the city. He expected to be confronted with the dirty brown and gray cloud over places like Los Angeles and New York, but Denver had always conjured up visions in his mind of a city cleansed by crystal clean air, nestled under the protective shadow of Purple Mountain Majesties. Even these were a disappointment; Denver sat naked on the edge of the Great Plains, at least twenty-five miles from the nearest foothills.

He parked the car and found his way to the newspaper's library. The girl behind the counter peered back at him through tear-shaped glasses and smiled an uneven-toothed, friendly smile.

"Can I help you?"

"Do you have an issue of your paper dated November 17, 1911?"

"Oh my, that does go back." She twisted her lips. "I can give you a photocopy, but the original issues are at the State Historical Society."

"I only need to see page three."

"If you care to wait, it'll take about fifteen minutes to track down the film of November 17, 1911, and run the page you want through the copy machine."

"Thank you. By the way, would you happen to have a business directory for Colorado?"

"We certainly do." She reached under the counter and laid a booklet on the smudged plastic top.

Donner sat down to study the directory as the girl disappeared to search out his request. There was no listing of a Guthrie and Sons Foundry in Pueblo. He thumbed to the T's. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.

The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn't returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he'd heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.

"Here you are, sir," the girl said. "That'll be fifty cents." Donner paid and quickly scanned the headline in the upper-right-hand corner of the old newsprint's reproduction. The article covered a mine disaster.

"Is it what you were looking for?" the girl asked.

"It will have to do," he said as he walked away.

Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the BurlingtonNorthern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Dormer's eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind soundproofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.

An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young; no more than twenty-eight and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn't see him as anything else.

"Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen." Jensen smiled guardedly. "It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?"

"As I mentioned over the telephone, I'm checking on some old records." Jensen's smile thinned. "You're not from the Internal Revenue, I hope." Donner shook his head. "Nothing like that. The government's interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I'd like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911."

"You're putting me on." Jensen laughed.

"I assure you, it's a straight request."

Jensen stared at him blankly. "Are you sure you've got the right company?"

"I am," Dormer said brusquely, "if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks."

"My great-grandfather's old outfit," Jensen admitted.

"My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942 "

"Would you still have any of the old records?"

Jensen shrugged. "We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we'd saved every receipt of sale since great granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we'd need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them." Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.

"However," Jensen continued, "and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr, we have all our past records down on microfilm."

"Microfilm?"

"The only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that's us."

Dormer couldn't believe his luck. "Then you can provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?"

Jensen didn't answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. "While we wait, can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Dormer?"

"I'd prefer something with a little more snap."

"Spoken like a man from the big city." Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. "You'll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals' idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-oftown customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue." Donner took the offered glass and downed it.

Jensen looked at him appraisingly and then refilled the glass. "Tell me, Mr. Donner, just what is it you expect to find?"

"Nothing of importance," Dormer said.

"Come now. The government wouldn't send a man across half the country to itemize seventy-six-year-old sales records strictly for laughs."

"The government often handles its secrets in a funny way."

"A classified secret that goes back to 1911?" Jensen shook his head in wonder. "Truly amazing."

"Let's just say we're trying to solve an ancient crime whose perpetrator purchased your great-grandfather's services."

Jensen smiled and courteously accepted the lie.

A black-haired girl in long skirt and boots swiveled into the room, threw Jensen a seductive look, laid a Xerox paper on his desk, and retreated. Jensen picked up the paper and examined it. "June to November must have been a recession year for my ancestor. Sales for those months were slim. Any particular entry you're interested in, Mr. Dormer?"

"Mining equipment."

"Yes, this must be it . . . drilling tools. Ordered August tenth and picked up by the buyer on November first." Jensen's lips broke into a wide grin. "It would seem, sir, the laugh is on you."

"I don't follow."

"The buyer, or as you've informed me, the criminal . . ." Jensen paused for effect ". . . was the U.S. government."

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."

"Is that your last record of him?"

"No, his widow is still drawing a pension-"

"Hold on," Seagram interrupted. "Hobart's widow is still living?"

"She cashes her fifty dollars and forty cents' pension check every month, like clockwork."

"She must be over ninety years old. Isn't that a little unusual, paying a pension to the widow of a Spanish American War veteran? You'd think most of them would be pushing up tombstones by now."

"Oh hell no, we still carry nearly a hundred Civil War widows on the pension rolls. None were even born when Grant took Richmond. May and December marriages between sweet young things and old toothless Grand Army of the Republic vets were quite ordinary in those days."

"I thought a widow was eligible for pension only if she was living at the time her husband was killed in battle."

"Not necessarily," McPatrick said. "The government pays widows' pensions under two categories. One is for service-oriented death. That, of course, includes death in battle, or fatal sickness or injury inflicted while serving between certain required dates as set by Congress. The second is nonservice death. Take yourself, for example. You served with the Navy during the Vietnam War between the required dates set for that particular conflict. That makes your wife, or any future wife, eligible for a small pension should you be run over by a truck forty years from now."

"I'll make a note of that in my will," Seagram said, uneasy in the knowledge that his service record was where any desk jockey in the Pentagon could lay his hands on it. "Getting back to Hobart."

"Now we come to an odd oversight on the part of Army records."

"Oversight?"

"Hobart's service forms fail to mention re-enlistment, yet he is recorded as

`died in the service of his country.' No mention of the cause, only the date . . . November 17, 1911."

Seagram suddenly straightened in his chair. "I have it on good authority that Jake Hobart died a civilian on February 10, 1912."

"Like I said, there's no mention of cause of death. But I assure you, Hobart died a soldier, not a civilian, on November 17. I have a letter in his file dated July 25, 1912, from Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War under President Taft, ordering the Army to award Sergeant Jason Hobart's wife full widow's pension for the rest of her natural life. How Hobart rated the personal interest of the Secretary of War is a mystery, but it leaves little doubt of our man's status. Only a soldier in high standing would have received that kind of preferential treatment, certainly not a coal miner."

"He wasn't a coal miner," Seagram snapped.

"Well, whatever."

"Do you have an address for Mrs. Hobart?"

"I have it here somewhere." McPatrick hesitated a moment. "Mrs. Adeline Hobart, 261-B Calle Aragon, Laguna Hills, California. She's in that big senior citizens development down the coast from L.A."

"That about covers it," Seagram said. "I appreciate your help in this matter, Major."

"I hate to say this, Mr. Seagram, but I think we've got two different men here."

"I think perhaps you're right," Seagram replied. "It looks as though I might be on the wrong track."

"If I can be of any further help, please don't hesitate to call me."

"I'll do that," Seagram grunted. "Thanks again." After he hung up, he dropped his head in his hands and slouched in the chair. He sat that way not moving for perhaps two full minutes. Then he laid his hands on the desk and smiled a wide, smug grin.

Two different men very well could have existed with the same surname and birth year who worked in the same state at the same occupation. That part of the puzzle might have been a coincidence. But not the connection, the glorious 365to-l long shot connection that mysteriously tied the two men together and made them one; Hobart's recorded death and the old newspaper found by Sid Koplin in the Bednaya Mountain mine bore the same date November 17, 1911. He pushed the intercom switch for his secretary. "Barbara, put through a call to Mel Dormer at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver."

"Any message if he isn't in?"

"Just leave word for him to call me on my private line when he returns."

"Shall do."

"And one more thing, book me on United's early morning flight tomorrow to Los Angeles."

"Yes, sir."

He clicked the switch to off and leaned back in the chair thoughtfully. Adeline Hobart, over ninety years old. He hoped to God she wasn't senile. Donner didn't normally stay in a downtown hotel. He preferred the more inconspicuous setting of a garden variety motel closer to the suburbs, but Seagram had insisted on the grounds that local cooperation comes more easily to an investigator when he lets it be known that he has a room in the city's oldest and most prestigious building. Investigator, the word nauseated him. If one of his fellow professors on the University of Southern California campus had told him five years ago that his doctorate in physics would lead him to play such a clandestine role, he'd have choked laughing. Donner wasn't laughing now. The Sicilian Project was far too vital to the country's interests to risk a leak through outside help. He and Seagram had designed and created the project on their own, and it was agreed that they'd take it as far as they could alone. He left his rented Plymouth with the parking attendant and walked across Tremont Place, through the hotel's old-fashioned revolving doors, and into the pleasantly ornate lobby, where the young mustachioed assistant manager gave him a message without so much as a smile. Donner took it without so much as a thank you, then made his way to the elevators and his room.

He slammed the door and threw the room key and Seagram's message on the desk and turned on the television. It had been a long and tiresome day, and his bodily systems were still operating on Washington, D.C. time. He dialed room service and ordered dinner, then kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and sagged onto the bed.

For perhaps the tenth time he began going over the photocopy of the old newspaper page. It made very interesting reading; if, that is, Donner's interest lay in advertisements for piano tuners, electric belts for rupture, and strange malady remedies, along with editorials on the Denver City Council's determination to clear such-and-such street of sinful houses of entertainment, or intriguing little inserts guaranteed to make feminine readers of the early 1900s gasp in innocent horror.