"So he didn't enter South America until after the war."
"No, in the summer of 1916, he stepped off the boat at Georgetown, in what was then British Guiana.
It seems some hotshot in the British treasury got the bright idea of sending out expeditions around the world to find and open gold mines to finance the war. Sigler was recalled from the front and ordered into the South American interior."
"You think he knew the monk's story?" Pitt asked.
"Nothing in his diaries or papers indicates he ever believed in a lost city. The guy was no wild-eyed treasure hunter. He was after raw minerals. Historic artifacts never interested him. Are you hungry, Dirk?"
"Yes, come to think of it. I was cheated out of dinner."
"We're long past the dinner hour, but if we ask nice I'm sure the kitchen can rustle up some appetizers."
O'Meara gestured for the barmaid and after pleading his case persuaded her to serve them a platter of shrimp with cocktail sauce.
"Hits the spot," said Pitt.
"I could eat these little devils all day long," O'Meara agreed. "Now, where were we?"
"Sigler was about to find La Dorada."
"Oh, yes. After forming a party of twenty men, mostly British soldiers, Sigler plunged into the uncharted wilds. For months, nothing was heard of them. The British began to sense disaster and sent out several search parties, but none found a trace of the missing men. At last, nearly two years later, an American expedition, surveying for a railroad, stumbled upon Sigler five hundred miles northeast of Rio de Janeiro. He was alone, the only survivor."
"Seems like an incredible distance from British Guiana."
"Almost two thousand miles from his jump-off point as the crow flies."
"What kind of shape was he in?"
"More dead than alive, according to the engineers who found him. They carried Sigler to a village that had a small hospital and sent off a message to the nearest American consulate. A few weeks later a relief party arrived from Rio."
"American or British?"
"An odd twist there," answered O'Meara. "The British consulate claimed they were never notified of Sigler's reappearance. Gossip had it that the American consul general himself showed up to question him.
Whatever happened, Sigler dropped from sight. The story is he escaped from the hospital and wandered back into the jungle."
"Doesn't figure that he'd turn his back on civilization after two years of hell," said Pitt.
O'Meara shrugged. "Who can say?"
"Did Sigler give an account of his expedition before he disappeared?"
"Raved in delirium most of the time. Witnesses said afterward that he babbled about finding a huge city surrounded by steep cliffs and overgrown by jungle. His description pretty much matched the Portuguese monk's. He also drew a rough sketch of the golden woman that was saved by a nurse and now lies in Brazil's national library. I had a look at it while researching another project. The real thing must be an awesome sight."
"So it remains buried in the jungle."
"Ah, there's the rub," sighed O'Meara. "Sigler claimed he and his men stole the statue and dragged it twenty miles to a river, fighting off the Zanona Indians the whole trip. By the time they built a raft, heaved La Dorada on board, and pushed off, there were only three of them left. Later one died of his injuries and the other was lost in a stretch of rapids."
Pitt was fascinated by what O'Meara was telling him, but he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. "The obvious question is, where did Sigler stash the golden woman?"
"If I only knew," replied O'Meara.
"Didn't he give a clue?"
"The nurse thought he said the raft came apart and the statue dropped into the river a few hundred yards from where the surveyors' party found him. But don't get your hopes up. He was muttering nonsense. Treasure hunters have been dragging metal detectors up and down that river for years without a reading a tick."
Pitt swirled the ice cubes around inside his glass. He knew, he knew what happened to Ralph Morehouse Sigler and La Dorada.
"The American consul general," Pitt said slowly, "he was the last person to see Sigler alive?"
"The puzzle gets cloudy at this point, but as near as anyone can tell, the answer is yes."
"Let me see if I can fill in the pieces. This took place in January and February of 1918. Right?"
O'Meara nodded, and then he gave Pitt a queer stare.
"And the consul general's name was Alfred Gottschalk, who died a few weeks later on the Cyclops.
Right?"
"You know this?" said O'Meara, his eyes uncomprehending.
"Gottschalk probably heard of Sigler's mission through his counterpart at the British consulate. When he received the message from the railroad surveyors that Sigler was alive, he kept the news to himself and headed into the interior, hoping to interview the explorer and steal a jump on the British by turning over any valuable information to his own government. What he learned must have shattered any code of ethics he still retained. Gottschalk decided to grab the bonanza for himself.
"He found and raised the golden statue from the river and then transported it, along with Sigler, to Rio de Janeiro. He covered his tracks by buying off anyone who might talk about Sigler, and, if my guess is correct, killing off the men who helped him recover the statue. Then, using his influence with the Navy, he smuggled them both on board the Cyclops. The ship was lost and the secret died with her."
O'Meara's eyes deepened in curious interest. "Now that," he said, "you can't possibly know."
"Why else would LeBaron be looking for what he thought was La Dorada?"
"You make a good case," O'Meara admitted. "But you left the door open to a moot question. Why didn't Gottschalk simply kill Sigler after he found the statue? Why keep the Englishman alive?"
"Elementary. The consul general was consumed by gold fever. He wanted La Dorada and the emerald city too. Sigler was the only person alive who could give him directions or lead him there."
"I like the way you think, Dirk. Your wild-assed theory calls for another drink."
"Too late, the bar's closed. I think they'd like us to leave so the help can get home to bed."
O'Meara mimicked a crestfallen expression. "That's one nice thing about primitive living. No hours, no curfew." He took a final swallow from his glass. "Well, what are your plans?"
"Nothing complicated," said Pitt, smiling. "I'm going to find the Cyclops."
>
The President was an early riser, awakening at about 6 A.M. and exercising for thirty minutes before showering and eating a light breakfast. In a ritual going back to the days soon after his honeymoon, he gently eased out of bed and quietly dressed while his wife slept on. She was a night person and could not force herself to rise before 7:30.
He slipped on a sweatsuit and then removed a small leather briefcase from a closet in the adjoining sitting room. After giving his wife a tender kiss on the cheek, he took the back stairway down to the White House gym beneath the west terrace.
The spacious room, containing a variety of exercise equipment, was empty except for a thick-bodied man who lay on his back bench pressing a set of weights. With each lift he grunted like a woman in childbirth. The sweat beaded from a round head that sprouted a thick mat of ivory hair styled in a short crewcut. The stomach was immense and hairy, the arms and legs protruding like heavy tree limbs. He had the look of a carnival wrestler long past his prime.
"Good morning, Ira," said the President. "I'm glad you could make it."
The fat man set the weight bar on a pair of hooks above his head, rose from the bench, and squeezed the President's hand. "Good to see you, Vince."
The President smiled. No bowing, no scraping, no greeting of "Mr. President." Tough, stoical Ira Hagen, he mused. The gritty old undercover agent never gave an inch to anybody.
"I hope you don't mind meeting like this."
Hagen uttered a coarse laugh that echoed off the gym walls. "I've b
een briefed in worse places."
"How's the restaurant business?"
"Showing a nice profit since we switched from continental gourmet to downhome American food.
Food costs were eating us alive. Twenty entrees with expensive sauces and herbs didn't cut it. So now we specialize in only five menu items the higher-class restaurants don't serve-- ham, chicken, fish casserole, stew, and meatloaf."
"You may have something," said the President. "I haven't bitten into a good meatloaf since I was a kid."
"Our customers go for it, especially since we retained the fancy service and intimate atmosphere. My waiters all wear tuxedos, candles on tables, stylish settings, food presented in a continental manner. And the best part is the diners eat faster, so there's a quicker turnover on tables."
"And you're breaking even on the food while taking a profit on the booze and wine, right?"
Hagen laughed again. "Vince, you're okay. I don't care what the news media say about you. When you're an old has-been politician look me up, and we'll open a chain of beaneries together."
"Do you miss criminal investigation, Ira?"
"Sometimes."
"You were the best undercover operative the justice Department ever had," the President said, "until Martha died."
"Gathering evidence on slime for the government didn't seem to matter anymore. Besides, I had three daughters to raise, and the demands of the job kept me away from home for weeks at a time."
"The girls doing all right?"
"Just fine. As you well know, all three of your nieces have happy marriages and presented me with five grandchildren."
"A pity Martha couldn't have seen them. Of my four sisters and two brothers, she was my favorite."
"You didn't fly me here from Denver on an Air Force jet just to talk old times," said Hagen. "What's going down?"
"Have you lost your touch?"
"Have you forgotten how to ride a bicycle?"
It was the President's turn to laugh. "Ask a stupid question. . ."
"The reflexes are a mite slower, but the gray matter still turns at a hundred percent."
The President tossed him the briefcase. "Digest this while I hike a couple of miles on the treadmill."
Hagen wiped his sweating brow with a towel and sat on a stationary bicycle, his bulk threatening to bend the frame. He opened the leather case and didn't look up from reading the contents until the President had walked 1.6 miles.
"What do you think?" the President asked finally.
Hagen shrugged, still reading. "Make a great pilot for a TV show. Closet funding, an impenetrable security veil, covert activity on an immense scale, an undetected moon base. The stuff H. G. Wells would have loved."
"Do you figure it's a hoax?"
"Let's say I want to believe it. What flag-waving taxpayer wouldn't? Makes our intelligence community look like deaf and blind mutants. But if it is a hoax, where's the motive?"
"Other than a grand scheme to defraud the government, I can't think of any."
"Let me finish reading. This last file is in longhand."
"My recollection of what was said on the golf course. Sorry about the chicken scratch, but I never learned to type."
Hagen stared at him questioningly. "You've told no one about this, not even your security council?"
"Perhaps I'm paranoid, but this `Joe' character slipped through my Secret Service cordon like a fox through a barnyard. And he claimed members of the ìnner core' were highly placed at NASA and the Pentagon. It stands to reason they've also penetrated the intelligence agencies and my White House staff as well."
Hagen studied the President's report of the golf course meeting intently, going back occasionally to check the Jersey Colony file. Finally he hoisted his body off the bicycle and sat on a bench, looking at the President.
"This photo blowup of a man sitting next to you in a golf cart. Is that Joe?"
"Yes. When returning to the clubhouse, I spotted a reporter from the Washington Post who had been photographing my golf game through a telescopic lens. I asked him to do me a favor and send an enlargement over to the White House so I could autograph it for my caddy."
"Good thinking." Hagen peered closely at the picture and then set it aside. "What do you want me to do, Vince?"
"Dig out the names of the ìnner core.' "
"Nothing else? No information or evidence on the Jersey Colony project?"
"When I know who they are," the President said in a dead voice, "they'll be rounded up and interrogated. Then we'll see how deep their tentacles reach."
"If you want my opinion, I'd pin a medal on every one of those guys."
"I may just do that," the President replied with a cold smile. "But not before I stop them from kicking off a bloody battle for the moon."
"So it adds up to a presidential cutout situation. You can't trust anyone in normal intelligence circles and you're hiring me to be your private field intelligence agent."
"Yes."
"What's my deadline?"
"The Russian spacecraft is set to land on the moon nine days from now. I need every hour I can steal to prevent a fight between their cosmonauts and our moon colonists that might spread into a space conflict that none of us could stop. The ìnner core' must be convinced to back off. I've got to have them under wraps, Ira, at least twenty-four hours before the Russians touch down."
"Eight days isn't much to find nine men."
The President gave a helpless shrug. "Nothing comes easy."
"A certificate saying I'm your brother-in-law won't be enough to pass me through legal and bureaucratic roadblocks. I'll require a concrete cover."
"I leave it to you to create one. An Alpha Two clearance should get you through most doors."
"Not bad," said Hagen. "The Vice President only carries a Three."
"I'll give you the number of a safe phone line. Report to me day or night. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Questions?"
"Raymond LeBaron, dead or alive?"
"Undecided. The wife refused to identify the body found in the blimp as his. She was right. I asked the FBI director, Sam Emmett, to take possession of the remains from Dade County, Florida. They're over at Walter Reed Army Hospital now, undergoing examination."
"Can I see the county coroner's report?"
The President shook his head in wonderment. "You never miss a trick, do you, Ira?"
"Obviously there had to be one."
"I'll see you get a copy."
"And the lab results at Walter Reed."
"That too."
Hagen stuffed the files back into the briefcase, but left out the photo from the golf course. He studied the images for perhaps the fourth time. "You realize, of course, Raymond LeBaron may never be found."
"I've considered that possibility."
"Nine little Indians. And then there were eight. . . make that seven."
"Seven?"
Hagen held up the photo in front of the President's eyes. "Don't you recognize him?"
"Frankly, no. But he did say we knew each other many years ago." "Our high school baseball team.
You played first base. I was left field and Leonard Hudson caught."
"Hudson!" The President gasped incredulously. "Joe is Leo Hudson. But Leo was a fat kid. Weighed at least two hundred pounds."
"He became a health nut. Lost sixty pounds and ran marathons. You were never sentimental about the old gang. I still keep track of them. Don't you remember? Leo was the school brain. Won all sorts of awards for his science projects. Later he graduated with honors at Stanford and became director of the Harvey Pattenden National Physics Laboratory in Oregon. Invented and pioneered rocket and space systems before anyone else was working in the field."
"Bring him in, Ira. Hudson is the key to the others."
"I'll need a shovel."
"You saying he's buried?"
"Like in dead and buried."
"When?"
"Back in 1965. A light-pl
ane crash in the Columbia River."
"Then who is Joe?"
"Leonard Hudson."
"But you said--"
"His body was never found. Convenient, huh?"
"He faked his death," the President said as if beholding a revelation. "The son of a bitch faked his death so he could go underground to ramrod the Jersey Colony project."
"A brilliant idea when you think about it. No one to answer to. No way he could be tied to a clandestine program. Disguise himself as any character who could be used to his advantage. A nonperson can accomplish far more than the average taxpayer whose name, birthmarks, and nasty habits are stored in a thousand computers."
There was a silence, then the President's grim voice "Find him, Ira. Find and bring Leonard Hudson to me before all hell breaks loose."
Secretary of State Douglas Oates peered through his reading glasses at the last page of a thirty-page letter. He closely examined the structure of each paragraph, trying to read between the lines. At last he looked up at his deputy secretary, Victor Wykoff.
"Looks genuine to me."
"Our experts on the subject think so too," said Wykoff. "The semantics, the rambling flow, the disjointed sentences, all fit the usual pattern."
"No denying it sounds like Fidel all right," Oates said quietly. "However, it's the tone of the letter that bothers me. You almost get the impression he's begging."
"I don't think so. More like he's trying to stress utmost secrecy with a healthy dose of urgency thrown in."
"The consequences of his proposal are staggering."
"My staff has studied it from every angle," said Wykoff. "Castro has nothing to gain from creating a hoax."