across the cavern to the receiving flatcars. There were ten crates, and in twenty minutes they were loaded and the switch engine backed slowly out of the cavern with its precious cargo, the door closing behind it. Ten men pushed the hydraulic lifters back into the darkness, the port wall shimmered green, and was transparent again.
Nobody noticed that eleven men had come in with the lifters.
The cranes moved back into their resting positions in the corners of the cavern, the operators descending in one-man elevators in clear plastic tubes and joining the rest of the receiving crew. A military flatbed truck came to get them and drove them out of the cavern along an open tunnel curving out of sight near the train tracks.
High above the floor, a long window looked out onto the port wall. Figures moved there. The lights in the cavern went out, leaving only the star-like flickers of blue behind the port. The light behind the window went out. Silence descended on the cavern, and remained there for several minutes.
Suddenly, a red light bloomed by the port wall. The light was carried by a man who went straight to one of the elevators, and lifted himself to the control cabin of a crane. An electric engine whirred, and the crane’s great lifting hook was lowered to the floor. The man descended from the cab, went to the hook. A second light flared, this one white and hot, and the man played it over the crane’s lifting cable at a single spot for only a few seconds. He ascended the elevator again, and the crane’s hook was lifted back to its resting position. The electric engine ceased to whir. Again there was only the red light as the man came down the elevator and went back to stand at the port wall. The red light flicked out. Blackness and silence returned to the cavern, but not for long.
The port wall suddenly shimmered green, and then blue and red as it soundlessly rolled upwards. The silhouette of the man was briefly visible before the port closed again, and the man was gone.
The cavern was empty again.
CHAPTER THREE
ERIC PRICE
It wasn’t as if he’d planned to come home early, a trick to catch Jenny doing what he knew she’d been doing for months. No, the assignment had come out of the blue, and he had a late afternoon plane, and some things to pack for cold weather where he was going, so he caught a cab home and there was the guy’s Mercedes sitting right in front of the house. He let himself in with the stealth of his profession and went up the stairs without a sound, past Gia’s bedroom, their little girl, their love-child, down the hall to the master-bedroom and half-opened door and sounds of rising pleasure, and there they were, tangled in the sheets, humping and grinding and moaning, and he slammed the door back on its hinges and they freaked.
Jenny screamed, and the guy came out of her, pop, like a cork out of a bottle, and his eyes were the size of poker chips. Eric smiled, pulled the Smith-forty-five from his shoulder holster and pointed it at the sweating couple. “Now,” he said, “The only question is, which one of you do I kill first?”
Jenny burst into tears and was pleading with him to understand; the guy just babbled and frothed at the mouth. Eric went ahead and shot both of them, Jenny first, then the guy, right in the forehead, and their blood sprayed over the wall from floor to ceiling. But when he paused to admire his handiwork there was a shrill scream from behind him, and when he turned there was Gia in her teddy bear pajamas, Annie-doll clutched tightly, and she shouted, “You didn’t have to kill mommy! You’re a bad daddy! I’ll never speak to you again. Never, never, never!” She ran back to her room and slammed the door behind her.
And Eric Price finally awoke.
He awoke sweating, and disgusted with himself. The bedcover was on the floor, and the sheets were a twisted mess around his legs. He untangled himself, got his feet on the floor, put his head in his hands and sat that way for a minute, coming back to reality. No, he hadn’t killed Jenny, but a part of him still thought about doing it. There’d been no surprising a happy couple in bed. He’d simply come home from a three-month assignment in Bulgaria to find a house empty except for his clothes and a few personal things and a note lying on the floor by the front door.
You’re never here, and you don’t care about us. I’ve found someone who does. My lawyer will contact you. Jenny.
Seventeen years ago.
The dream disgusted him, the product of a brain-part he despised, the part that hated and plotted and killed. It was not Eric Price, not now, not at this moment. It was an evil, rancid thing, deep inside, but alert to anything that threatened or abused him.
He knew what had triggered the dream again. The day-old memory instantly brought an ache to his chest, a constriction in the throat, a burning in the eyes. A phone call while he was gone, the message left by a daughter who had refused contact with him for seventeen years.
Daddy, this is Gia. Mom will be furious if she finds out I called you, so please don’t tell her. I’m getting married in two weeks. Michael is giving me away, of course. Mom insisted on that. You probably don’t care, but I’m letting you know anyway. Maybe someday things can be different between us, but not now, so I’m not inviting you to the wedding. I don’t feel good about that; I guess that’s why I’m calling. But I missed you again. You’re just never there, daddy. You never were. Bye.
Eric wiped his eyes dry, then showered and dressed for the day. Breakfast was toast with peanut butter, and coffee. The limousine arrived for him at nine. He got in, and never saw his driver. The windows were totally blackened, but his trained mind followed the turns and measured the distances by instinct as they drove out into the Virginia countryside. Later, if required to, he would be able to locate the meeting place within a mile or two, but it was unlikely that Gil would ever use the place again.
One hundred and thirty four minutes later the car slowed, then stopped. A man wearing a black suit with a power tie opened the door. The loosely fitting suit failed to hide the bulk of a shoulder holster from an experienced eye. “Follow me, please,” said the man.
They were in a garage of concrete with a steel-baffle door already closed and a personnel door to one side. They went through it into what looked like a private residence with Georgian furnishings in dark woods and brass. The windows were covered with blinds, and lights were on. Gil sat on a couch in a lushly furnished front room, and several files lay open on a glass-topped coffee table. A silver tray was there with a press-down coffee server, and two glass mugs.
“Morning,” said Gil, and patted the sofa where Eric should sit.
Eric sat. “Nice place.”
“Borrowed from a friend,” said Gil. “Pour yourself coffee if you want it. We’ll be having lunch in an hour. This won’t take long, and you can do most of your reading on the plane. There’ll be a two week prep period in Phoenix before you go into the field.”
“I thought this was for data analysis.”
“It is, but it’s also a cover for something deeper. You’ll be living in town, so you need a cover, and that’s what the prep is about. You’re going to be an art dealer.”
“What?”
“Sedona is an art center. You’re getting a crash course in contemporary art represented there. You work out of your home, connected to galleries all over the country. You’re going to have an active social life.”
“Why can’t I work at the base? This is a military problem, not civilian.”
“The man we have there now thinks otherwise. He thinks there are
