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"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."
