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"Man, you must carry some kind of heavy weight."
"My boss knows all the right people. Don't take your eyes off Sirloin."
Hagen lifted the lid of an expensive picnic basket from Abercrombie & Fitch and pried open a can of goose liver path. Then he poured the wine and returned to listening in on the conversation ahead.
There was no doubt that Leonard Hudson was one of the men in the van. And Gunnar Eriksen was mentioned by his first name. But the identity of the third man remained a mystery.
Hagen was dogged by an unknown. Eight men of the "inner core" were accounted for, but number nine was still lost in the fog. The men in the van were heading. . . where? What kind of facility housed the headquarters for the Jersey Colony project? A dumb name, the Jersey Colony. What was the significance? Some connection with the state of New Jersey? There must be something that could be comprehended, that might explain how none of the information on the establishment of the moon base ever came to the attention of a high government official. Someone with more power than Hudson or Eriksen had to be the key. The last name on the "inner core" list perhaps.
"This is Porterhouse. Sirloin has turned northeast onto Rhode Island Avenue."
"I copy," answered Hagen.
He spread a map of the District of Columbia on the table and unfolded a map of Maryland. He began tracing a line with a red grease pencil, extending it as they crossed from the District into Prince Georges County. Rhode Island Avenue became U.S. Highway 1 and swung north toward Baltimore.
"Got any idea where they're heading?" asked the driver.
"Not the slightest," replied Hagen. "Unless. . ." he muttered under his breath. The University of Maryland. Not twelve miles from downtown Washington. Hudson and Eriksen would hang close to an academic institution to take advantage of the research facilities.
Hagen spoke into the mike. "Porterhouse, keep a sharp eye. Sirloin may be heading for the university."
"Understood, T-bone."
Five minutes later the van turned off the highway and passed through the small city of College Park.
Then after about a mile it pulled into a large shopping center, anchored on both ends by well known department stores. The several acres of parking space were filled with shoppers' cars. All conversation had died inside the van, and Hagen was caught off guard.
"Damn!" Hagen swore.
"Porterhouse," came the voice of the helicopter pilot.
"I read you."
"Sirloin just pulled under a big projection in front of the main entrance. I have no visual contact."
"Wait until he appears again," ordered Hagen, "and then stay on his tail." He rose from the table and stepped behind the driver. "Pull up on his ass."
"I can't. There are at least six cars between him and me."
"Did anybody get out and enter the stores?"
"Hard to tell in the crush of people. But it looked like two, maybe three heads ducked out of the van."
"Did you get a good look at the guy who was picked up in town?" asked Hagen.
"Gray hair and beard. Thin, about five nine. Turtleneck, tweed coat, brown pants. Yeah, I'd recognize him."
"Circle the parking lot and watch for him. He and his pals may be switching cars. I'm going inside the shopping mall."
"Sirloin is moving," announced the helicopter pilot.
"Stick with him, Porterhouse," said Hagen. "I'm going off the air for a while."
"I read you."
Hagen jumped out of the camper and rushed through the crowd of shoppers into the interior mall. It was like looking for three needles hidden inside a straw in a haystack. He knew what Hudson looked like, and he had obtained photographs of Gunnar Eriksen, but either one or both might still be in the van.
Frantically he rushed from store to store, searching the faces, staring at any male head that showed above the mob of female shoppers. Why did it have to be a weekend, he thought. He could have shot a cannon through the mall at this early hour on a weekday and not hit anybody. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, he went outside and stopped the camper.
