Burke shook his head, rather bemused. "I was there all right, but you've got a better memory than me. I don't remember you." The man's looks could have changed considerably in that amount of time, he realized.
"I wouldn't expect you to remember me. I was probably one of dozens you talked to that day. But I was really impressed. Here I was, a little old Louisiana boy, being interrogated by a real FBI man. I can say, happily, that's the only time I've had that experience."
Burke rummaged through his memory. "Seems like we finally turned up two boys who confessed."
"That's right. I didn't know either of them, fortunately. But that was exciting." He smiled at the thought, then wrenched his attention back to the present. "Say, I'm sorry about interrupting. Go ahead with what you were about to tell me."
"No problem. In fact, it'll probably save us some time, since you won't have to verify my background. The reason I'm here is kind of complicated, but basically this is the story. I was approached by a government agency, which must remain nameless, but it's defense related. They're concerned about activities going on at a weapons testing facility owned by one of their contractors. For reasons they chose not to explain, but doubtless having to do with security considerations, they didn't want to use their own people in the investigation. They hired me to check out this island off the Gulf Coast south of Apalachicola, Florida. They made it kind of tough on me, though, by not wanting to involve any of their own people or equipment."
McKenzie had been leaning back, obviously taking in every word, storing it for future retrieval. He must have had a mind that soaked up facts like a sponge, Burke surmised. Suddenly McKenzie leaned forward, planting his elbows amidst the piles of photographs, map sections and computer printouts on the desk. "So you want to shoot some aerial photos."
"Right. Only I don't have that kind of equipment."
McKenzie spread his hands. "Well, I expect we've got just about anything you could ask for. Should be no problem at all."
Burke made a cautionary gesture. "There's a little more to it than that. The island and five miles around it is restricted airspace, up to twenty-five thousand feet."
McKenzie tapped his fingers on the desk and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. "What's the name of the island?"
"Oyster Island."
"I've flown over the coast along there, but I don't recall a restricted area."
Burke looked surprised. "I saw it listed on something called a NOTAM."
"Aha! Notice to Airmen. I've got a file here." He reached into a cabinet beneath the desk and pulled out a folder, flipped it open and ran his finger down the sheet. "Yeah, here it is. This is a temporary restriction requested by a private firm. It's for the pilot's own protection to keep clear. But it's not the same as a military restricted area. They won't scramble the jets if we violate it."
"But we don't want to tip off the people on the ground what we're up to."
"I've got a camera I don't talk much about. I built it with the help of a friend who had worked on the U-2. It's a scaled down version, of course. Four-by-five format. It'll mount in my trusty old Cessna 182. We can tilt it up to forty-five degrees from vertical. If necessary, I can drop a wing and do a straight-ahead slip to get a sharper angle. But five miles would be a bit too far out." He took a pencil and started to draw a diagram. "Say we come in at five thousand feet altitude. Who the devil will know whether we're three or four or five miles away? Let's figure fifteen thousand feet horizontal, five thousand vertical." He reached for a small scientific calculator, pressed a few buttons. "That would give us a shooting range of sixteen thousand feet at an angle of about seventy degrees. Which translates to a twenty-five-degree bank. It'll be a little tricky, depending on the winds. I should be able to hold it long enough, though."
Burke had been lost way back there. He gave a slight shake of his head and inquired, "What kind of resolution could we expect?"
"I'm sure you've read what Kodak did with their new Tmax 3200 film."
"That deal where they pushed it to ASA 25000?"
"Right. They blew it up enough to read a license plate from about two blocks away. I've got some film I've been aiming to try out with that camera. Should give some spectacular results. Sounds like your deal would be just the right kind of test. We certainly ought to be able to tell you what's happening around that island. When do you need it?"
Burke squirmed in his chair. "Would you believe yesterday?"
McKenzie's laugh was one of resignation. "Why not? That's when everybody else wants it. I'm tied up tomorrow, and Wednesday morning. I could do it after that, weather permitting."
He turned to his computer and punched a few keys. Watching the screen, he typed in a few more characters. Then he hit the print command and the dot matrix printer began to buzz, sending paper rolling out the top. Tearing off the sheet, he swung around in his chair.
"There's some rain along the west coast of Florida, but it's moving east. Let's see, we have a front over southern Texas. It's due to move northeast. Should go west of here on up into Arkansas. Forecast looks good. If it holds up."
Chapter 33
New Orleans was a carnival almost any summer night, particularly in the loose confines of its quaint Vieux Carré. Burke's motel sat on the edge of the Quarter, and he could hear the shouts of the revelers and the plaintive, bluesy notes of the musicians as he crossed to the motel restaurant for dinner. He had chosen to stay close by to make certain he would not be late for "the appointed hour," as Lori chose to call it. Promptly at seven-twenty Central Daylight, he called the home of Sara Lawson. Lori answered.
"What do you tell your friends is going on?" he asked.
"Friends don't care," she said. "I just told them the phone was going to ring at eight-twenty, and I would answer it. Are you ready for Mr. Ingram?"
"Shoot."
"He is forty-eight years old, divorced, currently president of the Weapons Division of PWI. He's a protégé of Donald Newman, the PWI chairman, who has open sesame powers at just about any door in Washington. Ingram joined the Marines ROTC program in college, where he got his mechanical engineering degree. He served four years on active duty, including a tour in Vietnam. After Nam, he went to work for a company that designed and manufactured small arms for the military. He helped them branch out into light artillery. The company was bought out by PWI and Ingram moved up the ladder. He's been involved in aircraft armament, some phases of the missile industry and, lately, SDI."
"He's been a busy man."
"I also learned that Oyster Island is a facility of the PWI Weapons Division."
A light flashed in Burke's brain. "You didn't happen to learn whether he was in Berlin on May tenth?"
"You think he was, what did they call him, Joshua?"
"Right. He was to have the training camp ready. And he was the man with the 'device' and the 'birds.' My guess is the device would be a weapon of some sort, the birds whatever it shoots."
"I'll go along with that. The question is, what kind of weapon. How did you make out with Kevin McKenzie?"
He related his visit to Aerial Photomap.
"If you get the photos on Wednesday, you won't be any too soon," Lori said. "They're apparently leaving the island on Saturday."
"Yes, and I'm not at all sure the pictures will tell me everything I need to know. It may take a little nocturnal reconnaissance."
There was a pause while she digested that comment. "You're thinking about invading that island?" she asked.