"Sure did. He's a real tiger. It's a good thing I didn't try any funny stuff with him. One thing I learned is that he hates Giles and Petrovsky, blames them for his fiancee's death."
"I'd forgotten about that. I believe it was mentioned in the papers right after she died."
"What have you heard from Lori? Did she convince the Judge?"
"I really don't know," Brackin said. "She hasn't called yet. Why don't you check back with me in an hour or two."
"I'm catching a plane to New Orleans shortly. I'll call when I get down there."
Burke checked his watch. He still had a little time to waste. Recalling the years he had been assigned to the Memphis Field Office, he wondered if any former Bureau friends might yet be around. His old Special Agent in Charge there, Frederick Young, was his all-time favorite FBI person, a man with both the ample dimensions and the pleasant demeanor of Santa Claus. Due to his size and weight — Burke had frowned on it, but some of the agents had called him Fat Freddie — Young often found himself in J. Edgar Hoover's doghouse. Burke called the office and asked for the SAC.
"Burke Hill, son of a gun. This is Pete Crowley. I was in New York when you were. Boy, that's ancient history. What are you up to?"
He remembered Crowley as a plodding, lackluster agent. Always took his time, usually got the job done but made no waves. Now he was a Special Agent in Charge. He had either changed over the years, or that was the type they sought for SACs nowadays.
"I was at the airport, just passing through town, Pete. Thought I'd call and see if anybody was still there I knew. What ever happened to Freddie Young?"
"Fat Freddie? He's been retired about five years. Worked for the phone company in Nashville awhile. I think he lives back here now."
Burke thanked him and hung up. So Freddie had worked for the phone company. He took out his notebook and looked up the number listed for "Ben E. Factor." Maybe Freddie could dig up something about it for him. Tracing a call to the number would be a practical impossibility. It would require the cooperation of phone company technicians wherever the trace led, possibly across the country. It would require lots of clout, which he was woefully short of. He found a Frederick X. Young listed in the phone book. Recalling that middle initial — it stood for Xavier — he was certain he had the right one. He dialed the number.
"Freddie, this is Burke Hill. How's retirement?"
"Damnation! I haven't heard anything out of you in over twenty years, Burke. I've wondered about you now and then. You were one of the sharpest young agents who ever worked under me. I hated what happened with Hoover."
"You heard about that?"
"Of course. We were told to black list you, put the screws on. I'm glad you didn't come around Memphis, I'd have gotten in a lot of trouble."
"Why's that?" Burke asked.
"I'd have refused to pull that kind of crap. SOG wouldn't have liked it a bit."
Burke smiled at the term "SOG." He hadn't heard that in years. It stood for Seat of Government, the term Hoover had used for the FBI Headquarters. "I heard you'd been working for the phone company. What's the story there?"
Freddie Young laughed. "I retired again. Just a few months ago. I worked in the state office in Nashville. I was involved in security matters, among other things."
"I wonder if you might be able to find out something for me. If it's going to be any problem, just say so and forget it."
"Be glad to help. What is it?"
"I've got a phone number, it's in Area Code Seven-Zero-Three, Northern Virginia. I need to know whose it is, where it's located. It may be unlisted."
Young's voice turned serious. "If it's unlisted, that could be a problem. I have some friends who could probably get it for me, but they might be a bit reluctant if they knew I planned to pass it on to somebody else."
"Like I said, Freddie, if it's too much of a problem, don't worry about it." He paused a moment, then added plaintively, "But it would be a big help to me. The guy who uses the number is really causing me a major headache."
"Give it to me and let me see what I can come up with. If I strike out, I'll let you know why. Where can I reach you?"
"I'm at the airport," Burke said. "Just passing through. I'll give you a call this afternoon. How's that?"
"Sure. Good to hear from you. Don't wait twenty years next time."
It was the lunch hour when Burke arrived at Aerial Photomap. He caught Kevin McKenzie on his way out to the parking lot.
"Hope that old clunker I left overnight didn't get in your way," Burke said, inclining his head toward the banged-up Buick."
"I wondered if that was the car you mentioned," McKenzie said. "What did you do, swap your van for a 'Rent-a-Wreck?'"
"Just needed some temporary transportation," Burke said with a grin. "It runs as smooth as a sewing machine." He quickly shifted subjects. "Have the cops come up with anything on the break-in?"
McKenzie shook his head, frowning. "Probably won't. They didn't even find a fingerprint." Then his face suddenly brightened. "By the way, Buddy said he finally figured out what that truck was in the photos. He saw one just like it on TV. It had a satellite dish on the back end. Buddy said it's used for live TV news transmissions via satellite."
As he made his way through the noon traffic, a white truck whipped out of a side street and cut in front of him. His foot jammed the brake pedal as he scowled and muttered a few choice adjectives to describe the driver. Happily, the old car's brakes still worked like new. Then, looking at the back of the truck, he realized it was the same model as the Jabberwock vehicle, though this one hadn't been sliced across the middle. He wondered where the team could be now, if they had picked up a dish antenna to go on the back. He decided to do a little further checking into Lone Star Network before calling Walt Brackin again.
At the local telephone office, he searched through the Dallas directories, both white and yellow pages. There were no listings for Lone Star Network. Next he called directory assistance. To get an address in case a number was available, he asked for "Lone Star Network on LBJ Freeway."
After a pause, the operator said, "I have a Lone Star Network, but it's at 4100 Spring Valley Road."
Burke smiled. "I'm sure that's it."
A computer generated voice droned out the number. He thumbed through the yellow pages book to "Secretarial Services" and ran his finger down the column. He found two services listed at 4100 Spring Valley Road. They provided everything from typing and printing to mail service and private offices. He dialed the number that directory assistance had given him.
"Lone Star Network," a male voice answered.
"This is Art Maxey with Public Affairs Newsline," Burke said, making up the tale as he went. "I have a story I think you folks would be interested in. I'd like to come over and talk to someone about it. Who would be the one to contact?"
The man hesitated a moment as if collecting his thoughts. "I'm sorry but things are in a real mess here. We're in the process of moving. This would be a very bad time. Could you check back with us later?"
"When would you suggest?"
"Anytime after Sunday," the man said.
After Sunday, Burke thought. That could mean "D-Day" was this weekend, just as Cam Quinn had speculated. Saturday morning, he recalled again, Thornton Giles and Nikolai Petrovsky would review a parade in front of the Toronto City Hall. Sunday they would meet in Washington for the first summit session.
He dialed Walt Brackin's office.
"I was hoping you would call soon," Walt said.
"What did you find out?"
"Something has happened to Lori," he said in a voice filled with alarm.
Burke's heart skipped a beat. "What's happened?"