Sargent Cole said, "What do you think, Major? Could there be something to it?"
The Englishman seemed to hesitate as he stared at the map. "Possibly."
"We have to tell the FBI," Lydia said, her eyes boring into the map. "They'll catch him."
"All right," Thatcher agreed. "I'll call Jones."
Thatcher made the call from another room, needing privacy to sort through the ideas churning in his head. Santa Fe, New Mexico. New Mexico. He remembered Corporal Kleins words. There is an agent, in Mexico I think, code name Die Wespe… the Manhattan Project. Did it really make sense? Thatcher wondered. Or was he grasping at the breeze?
When Tomas Jones came on line he was noncommittal about the news of the getaway car having been found. "So he's out flying around with some old geezer. Any idea where they're headed?"
"Mitchell's wife says her husband was hired out on a charter to Minnesota."
"Shouldn't be hard to find," the FBI man said. "We'll put out a bulletin to check all the airfields along the way."
Thatcher wondered how many there could be. Thanks to the war, England had become littered with them. Then he remembered Lydia's idea. "I think we should cast the net a bit wider," he insisted.
"Why?"
"Well, does this project of yours have a site in New Mexico?"
Jones exploded. "God dammit! That's it!"
Thatcher held the receiver away from his ear.
"You're done, Thatcher! Pack your bags and go home! If you're feet are still on American soil by nightfall, I'm sending the two biggest oafs I can find to escort you to a very slow boat. Go home now! That's an order!" The click was next, and when Thatcher hung up he smiled. He had his answer. He went back to the library.
"Well, is the bastard going to do anything?" Sargent asked.
"Yes. He's going to send me back to England because I'm interfering."
Sargent seethed openly.
"Will you go?" Lydia asked.
"Eventually. But I've always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Is that in New Mexico?"
"Arizona," Lydia said.
"Close enough."
"What can we do to help?" Sargent said.
"My official capacity here is — well, let's say it's always been on unsteady ground. In all honesty, I'm a little short on funds right now. I wasn't planning on such a long stay."
"Whatever you need, Major. Somehow I think you have a better chance of tracking down Alex Brown than the FBI." He went to the writing desk and scribbled out a check. As he held it out he studied Thatcher. "What is it, Thatcher? Why do you want this guy so bad?"
It was a fair question, one Thatcher had been asking himself. "He's been sent here to contact a spy, and I think that's why he might head to New Mexico. It's simply my job to stop him."
"Bullshit. I'm a good judge of people, Thatcher — this is personal. Did you ever know Alex?"
"No. I never knew he existed until a few weeks ago."
Sargent Cole pressed. "Has he hurt someone you know? Committed a war crime?"
Thatcher shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of. I suppose he represents something to me. My war was more quiet than some. Chasing after the likes of Alex Braun — it keeps me in the fight." He paused. "Anyway, I'll leave first thing in the morning." He held up the check. "And thanks for this. I'll repay you when I get back to England."
Sargent Cole waved it off. "Just find him, Major."
"Yes," Lydia added, her eyes glassy and fogged, but her tone clear, "you must find him."
Thatcher looked at her squarely. The girl was shattered, yet trying to hold up. He ought to tell her that time would heal everything— that's what he'd been told. Of course, it was a lie. His own wounds had proven incurable. Blight lingered on his soul. There was, Thatcher knew, only one truth he could offer. "I'll do my best," he said.
The changes came subtly. The earth's hue was based in brown, but striations of red and orange swept in more frequently. The farm fields of Kansas and the Oklahoma panhandle gradually ceded, the land almost barren now for want of water. Riverbeds cut deep into the rocky ground but, as far as Braun could tell, all were dry.
The remoteness increased as each mile passed beneath him, and there were few signs of civilization. The colors deepened further as the Luscombe passed into New Mexico, darker shades of red that made it look as if the world had begun to oxidize. Braun was beginning to understand why the Americans had chosen this place. He hoped the remoteness was a sign that Die Wespe's information was indeed as important as Gruber had held it to be.
The lack of anything manmade did not aid his navigation. The last recognizable town had been a place called Tucumcari, a dusty group of buildings that had bulged along the rail line thirty minutes earlier. There, he'd left the track he was following to pick up another, one that would lead to Santa Fe. Since that time, he'd seen nothing he could use to cross-check his progress as the Luscombe bumped along through turbulent air. And there were other problems.
He'd first noticed it on landing back in Kansas. There, the field elevation had been 2,800 feet above sea level, far higher than the other places he'd landed. Now, with the airplane struggling to hold altitude at 7,000 feet, he thought the ground looked much closer. The roadmap disclosed that Albuquerque was situated at over 5,000 feet. Braun wondered if Santa Fe might be even higher. He saw mountains ahead, clear on the horizon. Could the Luscombe even manage it? Braun tossed the map to the passenger seat. If nothing else, he was close. He might have to find an airfield and land short. Even a road would do. There were still two days until the scheduled rendezvous with Die Wespe. If he couldn't fly into Santa Fe, he would find another way.
Cumulus clouds had begun to build in the mid-afternoon heat. Unable to fly over the cotton white obstacles, Braun turned left and right to skirt between them. As he tried to keep the railway in sight, turbulence shook the little plane with more authority. The airspeed needle bounced erratically, gaining ten miles an hour, then losing five. He remembered yesterday's storm in Kansas, and old Mitchell's penchant for worrying about the weather. A look ahead, however, eased Braun's concern. The lower clouds were still scattered and soft, topped by darker versions above. He would simply slide beneath it all.
Approaching the mountains, he noted yet another change in the landscape — the sides of the hills were increasingly green, covered in thick vegetation. The mountain tops lay obscured, lost in a curtain of gray and black clouds. With the Luscombe at 8,000 feet now, the airspeed had deteriorated to only sixty miles an hour. Braun thought it a logical trade.
The railway meandered into a deep valley between two imposing mountains. Braun soon found himself guided less by his steady reference and more by the terrain. This had to be the gap where the tracks cut through the mountains, he decided. On the other side would be Santa Fe.
Craning to keep the railway in sight, Braun clipped the corner of a cloud, everything turning white for a few seconds. When he burst back in the clear, another was straight ahead. He turned hard to the left, but yet another patch of white swirled before him. This time it took longer to come out, and when the little plane broke clear there were darker shades in every direction. He continued to turn as he hit the next cloud deck, and after a few glimpses of white, the world turned a heavy gray. The Luscombe rattled and suddenly seemed to strike a wall of water. Rain smacked at the windscreen like rocks against a sheet of tin. The plane lurched and Braun's head struck the ceiling.