General Mark Hilliard, deputy director of the NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The general was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.
Harrison Keller said, “General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy.”
“Thank you for dropping by, Commander.”
As though it was an invitation to some tea party.
The two men shook hands.
“Sit down. I’ll bet you could do with a cup of coffee.”
The man was a mind reader. “Yes, sir.”
“Harrison?”
“No, thank you.” He took a chair in the corner.
A buzzer was pressed, the door opened, and an Oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.
“How do you take yours?” General Hilliard asked.
“Black, please.” The coffee tasted great.
The two men were seated facing each other in soft leather chairs.
“The director asked that I meet with you.”
The director. Edward Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant, ruthless puppet master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups all over the world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in private.
“How long have you been with the 17th District Naval Intelligence Group, Commander?” General Hilliard asked.
Robert played it straight. “Fifteen years.” He would have bet a month’s pay that the general could have told him the time of day when he had joined ONI.
“Before that, I believe you commanded a naval air squadron in Vietnam.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were shot down. They didn’t expect you to pull through.”
The doctor was saying, “Forget about him. He won’t make it.” He had wanted to die. The pain was unbearable. And then Susan was leaning over him. “Open your eyes, sailor, you don’t want to die.” He had forced his eyes open and through the haze of pain was staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a soft oval face and thick black hair, sparkling brown eyes and a smile like a blessing. He had tried to speak, but it was too much of an effort.
General Hilliard was saying something.
Robert Bellamy brought his mind back to the present. “I beg your pardon, General?”
“We have a problem, Commander. We need your help.”
“Yes, sir?”
The general stood up and began to pace. “What I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive. It’s above top secret.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed. There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret.”
Robert found himself wondering where all this was leading.
“The Swiss government has removed those objects from the balloon, but unfortunately, it seems that there were some witnesses to the crash. It is of vital importance that none of them talk to anyone about what they saw. It could provide valuable information to certain other countries. Do you follow me?”
“I think so, sir. You want me to speak to the witnesses and warn them not to discuss what they saw.”
“Not exactly, Commander.”
“Then I don’t under—”
“What I want you to do is simply track down those witnesses. Others will talk to them about the necessity for silence.”
“I see. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?”
General Hilliard stopped in front of Robert. “That’s our problem, Commander. You see, we have no idea where they are. Or who they are.”
Robert thought he had missed something. “I beg your pardon?”
“The only information we have is that the witnesses were on a tour bus. They happened to be passing the scene when the weather balloon crashed near a little village called…” He turned to Harrison Keller.
“Uetendorf.”
The general turned back to Robert. “The passengers got off the bus for a few minutes to look at the crash and then continued on. When the tour ended, the passengers dispersed.”
Robert said slowly, “General Hilliard, are you saying that there is no record of who these people are or where they went?”
“That is correct.”