WARNINGS
The office of World Arts was always closed and locked during business hours, its occupant coming and going at all times. Leon Newell was said to be computer-linked with business partners who did acquisitions and shipping in Phoenix, New York and San Francisco. His concern was setting up domestic and foreign markets for fine and cultural arts from the U.S., Europe, and Asia. Like many other entrepreneurs in Sedona, he preferred to live and work in a lovely small-town setting and commute one or two days a week to his regional office in Phoenix, doing much of his business by computer. At art openings he appeared in thousand-dollar, tailored suits, but otherwise was seen publicly in jeans, silk shirts and alligator-skin boots.
Leon was a small man, slim, a chiseled face with green, piercing eyes and carefully trimmed, red hair. He was meticulous about his appearance: clean-shaven face, nails cleaned and polished, and every hair in its place with fashion purpose. It was said his academic training was in art education, but he demonstrated a wide knowledge of history, anthropology and physical science, and had deep interests in all aspects of new-age culture. This made him a welcome guest among the socially elite in town and the target of more than one sophisticated and available woman there. Leon’s somewhat affected speech and gestures only charmed them, and suspicions of the men about Leon’s sexual preferences quickly evaporated as they got to know him better.
He lived in a two million dollar Santa Fe-style adobe on two acres west of town. The house was nearly invisible a hundred yards off Dry Creek Road, hidden by a forest of cactus, shrub mesquite and juniper. It was owned by World Arts Corporation, and paid for in cash, no specific names on the title. The property was surrounded by a rail fence in metal painted olive green, and was entered through an electronically controlled gate. A security system included floodlights activated by the motion of something as small as a mouse, it was said, but the neighbors were also wealthy, and understood the privacy of the rich. They did not complain. Leon came and went in his yellow Humvee, gave a few, lavish parties for the chosen among them, and otherwise lived an unobtrusive life.
He was regarded as an important member of the community, and so people were naturally excited when they learned that one of his business partners would soon join him in their little town.
Leon, on the other hand, had been given the news earlier at home, and was not so much excited as he was disturbed by it.
The news had come to his home via satellite in the regular morning’s transmission from Washington. Eric Price was both a program and technology analyst with the highest credentials from operations in Europe and Asia. The man’s extensive file was attached. All the man’s work was with the military, and there was no mention of direct links to CIA or NSA. A Pentagon operative, perhaps, career military. Gil had simply countersigned the order, and forwarded it without warning. Perhaps he hadn’t had any. The Pentagon was reacting to the security problems, and slow progress at the base. They were taking steps to speed things up. Perhaps. Leon had received the notice indirectly, since he was not a link in the military chain of command.
There was a way to check the information flow. Leon picked up his cell phone and dialed the private number of Colonel Alexander Davis, linked to him by military satellite. The call was answered on the second ring.
“Davis.” The voice was low, and soft.
“Leon. I just got word about the new analyst they’re sending out for Shooting Star. I suppose you know about it.”
“Yesterday morning. How did you find out about it?”
“NSA Phoenix sent me a copy of the Pentagon order. We’re providing his cover in town.”
“I saw that. I asked for this help months ago. I don’t see why they can’t house him at the base. Everything he needs is here.”
“He’s not just a tech analyst. Half his record is for restructuring programs and rebuilding security networks. Didn’t you get his file?”
“I got it. He smells like a CIA operative to me. When I asked the Pentagon about it I was told the question was not relevant. Isn’t he one of yours?”
“No. His record is military. I have nothing to do with his operation except to provide his civilian cover while he’s here. I’ll probably learn more when he arrives tomorrow. We’re putting him up in a house close to mine, and he’ll have a place in my office in town. I’ll let you know anything new that comes up.”
“I appreciate that, Leon,” said Davis. “We’ve had a good working relationship up to now, and I wouldn’t like to see someone come in and mess it up. We’re getting close, you know, close enough that someone is trying to slow things down. I have my own people to dig them out; I don’t need Washington sending in someone to do it for me. If this guy Price even smells like a field operative to you, I want to know about it. Accidents can happen, and there’s too much at stake for both of us. You remember that.”
“Oh, I remember. That’s why I called you.”
“Good man. I’ll be able to get out of here Saturday. Let’s have a drink on it. I’ll call you early morning.”
“It’ll have to be late. I have an opening to attend at eight at Frago’s. There’s a bar just down the street from it. Working class, no art patrons.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call to verify. Gotta go, now. Keep your eyes open.”
The line went dead.
Leon turned off his cell phone. There was a queasy feeling in his stomach. Accidents can happen. That was going too far, but worrying now was premature. Meet the man; find out who or what he is. Time for maneuvering later.
Leon went to the bathroom and spent over an hour preparing an appropriate fashion statement for a day including luncheon with proper, wealthy ladies of the local garden club.
* * * * * * *
Eric Price arrived at exactly seven in the evening, as prearranged by telephone. The entry-com beeped, and Leon jumped to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Eric Price to see Leon Newell. I’m expected.”
“Park behind the Humvee. I’ll meet you at the door.” Leon pressed a button to open the heavy gate, went to the door and outside to stand on the porch. It was late dusk outside, and red rock bluffs stood in silhouette, but a few bright stars twinkled overhead. Light from inside the house spilled onto the porch, and a yard light mounted above the garage door illuminated the Humvee sitting there. A black BMW sedan came up to the garage, tires crunching rusty scree as it came to a stop behind Leon’s vehicle. The man who got out of the car was tall, slender, wore a dark suit and carried a briefcase. When he came up on the porch he did not smile, but extended a hand.
“Eric Price. You must be Mister Newell.”
Leon extended a limp hand. “Please, it’s Leon.” He suppressed a flinch when Price ground his fingers together in the handshake. “Welcome to the new-age capital of the world.”
Price regarded him somberly with dark eyes. “Haven’t seen any UFOs yet,” he said.
Leon laughed. “Oh, you will. I’ll teach you how to look for them. Come in, before you get cold out here. We’re nearly a mile above sea level, you know.”
Price followed him inside, looked at the beamed ceiling, the leather furniture, the paintings on the walls, the small assemblies of sculpture and glass arranged on tables and shelves. “Very nice,” he said.
“The company has good taste. Something to drink?”
“Coffee is fine,” said Price, and then gave Leon an appraising look. “You come out of Langley, or Washington?”
“Neither. Let’s say I’m on loan to a needy agency. How about you?”
“Likewise. Let’s leave it there. When do I go to the base? That wasn’t in my package.”
“Soon enough. Get settled, and I’ll introduce you around. We can’t just