CHAPTER 3

MAY 5, 1988

HEMPSTEAD, LONG ISLAND 

     Cord wheeled his Alfa Romeo into the parking lot of the Nassau County Mall. He'd made the trip from the airport in record time, working off some tension by cutting and thrusting through the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic. The hot 6-cylinder engine ticked and popped as it cooled. The midsummer sun brought beads of perspiration to Cord's brow -- or was it nerves that had him sweating? Plenty to be nervous about, he thought, straightening his tie as he made his way into the mall.
     There were few shoppers in the place, and Leo's Bait and Tackle shop was empty when Cord entered. A grizzled old fellow stood behind the counter near the entrance to the shop, tying a fly with practiced ease.
     "Howdy, Leo, got any Aquarius 2000 flycasting reels in stock?"
     Leo looked up from his fly with annoyance.
     "Yeah, in the back," he said, returning to his fly. "As if you didn't know," he muttered under his breath.
     Cord wended his way to the back of the shop where he found a rack of fishing reels and removed the Aquarius 2000. His tentative swishes of the rod would have revealed just how little Cord knew about fishing, had anyone been there to see. He replaced the Aquarius and lifted each rod in turn until he found a slot just big enough for a credit card beneath one. Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a business card case, thumbed it open, pulled out a card, and inserted it into the slot.
     The back wall of Leo's Bait and Tackle slid up into the ceiling, revealing a foyer, and a large receptionist behind a desk several sizes too small. As usual, she was reading World-Round News, a supermarket check-out tabloid. Cord always kidded her about her fascination with the News.
     "Why, Mrs. Peshkowitz," Cord said as he entered the small office, "it's so good to see you again. You look lovelier than ever. And engaging in a little intellectual stimulation, I see."
     "Don't you butter me down and then send me grief, you trouble-monger," the receptionist replied in her heavily-accented voice, as the wall slid down behind Cord. "A lot you know about my intellectuals. You should read the News once in a while. You might learn something."
     Cord sat on the edge of her already over-crowded desk and studied the front page of the paper as he 
always did right before making some wisecrack about the cover story. Sadie waited for the ribbing she knew would come.
     Only it didn't.
     Cord was dumbstruck by the cover story or, more precisely, by the photograph that accompanied it. There, in grainy black and white, was a photograph of whatever it was that had abducted Professor Zabo. The headline accompanying the article read, "UFO Fans Gather for Annual Conclave."
     Cord grabbed the paper from Sadie's hands.
     "When did you forget your manners," the receptionist chided. "Get me back my paper!"
     Nodding absently, Cord said, "Sorry, Sadie, but I need this paper -- Foundation business." He was already leaving the resception area, heading for the offices in back.
     "Sure, sure, business. Mr. Jahn is waiting for you. You better go by him right now."
     This brought Cord up short.
     "Eh, yes, uh . . . what sort of mood is he in?"
     "Don't ask. I think he woke up in the wrong side of the bed this morning."
     "I was afraid of that. Well, if we don't meet again, it's been a pleasure knowing you, Sadie."
     Cord felt a trickle of sweat dripping down his back as he made his way down the stark, echoing corridors of Orion Foundation headquarters. The New York branch was bustling today, but Cord noticed that none of his fellow operatives paid the least bit of attention to him -- a bad sign.
     Finally, he arrived at a door with the name "Peter Jahn" stenciled on it.
     Okay, Sebastian, deep breath, be cool, take it easy . . . This is worse than field work, he thought.
     Cord touched his palm to a nine-inch square plastic plate by the door, waited for the lock mechanism to click open, turned the knob, and walked in. Jahn, the Assistant Director, Operations for the Orion Foundation's New York office was waiting for him, a scowl on his long, thin face.
     The office was small, windowless, and almost entirely without personality. Not unlike it's occupant, operations agents joked, though never to Jahn's face.
     "Matheson's ready to have your hide, Sebastian, you know that?" Jahn said before Cord had a chance to sit down.
     "I . . ."
     "I'm not finished," Jahn hissed. "He's already chewed me out royally, wants you drummed out, never work again. He's serious, too. Do you have any idea just how much trouble your ass is in? What the hell happened?"
     "I lost him. One minute he was with me. We were at the pick-up point, right on time, just waiting. There was a blinding light, killing sound. Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back in the grass by the car, it was broad daylight, and the Foundation's submarine boys were slapping me around, trying to wake me up. Dew on the grass said I'd been out all night. Professor Zabo was gone. That's all I know for sure."
     "What do you mean, 'for sure,?' And this better be good -- real good."
     Cord hesitated. There was no way on earth anyone was going to believe what he was about to say.
     "I think I saw something, right before I passed out."
     "You saw something, huh? Care to be more specific? Help me out here, Cord."
     Deep breath.
     "I didn't know what it was, at first. I'm still not sure, but it looked like this," he said, holding the World-Round News out so Jahn could see the photograph on the front page.
     Jahn's face tightened and his lips curled into a sneer.
     Okay, here it comes, Cord thought.
     Jahn spoke slowly, enunciating each word with  unnnatural and unnerving care.
     "You . . . saw . . . that?"
     "I think so, sir. I think I saw a flying saucer...sir."
     "Any little green men? Did they ask to be taken to your leader? Did you remember to say Klaatu Barata Nikto, so they wouldn't destroy our planet?
     "Come on, Cord, you can do better than that. Little green men came and took the Web's leading environmental and weather specialist away just as he was about to come over to our side? You've got to be kidding!"
     "No little green men, sir, not that I can recall. Just a  blinding light, then, nothing. It all happened just the way I reported it."
     "Sit down, Cord, and listen carefully." Jahn pushed back from his desk and began clenching and unclenching his fists as he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he shoved his balled fists into his pockets, as if to keep himself from punching Cord.
     "I read your cockamamie report. So did Matheson. Thank god you had the sense not to put anything in it about flying saucers. You know what I think? I think we're dealing with an over-the-hill agent who fell asleep while guarding a top Web defector who probably got tired of waiting for us and wandered off."
     "What about the camera, sir?"
     "The camera? What camera? The Orion Foundation video camera you were issued which turned up missing? Is that the camera you're referring to?"
     Cord stood silently, waiting for Jahn's storm to subside.
     "Now, tell me something -- what would you do if you were me?...No, on second thought, I don't want to know what you'd do in my shoes. I've got Matheson, the Director of this office, you'll recall, the man who holds my career and yours in the palm of his hand, I've got Matheson screaming for your ass. You're too old, he says. You're too headstrong, he says, too unorthodox. He wants a full-scale investigation, and I'm going to give it to him.
     "Now, get out of here before I can you on the spot. You're on leave . . . without pay. We'll contact you via the SW1 when the investigation is complete. Until then, you're out of here. And if I hear one word about you sticking your nose into anything even remotely connected with the disappearance of Manfred Zabo, you're finished.
     "Get out of here. Move!"