“I saw that.”
“I have a theory that they lost an important part of their gene pool in World War I. A million brave soldiers dead in the trenches. So, who was left to procreate? The mentally and physically unfit, the cowards and the sissies. What do you think?”
I thought he was out of his fucking mind, but I replied, “Genetics are not my strong point.”
“Well, it’s just my theory. On the other hand, I actually had two former French soldiers in my battalion. One was a Foreign Legionnaire, the other a paratrooper. They joined the American Army to fight, and fight they did. They loved to kill Commies. Great balls.”
“There goes your theory.”
“No. France doesn’t produce enough men like that. But maybe they do, and their feminized society shuns them. They don’t respect the warrior ethos any longer. But we do.” He said emphatically, “This war in Iraq will be over in less than thirty days.”
“When’s it starting?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you might have friends in high places.”
“Well… actually, I do.” He hesitated, then said, “Bet on mid-March. Around St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I say end of January.”
“Will you put a hundred dollars on that?”
“Sure.”
We actually shook on it, and he said, “When you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”
“Twenty-six Federal Plaza.” We made eye contact and I said, “If you lose, I’ll come looking for
“Call my New York office. It’s not far from 26 Fed. Duane Street. GOCO.” He mentioned, “I was actually in my office when the planes hit… I’ll never forget that sight…” He asked me, “Were you in your office? Did you see it?”
“I was about to walk into the North Tower.”
“My goodness…”
“Let’s change that subject.”
“All right.” He asked me, “So, will Ms. Mayfield be joining us?”
Odd question, considering I said she was at a yodeling class, plus I had only fifteen minutes with His Majesty. Maybe he liked her looks, or maybe he wanted to know if this was a bust. “It’s just me today.”
“All right… so, I’ve been running off at the mouth, and I never asked you the purpose of your visit.”
The purpose of my visit was a homicide investigation, but I didn’t want to jump right into that. That’s usually a showstopper, and you might be asked to leave. So I said, “I just thought I’d stop by and thank you for offering your assistance with the missing person.”
“You’re quite welcome. Sorry to hear the bad news.”
“Yeah, me, too.” At this point, we’d talk a bit about that, and I’d thank him again for being a good citizen, and I’d leave. But I left that subject alone for now and asked him, “Mind if I take a look at your view?” I nodded toward the window.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “If you wish.”
I stood and went over to the window. The view directly behind the lodge was of the continuing slope of the hill, at the top of which was his relay tower, which sprouted all sorts of electronic arms, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his ELF antenna.
In the distance, I could make out several telephone poles, and I saw birds landing and taking off from the three big cables. They didn’t seem to be glowing, smoking, or flying backward, so I took that as a good sign.
Off in the distance, I saw a big prefab barn. Its doors were open, and inside I could see a few vehicles-a black Jeep, a blue van, and a lawn tractor. Outside the barn were parked a few all-terrain vehicles, which I assumed were used to patrol the property. I expected to see that Colonel Madox also had a few Abrams tanks, but there was no sign of tread marks.
To the right, about a hundred yards from the lodge, I saw two long buildings. From Harry’s map, which I had in my jacket pocket, I identified the white wooden structure as the barracks, and it looked like it could hold about twenty men. The other structure was the size of a house, and it was built of solid bedrock, with a sheet-metal roof and steel shutters closed over the windows. Three chimneys belched black smoke, and near the open door of the building was a step van whose painted sign said POTSDAM DIESEL.
Madox came up beside me and said, “Not a spectacular view. The view out the front is better.”
“I think this is interesting.” I asked him, “Why do you have all these telephone poles and cables running around your property?”
We made eye contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Those poles and wires were installed to connect the call stations around the property.”
“Really?”
“You remember when you were a cop on the beat, and you had police call boxes?”
“Right. We also had two-way car radios since the 1950s, which are a lot cheaper than a few hundred telephone poles in the bedrock.”
Mr. Madox did not respond. In fact, he was probably thinking hard right now, wondering if these were just idle questions, or leading questions.
He said to me, “As I discovered in combat, radios are not reliable. In any case, the call boxes are rarely used now that we have cell phones and high-quality walkie-talkies. He informed me, “The poles are also used to mount and power the security lights.”
“Right.” And the listening devices and video cameras. “Hey, what’s that white building?”
“The barracks.”
“Oh, right. For your army. And I see your motor pool out there. This is a hell of a place.”
“Thank you.”
“And that stone building?”
“That’s where my electrical generator is.”
“I see
“Yes, three generators.”
“Do you sell power to Potsdam?” I asked.
“I’m a big fan of redundancy.”
“Redundancy.”
“Yes. And so is God. That’s why we have two balls.”
“But only one dick. What’s that about?”
“I’ve often asked myself that very question.”
“Me, too.” He was now supposed to ask me why I was asking all these questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Well, thank you for stopping by. Again, sorry about… I’m sorry-what was his name?”
“Harry Muller.”
“Yes. People need to be careful in the woods.”
“I see that.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I just need a few more minutes of your time.”
He smiled politely and reminded me, “That’s what you said the last time, and you stayed awhile.”
I ignored that and moved away from the window, then looked around the office. It was a big room, paneled in light pine with oak furniture. On the floor was an oriental rug.
Above Madox’s desk was a framed photograph of an oil tanker with the words GOCO BASRA on the bow. Another framed photograph showed a burning oil field.
Madox said to me, “The Gulf War. Or, should I say, Gulf War One?” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”
I didn’t reply.
