password we needed.'
'Grogg, you are good. What's Baptiste up to?'
'Aside from the password, his correspondence and so on, it's all scrambled.'
'Okay. Well. Use the password if it's still good. Write an e-mail. Let's take a complete flier. Pretend to be Figgy. Write: 'Please confirm independently the instructions for the meeting.' Can you make it appear that Big Brain is Figgy's laptop working through the SDECE server?'
'Good enough so only two or three computer geeks out of a thousand would catch the forgery.'
'Give it a try. See what we get back.'
'Hey, Sam,' Jill said. 'Why a meeting? What meeting?'
'No idea, but it's worth a try, isn't it? I presume Figgy meets with Baptiste at times, don't you?'
'Sure. Why do you think Benoit Moreau signed her note Caterpillar?'
'Maybe because she fancies she'll be turning into a butter- fly.'
Michael, Grady, Professor Lyman, and the entourage made their way across the campus. The journals were stored in a clearinghouse structure, where various artifacts from antiquity were examined, cataloged, and held until their final resting place had been determined. Some artifacts were actually reburied once thoroughly studied. The building was located at the edge of the campus and was outfitted with heavy wire screens over the windows. It was a long brick building of three stories, simple but attractive with well- maintained white trim and matching shutters. It had no doubt been constructed for some other purpose, perhaps classrooms. It was mostly the province of physical anthro pologists, paleontologists, and that sort, although the evolutionary biologists had a corner.
'Is there twenty-four-hour security?' Michael asked.
'Well, I don't really think so, but I'm sure it's safe.'
They stopped at the front desk and each person signed in and received a name tag. There were people coming and going and the place looked occupied.
Michael picked up the pace as they walked through the door to one of the storage areas and proceeded to a spot pointed out by Dr. Lyman. There were about eighteen years' worth of three-ring binders, including the ones created by Michael's father before his death, with an average of three 4-inch binders per year totaling a little over sixty volumes. There were five trunks each about 4 feet by 1.5 feet by 14 inches. Each trunk was said to contain twelve volumes. Michael saw the trunks at a distance and literally trotted up to them with Grady on his heels. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a key. Each trunk had two locks. According to the labels af fixed to the ends of the trunks, they were in chronological order. Michael started with the most recent trunk, dated from 1998 through October 2003. Grady felt the tension while she reassured herself that they had to be there.
But when Michael opened the trunk, it was empty.
'Amazing,' Dr. Lyman said, sounding genuinely surprised in his own understated way.
Michael kicked the next trunk in line and it too was obviously empty. The rest were not. Someone had taken everything back to 1995, no doubt figuring they would get the volume describing the plant or animal that would turn out to be Chaperone.
Michael was visibly distraught. 'It feels like it did when my mother died. Something very important has been taken away.'
'We should have had somebody here during the day,' the security man said.
'You mean you had someone here all night?'
'Oh yeah, sitting right there on that chair until they were fully operational in here at nine a.m., and we asked the people to keep an eye out for strangers.'
'When were you last here?' Grady asked Lyman.
'Just yesterday. The time before that was three days ago-the day they were delivered.'
'What time?'
'Early afternoon.'
'Then did you call Michael right away?'
'Well, it wasn't right away because we brought them over here first.'
'Who knew they were here?'
'Just me and your security fellows. Well, wait a minute. That's not true. I did tell Nemus Larkin, a graduate student I work with. He's read Dr. Bowden's books and was very interested. I'm afraid I mentioned to him about the vector technology. And Chaperone.'
'Tell me you didn't.' Michael groaned. 'I told you not to.'
'I know, I know, but he's like a son.'
Grady knew that Michael had told Lyman, in fairness, so that he would understand the potential danger in taking possession of the journals. Unfortunately, Lyman had been unwise and overly enthusiastic.
'Where does this graduate student live?' she asked.
'In the basement of a house right near where I live.'
'Would you take us to his house?'
'All right.' Lyman shrugged. 'But I'm sure he hasn't got it.'
As they walked to the car, Grady whispered to Michael, 'Could Lyman have taken your journals?'
'Absolutely not.'
'I'm with you. I saw his face. He was as surprised as you, maybe more.'
The entire group drove through the university and out Triphammer Road, past Jessup Field, past the fraternities into the neighborhoods, then down a side street to a dead- end cul-de-sac. Grady and Michael were in a car with two of the security people. They rolled up behind Dr. Lyman's vehi cle in front of a brick house built into a hillside. The bottom story was a daylight basement and from the street level the house appeared as a two-story home.
Grady went to Dr. Lyman's vehicle, just in front of them.
'Please stay here with your security man.'
Before going to the house Grady and Michael had a lengthy conversation with the other two security men sketching out a plan.
When they were ready Michael and Grady crossed over the sidewalk and entered through a gate in a well- kept picket fence. There was a concrete path that turned into steps along side the house.
'He's probably not home,' Grady said to Michael as they walked down the steps along a gently terraced rose garden. Someone did a nice job on the roses as the beds were weeded and the roses pruned back in anticipation of winter. The back yard was spacious for the crowded neighborhood, perhaps sixty feet square with a few autumn- colored vine maples and a birch.
When they arrived at the lower level, there was a tiny concrete porch for the basement door. Michael looked at Grady. 'Once we're in, we play it by the script,' she said.
'Why?' Michael smiled wryly, knowing it would get her goat.
Michael knocked.
'Maybe we should wait and talk to Sam.'
'No, I want the journals now,' Michael said.
A young man with gold wire-rimmed glasses and a fair number of pimples opened the door. His blond hair was short and stood on end. He smiled. Grady noticed that he was grabbing the material on his jeans right about thigh level. His fingers were constantly busy, kneading the pants.
'I'm Michael Bowden.'
'Oh great, great. I'm a big fan.'
'This is Grady a private detective.'
'When was the last time you were over at the antiquities building, the warehouse on Osborne?' Grady asked.
'Let's see. When was the last time-'
'It's not a hard question,' Grady urged.
'I was there with Dr. Lyman yesterday. But the last time. Let's see. That would be this morning. Why? What's wrong?'
'You signed in?'
'Did I sign in? Well, you're supposed to sign in.'
'Did you sign in?' Michael interjected pushing his way past the young man and into the apartment. The young
