“That’s right.”

“And you couldn’t help?”

“No sir. But I got to thinking on it. One of those names on that list was a James Thomas Albright. And there was no James Thomas Albright on my list of deaths for the years 1935 through 1945.”

“No. That’s what you told me – ”

“But I got to thinking there was an Albright. A Robert Parrish Albright, who died when he was two in 1938, right here in Clark County.”

“I see,” said Nick.

“The names being so similar. I just got curious and couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I went and checked our names registration. You know, with a valid birth certificate, you can petition the court to change your name legally.”

“Of course.”

“And I was stunned to discover that in June of 1963, a Robert Parrish Albright of this county petitioned the court to change his name to James Thomas Albright. The request was granted, and nobody had ever bothered to check the changed name against the death certificates. No one knew that the real Robert Parrish Albright had died in 1938.”

Nick swallowed. He felt as if he’d just looked behind a veil someone had very carefully put in place years back. For him it was one of those queer, powerful moments when an investigation, out of so many loose threads and blind paths and false leads, suddenly connected into something. A small, powerful jolt blasted through him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeremiah. Thank you so much.” And then he turned to Bob, trying to seem laconic.

“I found him,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Bob, yawning. “James T. Albright of North Carolina. Hey, I found him too.” He held up The Shotgun News. “The dumb bastard wrote a book!”

The suspense was murderous: all those phone calls from all over the United States. It shouldn’t have amazed Dobbler that there were so many of them but it did.

“Hello, my name is Walter Murbach of Sherman Oaks, California. I am very interested in the book about the Tenth Black King. My Visa card number is…”

There were dozens like that, and in a week or two the dozens permutated into hundreds. Over 350 calls were received, all of them earnest, none of them, according to vocal signature, Bob or Nick Memphis.

“I don’t think it’s working,” said Shreck.

“It will work,” said Dobbler. “I know Bob. Bob has been my project for close to a year. I know him. This is the only way.”

Shreck grunted, displeased.

And so they waited. And so another day passed and another, and Dobbler was at home in his apartment, paging through back issues of The American Rifleman, when the phone call came.

“Dobbler.”

“Dr. Dobbler, it’s the phone watch operations officer. We think we’ve got a positive ID on a phone call we received approximately seven minutes ago. The computer analysis makes it an almost perfect match to Memphis.”

“What name did he leave?”

“Ah…he left the name Special Agent Nicholas Memphis, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Yes, this is Special Agent Nicholas Memphis, Federal Bureau of Investigation, calling for Mr. Albright. We have reason to seek an interview with Lon Scott, who was the son of Art Scott, and wonder if Mr. Albright has any information pertaining to his whereabouts. The number is four-four-two, three-one-two, three-oh-eight-oh. I should add that refusal to cooperate could be actionable under federal statute.

Nick’s voice spun itself out of the tape recorder.

“Congratulations,” said Shreck. “Now give me some sense of how we play it.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Dobbler said, secretly very pleased. “Now, um, as to operating principles. There’s only one, and I can’t press it too forcefully. At no point until the ultimate moment must we seem aggressive. Bob is abnormally attuned to aggression; he lives in Condition Yellow, never completely at rest, always scanning the horizon for clues. His radar never goes down. And when he senses threat, it sets his bells off; nothing must be forced. No one must stare. Nothing must be elongated. No hints of trap must be given. We must operate totally without self-consciousness. Now. Who’s going to call him?”

“You are,” said Shreck.

The phone rang.

“Oh, my,” said Nick.

“Answer it,” said Bob.

“Oh, my,” said Nick again. It had been almost a week since they’d made the initial call.

“Go on,” said Bob.

“Agent Memphis,” Nick said, picking up the phone.

“Yes, this is James Albright. I was told to call you in a phone message last week. I only played the tape today. I – What’s this all about?”

“Yes, thank you for getting back to me,” said Nick as officiously as possible. “It’s come to our attention that you’ve published a book about Art Scott, the target shooter?”

“Yes. I knew Art years back. I saw him shoot one of his last championships. He was a wonderful – ”

“We have reason to suspect that a rifle owned by Mr. Scott’s son Lon may have been used in a serious Federal crime – ”

“The Tenth Black King? Do you know where it is?”

“Ah,” said Nick, a little taken aback, “no, no, we hoped you might know where it is?”

“I wish I did. That rifle would be worth tens of thousands of dollars today.”

“Well, we’re trying to locate Lon Scott, who seems to have vanished thirty years ago.”

“Now there’s a mystery for you. Wish I could help you.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Your ad says you have some of Art Scott’s personal effects – ”

“I have all his shooter’s notebooks, his notes on reloading, the results of his experiments, many of his medals and ribbons. But nothing personal – well, a couple of diaries which I never paid much attention to.”

“I see. Mr. Albright, it’s imperative that we locate either Lon Scott or his remains. It’s my thought that in his father’s effects there might be information useful to us. Perhaps I could send a team down and examine the materials.”

“That’s all you want? Hell, why didn’t you say so. Sure, come on down. Be happy to let you see the stuff.”

“Thank you very much.”

The man on the other end gave him directions and Nick said he’d see him in two days, Thursday, at nine-thirty. Mr. Albright said that was okay by him, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Not bad,” said the Colonel.

“Did I slather on the old-boy business too heavily?” Dobbler wanted to know.

“No,” said the Colonel, his shrewd eyes narrowed in concentration. “You brought the family in, then backed out of it. You established your distance from ‘Lon Scott.’ What they think they’re getting is another step in the link, and not the final step. Now all we have to do is wait. They’re coming in.”

The waiting was hardest on Payne, man of action. Thus, without orders, he seconded himself to central Virginia and the RamDyne training facility. The men of Panther Battalion, his old compadres under arms, had arrived on its thousands of acres to prepare their assault on Fortress Bob.

There he watched as the lean young troopers worked on the assault plan. He watched them deploy, having moved off their mock helicopters, move up the hill that was a close duplicate of Bone Hill under heavy automatic weapons suppressive fire, and assault its summit, where Bob would be alone with no weapon other than the Colt automatic he was known to favor.

Even Brigadier General de Rujijo had come along on this mission.

“Is it not too much, Sergento?” he asked Payne. “This is one man, no?”

It was a logical question. With a base of full automatic suppressive fire, plus the fire and movement elements pouring out lead as they progressed upwards, Payne had calculated that over ten thousand bullets would be hurled at the summit in less than two minutes. For one man?

“He must be el grande hombre,” said de Rujijo.