“That man, Rigby, who just went out,” he said between clenched teeth, “is the only one of the twelve alive today. Eleven trained Intelligence agents dead, and we are no nearer to getting our hands on this Seven-Eleven than we were weeks and weeks ago. It’s enough to make me want to cut my own throat!”
The senior officer gave a savage nod of his head for emphasis, then rested his elbows on the edge of the desk, cupped his chin with his hands, and stared flint-eyed off into space.
Dave waited a few moments for him to speak again, but when the man remained silent he leaned forward a bit in his chair.
“You sent for Farmer and me, sir,” he said gently. “Did the job you had in mind for us have any connection with—with this Seven-Eleven?”
The Colonel looked at him, and grunted.
“Yes, it did,” he said. “The pilot you saw die was named Tracey. He was in charge of all our agents stationed in Central America, though he was working on the Seven-Eleven business alone. Officially he was assigned to the Ninety-Sixth Attack Squadron in the Canal Zone, but his unofficial job was to pick up any leads on this Seven-Eleven if he could, and follow them through.”
“And did he, sir?” Freddy Farmer asked eagerly.
“Yes, and no,” Colonel Welsh replied. “I mean by that that he ran across something pretty hot, I think. At least he sent word to me in code to arrange for his recall to the States for a short time. What he wanted, according to his code request, was leave of absence from his Squadron to follow up something. That was three weeks ago. Last night he sent word to me in Washington that he had flown out of Mexico into Texas, and up to Albuquerque. He asked me to meet him here, and to have two qualified Intelligence men present who were also pilots. I was unable to contact him direct, so I couldn’t learn more. I sent word to Rigby to expect him, and to expect you two, and myself. And of course, I sent you word to report at the Frisco Air Base. And—well, as to what happened after that, you know as much about it as I do.”
“Something big in our hands, almost,” breathed Freddy Farmer softly. “What rotten luck!”
“That’s putting it mildly!” Colonel Welsh growled. “God knows what Tracey’s death may have cost us—cost the whole world!”