“It’ll give us something to do. And if there is a spy at Babbage

Town…?” His voice trailed off.

“You really think a spy will be using a secret room? What, he sneaks out at night on his traitorous rounds? Give me a freaking break.”

“What do you know about Camp Peary?”

“Other than what I told you, not a lot.”

“If you research the place online, there’s nothing. Only the same few articles come up.”

“And you’re surprised?” she said.

“The guy who picked me up when I got off the plane, he said the Navy owned the land during World War II and trained Seabees there. Then they left but came back in the Fifties and kicked everybody out.”

“Everybody? Everybody who?”

“There used to be two towns over there. Magruder and another one I can’t remember the name of. Apparently the homes and everything are still there.”

“What’s that got to do with our investigation?”

“Nothing. I’m just killing mental time until I do think of something relevant,” he admitted.

“Speaking of relevant, how well did Rivest know Monk Turing?” she asked.

“According to Rivest not very well. When we were drinking together though he opened up a bit and said something interesting.”

“What?”

“He mentioned that he and Monk had gone fishing together one day on the York River. They were out in a little boat just drinking beer and throwing lines in the water, not expecting to catch anything.”

“And?”

“And Monk looked over at Camp Peary and said something like, ‘It’s really ironic them being the greatest collector of secrets in the world.’”

“What was really ironic?” Michelle asked.

“According to Rivest, when he asked him about it, Monk just clammed up.”

“I don’t see how that helps us.”

“I never met him but I don’t think Monk Turing would say something without a good reason. Come on.”

“Where to?”

“Remember I said there were only a few articles about Camp Peary on the Internet?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well two of them were written by a guy named South Freeman who lives in a little town near here called Arch. He runs the local newspaper and he’s also the resident historian for the area. I figure if anyone can fill us in on Camp Peary, he can.”

Michelle slapped her thigh as she rose off the bench. “South Freeman? Monk Turing? Champ Pollion? What the hell is it with this case and freaky names?”

CHAPTER 47

ARCH WAS A TOWN of few streets, a single traffic light, a number of mom-and-pop stores, a line of abandoned railroad tracks grafted onto

Main Street like ancient sutures and a one-story brick building badly in need of restoring that housed the Magruder Gazette. Another small rusted sign stated that the Magruder Historical Society was also housed in the same building.

“If the town’s name is Arch, why isn’t it the Arch Gazette?” Michelle asked as she parked the truck and they got out.

“I have my suspicions, but we can ask old South for the answer,” Sean replied mysteriously.

They went inside and were met by a tall black man in his sixties with a lanky body and a cadaverous face outlined with a white-gray beard, in the center of which sat a smoldering cigarette protruding from thin, cracked lips.

He shook hands. “South Freeman,” he said. “Got your phone call. So you want to know a little bit about the history of the area? Came to the right damn place then.”

Sean nodded and South led them to a small room set up as an office. It was lined with gunmetal gray file cabinets and a couple of shabby desks although a shiny new computer rested on one of them. The walls held an assortment of photographs of the area including a large satellite image of what Sean recognized as Camp Peary. A sign above it read, “Hell on Earth.”

Sean pointed to it. “I see you’re a big fan of your country’s premier intelligence service.”

South looked at the photo and shrugged. “Government took my parents’ home and kicked us all out. How am I supposed to feel?”

“That would be the Navy, not the CIA,” Sean corrected.

“Navy, Army, CIA, I prefer to think of it collectively as the Evil Empire.”

“I read your articles on Camp Peary,” he said.

“Well, you didn’t have many to choose from now, did you?” South stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Michelle waved smoke from her face.

Sean, glancing at Michelle, said, “So you lived in Magruder? I sort of assumed from the name of your paper.”

Freeman nodded. “That’s right. There were two towns on the grounds of what’s now Camp Peary: Bigler’s Mill and Magruder, where I was born. They’re now on the list of places that just disappeared from the Commonwealth of Virginia’s official registry.”

“They keep statistics like that?” Sean asked.

In answer Freeman pointed to a list tacked to a bulletin board. “See for yourself. On there are all the counties, towns and what-not that have either been merged into other places, changed their names or, like Magruder, been stolen by the damn government.”

Sean glanced at the list for a moment and said, “I understand from your articles that the houses are still there, entire neighborhoods in fact?”

“I can’t confirm that, of course, since they don’t exactly let the likes of me wander around there. But from the scraps I’ve gathered from people who have been there, yeah, a lot of the buildings are still there. Including the place where I was born and lived in when I was a little kid. That’s why my paper’s called the Magruder Gazette. This is my way of keeping the town alive.”

“Well, I guess everyone had to make sacrifices during World War II,” Sean pointed out.

“I got no problems with sacrifice so long as it’s shared equally.”

“What do you mean?” Sean said.

“Magruder was a working-class African-American community, or colored community as they referred to them back then. I didn’t see the Navy go sweeping in on any rich white neighborhoods and start throwing people out. It was just the same old, same old. Kick out the poor black folk because nobody’s gonna give a damn.”

Sean said, “I appreciate the problem, South, I really do. But we’re here to talk about Camp Peary and the local history.”

“That’s what you said over the phone, only you didn’t say why.”

“We’re private investigators who were hired by the people who run Babbage Town to look into the death of Monk Turing.”

“Right, fellow they found dead over there. I wrote an article about that. Hasn’t been published yet because I’m still waiting for the ending.” He eyed them suspiciously. “So you’re working for Babbage Town? How about a trade? I talk to you about the Farm and you talk to me about what they’re really doing over at genius-ville?”

“Afraid we can’t do that, South. We’re bound by confidentiality.”

“Well maybe I am too.”

“What we’re trying to do is get to the truth about Monk Turing’s death,” Michelle interjected.

“And that other fellow, the one that was killed at Babbage Town? They say he died by accident in his bathtub. I say, right, sure, and Lee Harvey Oswald and James Earl Ray acted all by their lonesome. Well, one hand rubs another. You can’t talk and neither can I. So there’s the door right over there. So long.”

“And maybe if we find out the truth about Monk Turing,” Michelle continued, “it might not look so good for Camp Peary. And maybe they might up and move.”

South’s expression immediately changed. Now he looked far more intrigued than defiant. “You think that’s possible?”

“Anything’s possible. And Monk Turing was found dead there.”

“But all the mainstream media’s saying it was suicide. Like those other people found dead around there over the last few years. And all the Internet bloggers are screaming government conspiracy. Wonder who’s right?”