It was Sunday morning, and I'd just settled down with the funny papers when the phone rang.

 

Sundays are me days, and I like to keep them that way. So I let it ring.

 

And ring.

 

After the fourth time, I gave in. "What?!"

 

"Oh, thank God!" he said. "I didn't know who else to call."

 

I recognized the voice. "Dr. Abbott? Is that you?"

 

"Yes, yes it is, Jack. Something's gone very wrong. Can you meet me, right away?"

 

* * *

 

I know it was a me day, but Dr. Abbott is good people. More to the point, his money is government money. The checks never bounce and there's no arguments over expenses. That kind of customer is worth bending a few rules for.

 

The diner's sign looked oddly familiar, and I said as much when I slid into the booth. "How strange," he said. "I thought the same thing, but I've no idea why."

 

The old man looked different, smaller. Shrunken, even. I looked him over while we ordered, but couldn't quite...

 

"You're not wearing your lab coat!" I'd never seen him without it before.

 

He nodded tiredly. "Yes, I'm on leave from the Project," he said. "Nobody told me why. These men just came in, boxed up my office, and walked me to the door. That's why I called you. Nobody will tell me what's going on!"

 

If I'd wanted to know anything about secret government labs, Doc Abbott is my only contact. I told him as much and he nodded again.

 

"I was afraid of that. The only thing I've found out is, Congresswoman Morton is involved in some way. I couldn't even get an appointment with her. I wonder if, maybe, you..."

 

I nearly turned him down, but he grabbed my sleeve. "Please, Mr. Valentine! My work is my whole life! I at least deserve to know why!"

 

God, I'm a softie.

 

* * *

 

If the direct approach could have worked, Doc could have gotten in to see the Congresswoman. I decided on indirect. A reporter friend tracked down her home address, and I went snooping to see if there might be a simple workaround. There was.

 

When I tapped on her front door, I was equipped with brown pullover, ballcap, and clipboard half-full of signatures. I also had a legitimate Amazon package and a thick yellow envelope that was anything but.

 

An anonymous nobody opened the door. His suit was black, as were his tie, shoes, and shades — yes, shades indoors. I thought it was strange but didn't ask, just got his signature.

 

Secret Service and private security have identifiable tells, and he was neither. Police detectives either wear cheap or very expensive suits, but never anonymous ones. That left what my cop friends call No Such Agency, and there was one sure way to find out.

 

NYPD keeps a fax line for detectives to use. I sent in Black Suit's prints (from the clipboard) at Kinko's, then watched from a nearby diner. Eleven minutes later, black S.U.V.s pulled up, disgorging seven men in identical black suits. I paid my check and left.

 

* * *

 

 

There's no way for a solo op to beat Agency security. They've got way too many resources: satellites, computers, and an army of extremely competent agents, plus the whole machinery of the law. I've got my wits. Anyone who knows me can tell you: it's no contest.

 

That's why my next play was the Congresswoman herself. I couldn't get past them, but maybe she could. The possibility was worth a little risk.

 

The papers I'd delivered included some top-secret info from a case I'd worked awhile back. Attached was an address and a time. If she bit, great; if not, I'd know she was complicit and thus a dead end. Either way I'd learn something.

 

The meet was a men's hat store on 28th; the owner owes me. I'd just picked out a new snap-brim when she walked in. (Legitimate expense. You see how it works?) She looked very out of place and knew it, so I donned my new hat and went over smiling.

 

"Olivia! How good of you to come. Won't you step this way?"

 

She murmured something noncommittal, then quietly followed me into the back room. I flipped the light switch, which also activated a signal jammer. Some organized crime boys used to meet here, and I'd persuaded the owner to leave it in place.

 

"I figure we've got about ten minutes, Congresswoman, so I'll level with you," I said. "The papers were a dodge. I'm really here on behalf of Doc Abbott. He's half out of his mind worrying about what went wrong with his research lab, and a quick word from you, even unofficially, could quiet him down."

 

She looked at me with the same quiet resignation she'd displayed the whole time. "There's nothing I can do to help him," she said tiredly. "Or myself, or even you. They know your name, Mr. Valentine, and it's only a matter of time before they find you. By now, they've already met with the professor."

 

I blinked. "You mean, they're going to kill him?"

 

"No. They'll take his memories. By tomorrow, he'll have forgotten there was a problem. He'll be hard at work in a different facility, and his only recollection of the transition will be that it was routine."

 

"But why? Why would they do this to him, to you?" I was flabbergasted.

 

"Presumably some discovery he'd stumbled across. That's how these things work, Mr. Valentine. That's how they first got me. Now, you'd better go. They're doubtless on their way already, so if you've got a back way out..."

 

I hated to leave her, but there was nothing I could do.

 

* * *

 

I've typed this report for my own files, in case they do come for me. I've left another copy with a friend for insurance.

 

I also sent Dr. Abbott my bill, complete with expenses. Stealing my memories is one thing, but new hats cost money.