As he drove away from the dig site, he unclipped the plastic ID card from the breast pocket of his gray suit.

The Harold Jones identification was phony. Another secret in a life of secrets.

Dr. Harold W. Smith was used to secrets. At least he thought he was. During the war he had seen his share. In the CIA he had seen even more. But they were all nothing compared to his life now. And that life was only growing more complicated as these latest hours passed.

He took the Boston Post Road up the coast from New Rochelle to Rye. He avoided the heart of the city. Skirting the center of town, he headed up a wooded road.

To his right stretched Long Island Sound. Obscured mostly by trees in the early autumn, he could see the dappled water now and then through breaks in the brightly colored foliage. Boats bobbed on the surface of the white-capped water. Somewhere far beneath their thin hulls snaked a telephone cable, connected to the same line that was even now being entombed forever by the New Rochelle Department of Public Works.

The phone line had been tricky. It was something he had wanted to do from the outset. But though it would have been convenient, patience was needed. After all, he couldn't very well have it done all at once. Workmen digging a straight furrow to lay a single line from Rye to Washington, D.C., would have drawn far too much attention. The equivalent of drawing an arrow on a map.

No. In the end restraint had won out over any inconvenience he had experienced while waiting.

The line went in piecemeal. In his spare time for the past five years Smith studied the work schedules of many a local telephone company office. When a particular crew's daily work happened to coincide with the route Smith had established, a circuitous order was sent to lay a single section of cable. There was never any doubt that the special type of cable would be available. Smith made certain it was.