Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/
Richards Air Field, Massena, New York.
The night was black. The moon hadn‟t risen yet, and wouldn‟t until 2:44 a.m. Richards
Air Field, a small municipal airport east of the Village of Massena in upstate New York.
Richards Air Field was an international point of entry into the U.S., but seldom used after
sundown. By 9:20 that evening, the airport was deserted with the exception of Robert Lepage
Crouched and camouflaged on the north side of Runway 09, a stranger watched. It was
not the first time the stranger had been there. On three previous Tuesday evenings, he had
covertly observed the activities at the airport and the routine of his targeted victim.
In the third private hangar, Robert Lepage, a Canadian citizen, was working on
Canadian registration requirements to a World War II Harvard trainer which he had
purchased in the Montana. Lepage usually flew his Piper Seminole from Ottawa, Canada, to
Richards Airfield every Tuesday to work on the museum-quality Harvard; one of the few
luxuries he had afforded himself in the past year.
The stranger glanced at his watch. It was time. He took a cell phone from his side leg
pocket and dialled the number of Lepage‟s private Hangar. As forty-two year old Robert
Lepage closed the engine cowling of the Harvard, the ring of the hangar phone startled him;
“Yes.” He answered curtly.
“Airport security, sir. Just a routine check before we lock the perimeter gates. Will you
be staying over or flying out tonight?”
“No, I‟m locking up. I‟ll be flying out shortly. My flight plan‟s filed with Burlington
Center. I‟ll activate it when I‟m airborne.
“Fine, sir. Have a safe flight and goodnight.”
Keeping low, the stranger moved towards the darkened side door of the third hangar.
Concealing himself in the shadows, he waited. He tensed as the distinctive ring Lepage‟s cell
