"He's that type, is he?" Nick folded the photos and slipped them into his wallet. "Better raise headquarters," he added. "I've got to check in."
Poindexter walked over to the picture-phone and flicked a switch. "He was licensed by the mob to operate as a Shylock and extortionist," he said, watching the screen shimmer to life. "In return he killed and did strong-arm work for them. He was known as the last resort. When all other Shylocks turned a man down, Reno Tree would take him on. He loved it when they defaulted. It gave him a reason to work them over. But most of all he loved to torture women. There's a story around that he had a stable of girls in Vegas and that he slashed all their faces with a razor when he left town… A-4, N3 on the scrambler from H.T. station," he said as a lovely brunette wearing a communications headset shimmered into view.
"Hold, please." She was replaced by the iron-gray-haired old man to whom Nick gave all his allegiance and most of his affection. N3 made his report, noting as he did that the familiar cigar was missing and also the usual glint of humor in the ice-chip eyes. Hawk was upset, preoccupied. And he lost no time in getting to what was troubling him.
"The AXE listening posts have reported in," he said brusquely at the conclusion of Nick's report. "And the news isn't good. That false information I spread at the Bali Hai has turned up — but domestically, at a relatively low underworld level. Bets are being placed in Las Vegas on the NASA moon program. The smart money is saying it will be two years before the project gets under way again." He paused. "What has me really concerned, however, is that the top secret information I gave you on Phoenix One has also appeared — and at a very high level in Washington."
Hawk's craggy features grew even grimmer. "It will be a day or so before we hear from our people inside foreign espionage organizations," he added, "but it doesn't look good. Someone very high up is leaking information. Our adversary, in short, has an operative placed high in NASA itself."
The full significance of Hawk's words slowly sank in — Phoenix One was now also in jeopardy.
A light flashed and from the corner of his eye Nick saw Poindexter pick up the telephone. He turned toward Nick, covering the mouthpiece. "It's General McAlester," he said.
"Put him on the conference box so Hawk can listen in."
Poindexter threw a switch and the voice of the NASA Security Chief filled the room. "There's been a fatal accident at the Texas City plant of GKI Industries," he announced tersely. "It happened last night — in the division that manufactures an element of the Apollo life support system. Alex Simian flew in from Miami with his security chief to investigate. He called me a few minutes ago and said that he had something of vital importance to show us. As captain of the second reserve team you should naturally be in on this. We'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."
"Right," said Nick, and swiveled back to face Hawk.
"So it's starting to happen already," said the old man grimly.
Chapter 7
The big Fleetwood Eldorado swept along the Gulf Freeway.
Outside, the Texas heat was bright, heavy, oppressive. The flat horizon shimmered with it. The limousine's interior was cool, however, almost cold, and the tinted blue windows shaded the eyes of the five men who sat in the comfortable seats.
"Thoughtful of GKI to send their limousine for us," said General McAlester, drumming his ringers broodingly on the edge of his armrest.
"Now, now, Hewlett, don't be cynical," Ray Finney chuckled caustically. "You know Alex Simian can't do enough for us at NASA. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his company makes only one element in the moon spacecraft and would like to make the whole thing."
"Of course not," laughed McAlester. "What's one million dollars versus twenty billion? Among friends, at any rate?"
Gordon Nash, the captain of the first astronaut team, swiveled around in the jump seat. "Look, I don't care what the rest of you say about Simian," he snapped. "The guy's all right in my book. If his friendship places a strain on our integrity, that's our problem, not his."
Nick stared out the window, listening to the argument heat up once again. It had sizzled on and off all the way from Houston. Simian, and General Kinetics in general, seemed to be a sore, much discussed point among the four of them.
Ray Finney chimed in once again. "How many houses, boats, cars and TV sets have each of us had to turn down during the last year? I'd hate to have to add their total value up."
"Purely good will," grinned McAlester. "How did Simian put it to that Senate Investigating Committee?"
"That any disclosure of gift offers might destroy the intimate and confidential nature of NASA's relationships with its contractors," Finney recited with mock solemnity.
Major Sollitz leaned forward and slid the glass paneling shut. McAlester chuckled. "Wasted effort, Duane. I'm sure the whole limousine is bugged, not just our chauffeur. Simian is even more security conscious than you are."
"I just feel we shouldn't go on record as talking about the man this way," Sollitz snapped. "Simian is no different from any other contractor. Aerospace is a roller-coaster business. And with government orders growing bigger, but fewer, the competition is getting really vicious. If we were in his shoes we'd be doing exactly the same…"
"Now, Duane, I don't think that's quite fair," said McAlester. "There's more to this Simian business than that."
"Undue influence? Then why doesn't NASA drop GKI completely?"
"Because they make the best life support system that can be made," Gordon Nash broke in heatedly. "Because they've made submarines for thirty-five years and know all there is to know about life support whether it's under the ocean or out in space. My life, and Glenn's life here — " he pointed at Nick, " — depend on them. I don't think we should downgrade them."
"No one's downgrading their technical knowhow. It's GKI's financial side that could use some investigating. At least the Cooper Committee seems to think so."
"Look, I'm the first to admit that Alex Simian's reputation is unsavory. He's a wheeler and dealer, there's no denying that. And it's part of the public record that he was once a speculator in commodities. But General Kinetics was a company with no future five years ago. Then Simian took it over — and look at it now."
Nick looked out the window. They had arrived at the outer edges of GKI's sprawling Texas City plant. A tangle of boxlike brick offices, glass-roofed research laboratories and steel-walled hangars went fanning past. Overhead, jet contrails laced the sky, and above the quiet hiss of the Eldorado's air conditioning, Nick could hear the wail of GK-111's taking off to fly directly to U.S. bases in the Far East with the help of in-flight refueling.
The limousine slowed as it approached the main gate. Green-uniformed Security Police with eyes like steel marbles waved them down and leaned in the windows, checking their credentials. Finally they were allowed to move on — but only to a white-and-black barrier manned by more GKI police. A couple of them got down on their hands and knees and peered under the Caddy's suspension. "I only wish we were as thorough at NASA," Sollitz said grimly.
"You forget why we're here," McAlester shot back. "Apparently there's been a breach in all this security."
The barrier was raised and the limousine moved out across a huge concrete apron past the white blocky shapes of workshops, skeletal missile launchers and cavernous machine shops.
Near the center of this open expanse, the Eldorado slowed to a stop. The chauffeur's voice said over the intercom: "Gentlemen, this is as far as I have authorization to go." He pointed through the windshield to a small building set apart from the others. "Mr. Simian is waiting for you at the Spacecraft Simulator."