It was no wonder they, and the thousands like them, clung to the idea of revolution; only after a total upheaval of society would there be any chance of their returning to their original favored position in the social structure. In refusing the plea of some Senators the year before to pass a general amnesty for the political prisoners and the exiled war protesters and all the other shattered remnants of the American Revolution of 1968–69, Congress had sown a wind that could yet give these eight men the social catastrophe their blighted lives required.
In the meantime, their present hopes lay with China, which meant that when they’d been approached by Chinese agents to assist China in her undercover work within the United States — with the assurance that they would never be asked to cooperate in anything against the people (as opposed to the government) of the United States — they had agreed at once. Their help until today had taken only minor forms, but today they would assist in a major way.
They’d been shown the correspondence between Bradford Lockridge and the Chinese. The conversion of this man, formerly one of their most-hated enemies, had delighted them, was one of the most hopeful signs in years of their eventual victory. The information that Lockridge was being forcibly detained by his family confirmed their ideas of Establishment villainy, and they were proud to assist in wresting Lockridge from its clutches.
The two Chinese were middle-aged men, seasoned agents who knew how to take available amateur material and turn it into a useful short-term force. Their base was six hundred miles farther north, in Montreal, where an extreme radical offshoot of the Free Quebec separatist movement was also in active cooperation with Chinese espionage, and where a plane was ready to take Lockridge to Vancouver for transfer to another plane for the flight to Peking. From this farmhouse to Montreal, Lockridge would travel in safety and comfort in the rear of a delivery van now parked behind the farmhouse. The van was marked Penn-Can Delivery Service, and bore New York State license plates. Ontario plates were stored in the van, ready to be put on after they had crossed the unguarded border on one of the back roads above Malone, New York. The interior of the van had been carpeted, and furnished with an easy chair, two tables and a reading lamp. There were also magazines and books for Lockridge to read, including a picture book of the area around Peking. A chemical toilet had been installed in one corner, and an intercom system would permit Lockridge to speak, if necessary, with the driver.
Inside the farmhouse, the two Chinese agents were going over the plan one last time with the eight Americans. The Chinese would not take an active part in Lockridge’s rescue, because of their high visibility in a Caucasian city, but would wait here at the farmhouse for the eight — and Lockridge — to return.
Now they were ready. They solemnly shook hands all around, and the eight left the house. Outside were three automobiles — green Chevrolet, tan Mercury, maroon-and-black Pontiac — into which the eight sorted themselves, and drove away, down the deserted dirt road through woods and past other abandoned farm houses to the blacktop road which would lead them to Lancashire.
ii
The house of the President of Lancashire University was a large rambling brick structure across the highway from the campus itself, between the highway and the river. The sloping lawn leading from the rear of the house to a wooden dock and broad concrete steps at the river had been one of Elizabeth’s joys, though of course these days the river was polluted and no longer useful for swimming and fishing. But the view was still beautiful, at every season.
Elizabeth’s body lay in the living room, where it had been since Wednesday afternoon. Sterling had continued to stay in the house, joined by his two daughters-in-law, Howard’s wife Grace and Edward’s wife Janet, the latter there with Edward from Paris. The rest of the family had assembled in town last night and this morning, most of them staying at one of the motels on the highway, Wellington and one or two others staying at Lancashire House, the old hotel in town. Bradford had come up this morning by car, accompanied by Evelyn and Howard and (as though fortuitously) by Gregory Holt; a car full of young men from the family, Thomas Wellington and Albert Bloor Jr. and Robert Pratt (considered family now) and George Holt, had followed Bradford’s Lincoln the whole way.
Upon arrival in Lancashire, Bradford found himself at once flanked by Harrison on one side and by Senator Meredith Fanshaw on the other. It was not unnatural that they should stay close to him from that point on, from the instant he left the car in front of Sterling’s house.
Family members seemed to be spread all over town, and an amazing number of them seemed to have sprouted hearing aids, unobtrusive flesh-colored plastic buttons, usually in the left ear. Wellington had supplied these items, which were sophisticated miniature walkie-talkies. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been time to train the family in the use of throat mikes, so communication was strictly one way, but at least it was possible for Wellington to move his forces around.
William and Walter Wellington, both fiftyish Boston attorneys, drove up and down the route between Sterling’s house and Greenland Cemetery for an hour before the funeral procession was to begin, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The radio receivers in their ears crackled slightly from time to time, but were otherwise silent. Wellington had given them the code number four; instructions to them would be preceded by that number.
In the church, which would be the one stop on the route, James Fanshaw sat in a rear pew with Joseph Holt, the two discussing in low tones the mental health of both Bradford Lockridges, Senior and Junior. They also kept glancing around for anything that didn’t look just right. And they kept listening to the transmitters in their ears for Wellington to say the number three.
In the cemetery itself, Eugene White sat in his car just off the gravel road on a high spot where he could see most of the cemetery just by turning his head. Beside him sat Mortimer Wellington, forty-three, New York stockbroker, well-padded by affluence. The number they were waiting for was five.
A great deal of rapid but careful work had gone into the preparations for the funeral. In the first place, it had been limited to family; an abridged explanation of the situation had been given Sterling, so he would understand anything out of the ordinary in the handling of the funeral, but though he had at once volunteered to take an active role it had been decided that even this crisis should not be allowed to intrude on his farewell to Elizabeth.
There were to be seven cars following the hearse and flower car, with five family members in each, making thirty-five in all. There were also James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt at the church, Walter and William Wellington driving back and forth along the route, and Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington at the cemetery, they having been the six chosen because none of them was directly related to Elizabeth, and so would not be particularly noticeable in their absence. And finally, Earl Chatham, who had missed yesterday’s meeting but had flown in from the coast last night, and whose number was six, was staying at Sterling’s house while the rest of the family was gone for the funeral. This made a total of forty-one relatives and in-laws surrounding Bradford.