And James Goddard knew that it was his ability, not the computers’, that reduced the incredible mass into workable figures. He separated, isolated, appropriated; his eyes scanned the sheets and with the surefootedness of a large but supple cat he made his swift notations and shifted millions as though he were testing branches, prepared for the unexpected fall but always ready for that last step, that final inch that meant he could leap for the profit-kill.
There was no one like him. He was an artist with figures. Numbers were his friends; they didn’t betray him, and he could make them do his bidding.
People betrayed him.
MEMORANDUM
: Mr. James Goddard, Pres., San Francisco Division
There is a problem that I believe imperatively warrants your attention.
L.R
L.R. Louis Riggs. The Vietnam veteran Genessee had hired a year ago. A bright young man, unusually quick and decisive. He was quiet, but not without emotions, not without loyalty; that had been proven to Goddard.
Riggs had been wounded in the service. He was a hero and a fine young American; not an obscene ass or an indolent, drug-taking hippie the way most of the youth were today.
Lou Riggs had told him that something was going on he should be aware of. Riggs had been approached by one of Trevayne’s assistants and offered a bribe to confirm information damaging to Genessee—especially to him as president of the San Francisco Division. Naturally, Riggs refused. Then, several days later, a man who identified himself as an Army officer attached to the Department of Defense threatened him—actually threatened him—to disclose private company records that bore specifically on Mr. Goddard’s reputation. He also refused, and if Mr. Goddard recalled, Lou Riggs had sent a previous memo requesting a meeting—Mr. Goddard didn’t recall; there were so damned many memos. However, when Lou Riggs read in the newspaper that this same Army officer was the one involved with that killing in Connecticut, on Andrew Trevayne’s property, he knew he had to see Mr. Goddard immediately.
Goddard wasn’t sure what was going on, but the outlines of a conspiracy were there. A conspiracy against him. Possibly being made between Trevayne and the Pentagon. Why else would D.O.D. send an interrogation officer to back up one of Trevayne’s assistants? And why had that same officer killed De Spadante’s brother?
Why had Mario de Spadante been killed?
It seemed logical that De Spadante was trying to get off his own hook.
Some might be hanged so that others—higher up—would not have to hang.
De Spadante had said that. But perhaps De Spadante wasn’t as «high up» as he thought he was. Perhaps the Pentagon considered him too much a liability—God knew he was an undesirable fellow.
Whatever. James Goddard, the «bookkeeper,» had made up his mind. It was the moment to act, not reflect any longer. He needed only the most damaging of all information.
There would be approximately eleven thousand cards measuring three by seven inches. Cards with strange square perforations; cards that weren’t to be folded, spindled, or mutilated. He had measured several thousand identically shaped cards, and found that eleven thousand would require four briefcases. He had them in the trunk of his car.
The computer itself was another matter. It was huge and required two men to operate. For security purposes the men had to be across the room from each other and punch simultaneously separate codes on the keys for it to function. The codes of each man were changed daily, and the two codes were kept in separate offices. The division president’s and the comptroller’s.
It hadn’t been difficult for Goddard to get the second code for the twenty-four-hour period beginning Sunday morning. He’d simply walked into the comptroller’s office and said innocently that he thought they’d been given identical code schedules by mistake. Equally innocently the comptroller withdrew his from the safe, and they matched figures. Instantly it was obvious that Goddard had been wrong; the codes were different. But within that instant James Goddard’s eyes riveted on the Sunday figures. He committed them to memory.
Numbers were his only friends.
Still there was the physical aspect of the machine itself. He needed one other person who would be willing to spend nearly six hours in the basement computer room; someone whom he could trust, who realized that his actions were for the benefit of Genessee Industries, perhaps for the nation itself.
He’d been astonished when the man he’d selected had made a financial demand, but then, as he pointed out, it could be considered a promotion, an overdue promotion. Before he realized it, Goddard had hired a special assistant at an increase of ten thousand dollars a year.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was this day’s business, this day’s decision.
He approached the gate and slowed down his car. The guard, recognizing first the automobile and then the driver, snapped a firm two fingers to his cap.
«Good morning, Mr. Goddard. No Sunday off for the front office, eh, sir?»
Goddard didn’t like the man’s informality. It was out of place. However, there was no time for reprimands.
«No, I have work to do. And, guard, I’ve asked Mr. Riggs to come in this morning. There’s no need to check him out with security. Tell him to report directly to my office.»
«Mr. Riggs, sir?»
«You should know him. He was wounded fighting for our country, protecting us, mister!»
«Yes, sir. Riggs, sir.» The guard wrote the name on his clipboard rapidly.
«He drives a small sports car,» added Goddard as an afterthought. «Just wave him through. His initials are on the door panel. L.R.»
46
Sam Vicarson sank into the down-filled cushion of the velvet sofa and found his knees disconcertingly parallel with his shoulders. Andrew Trevayne sat at the room-service table and sipped coffee from a Limoges cup imprinted with the words «Waldorf Towers, New York.» He was reading from a very thick red leather notebook.
«Jesus!» said Vicarson.
«What?»
«No wonder so many uptight conferences take place in these rooms. Once you sit down, you can’t get up; you might as well talk.»
Trevayne smiled and went back to his reading. Sam stretched his legs, only to find the position less comfortable. With considerable effort he got up and wandered about the room looking at the various prints on the velour-covered walls and finally out the windows, thirty-five stories above Park Avenue and Fiftieth Street. Trevayne made a notation on a piece of paper, closed the red leather notebook, and looked at his watch.
«They’re five minutes late. I wonder if that’s a good sign in politics,» said Andrew.
«I’d be just as happy if they never showed up,» replied Sam, without answering the question. «I feel outclassed. Christ. Ian Hamilton. He wrote the book.»
«Not any book I’d run out to buy.»
«You don’t have to; you don’t sell legal services, Mr. Trevayne. This guy does. He walks with kings, and he threw away the common touch a long time ago. I don’t think he had much use for it anyway.»
«Very accurate. You read the report.»
«I didn’t have to. What did his kid say? That his old man does his thing because he figures no one else can do it as well. Anywheres near as well.»