"It's not all that improbable, Mr. Secretary. There have been strong financial links between the leaders of the pilots, stevedores, and trainmen with a dissident element of the drivers' union. These links began emerging roughly two months ago. It is this dissident element of the drivers which pushed for, and got, the convention to move to Chicago. Moreover, it is this dissident element that has constructed a large ten-story building just outside Chicago at incredible expense because of the rush aspects of contraction. Incredible expense. We don't know for sure where they got the money. We don't know for sure how they get things done so smoothly, but get things done they do. We have investigated the building and are continuing to attempt to do so. We cannot prove it yet, but we believe two of our agents who are missing were murdered in that building. We have not found their bodies. We have suspicions as to how the bodies are disposed of, but no confirming evidence, as yet."
"Well, that settles it," said the secretary of labour. "No superunion about to be born can survive the murder of two FBI agents. You put all the leaders on trial. There's your superunion right there, doing life in Leavenworth."
"We need evidence, which we hope to get. There is the jury system, Mr. Secretary."
"There is that," said the secretary of labour. 'There is that. As you gentlemen know, I am scheduled to address Friday's closing meeting of the convention. I don't know if I should go ahead with it. I did know there would be representatives there from other unions, but I never imagined it was anything like this."
"Go ahead with your speech," said the President. 'Go ahead as if nothing has happened, as if you know nothing of what we talked about. Mention this meeting to no one." And to the director, "I want you to withdraw all your men from this investigation."
"What?" exclaimed the director, shocked.
"That's what I said. Withdraw your men and forget about this case and discuss it with no one."
"But we've lost two agents."
"I know. But you must do what I ask now. You must trust me that it will work out well."
"In my report to the attorney-general, how will I explain that we are not investigating our agents' disappearance?"
"There will be no report. I would like to tell you what I am going to do, but I cannot. All I can say is that I have said too much. Trust me."
"I have my men to worry about, too, Mr. President. Abandoning an investigation after we have lost two agents will not go down too well."
"Trust me. For a while, trust me."
"Yes, sir," said the director of the FBI.
When the two men were gone, the President left the Oval room and went to his bedroom. He waited a few seconds to make sure no maid or butler was around, then unlocked the top bureau drawer. He reached his hand into the drawer and closed it around a small red phone. The phone had no dial, just a button. He glanced at his watch. This was one of the hours he could reach the contact.
The phone buzzed at the other end and a voice came on.
"Just a minute. That will be all, gentlemen. You're dismissed."
The President heard other men, further from the receiver, objecting—something about in-patient treatment. But the man with the receiver was firm. He wished to be alone.
"You can be incredibly rude, Dr. Smith," said one of the men in the distance.
"Yes," said Dr. Smith.
The President heard mumbling, then a door shutting.
"All right," said Dr. Smith.
"You are probably more aware of this than I am, but I fear that we face some trouble on the labour front that will cripple the entire nation to an incredible extent."
"Yes. The International Transportation Association."
"I've never heard of it."
"You never will if, as we hope, everything works right."
"This is a joining of unions into one superunion?"
"That's right."
"So, you are on it?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to use that special person? Him?"
"We have him on alert."
"This is certainly drastic enough to use him."
"Sir, there's no point in keeping this conversation going, even over a line as secure as this. Good-bye."
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo, and he felt mildly sorry for the man who had erected the poorly hidden detection devices outside this elegant Tucson estate. It was such a good try, such a sincere effort to construct a deadly trap, yet it had one obvious flaw. And because the builder did not appreciate this flaw, he would die that day, hopefully before 12.05 p.m.—because Remo had to get back to Tucson early for important business.
The electric beams, functioning very similarly to radar, were rather well concealed and appeared to cover the required 360-degree ring which is supposed to be perfect for a single plane. The land was cleaned of just the kind of clump shrubbery that afforded concealment to attackers. The X layout of the ranchhouse, seemingly an architectural eccentricity, was actually a very good design for cross fire. The estate, though small and pretty, was a disguised fortress that could most certainly stop a mob executioner or could, if it came to it, delay a deputy sheriff—or two or ten.
If it ever came to it—because there was no chance that a sheriff or a state trooper would ever besiege this estate outside of Tucson. The man called Remo was now very simply penetrating the one flaw in the entire defence: The builder had not prepared for the eventuality of one man walking up to the front door by himself in broad daylight, ringing the doorbell, then executing the builder along with anyone else who got in the way. The estate was designed to prevent a concealed attack. Remo would not even be stopped as he walked past the beams in the open Arizona sun, whistling softly to himself. After all, what danger could one man be?
If Mr. James Thurgood had not been so successful in his business, he would probably live to see 1.00 p.m. Of course, if he were not so successful, he would be seeing 1.00 p.m. every day from the inside of a federal prison.
James Thurgood was president of the Tucson Rotary, the Tucson Civic League, a member of the President's Panel on Physical Fitness and executive vice-president of the Tucson Civil Rights Commission. Thurgood was also one of the leading investment bankers in the state. His profits were too big. After several layers of insulation, his money fuelled the heroin traffic at a rate of $300 million a year. It returned a greater yield than land development or petrochemicals, and for James Thurgood—until this bright, hot day—had been just about as safe.
Between Thurgood and the neighbourhood fix was the First Dallas Savings and Development Corporation, which lent large sums to the Denver Consolidated Affiliates, which made personal loans to people who needed them very quickly and in large amounts, one of them being recently Rocco Scallafazo.
Scallafazo offered no collateral, and as for his credit rating, it wasn't good enough to be bad. It was non-existent, since no one had ever given him a loan before. Denver Consolidated transcended the narrow regulations of banking and dared risk capital where other institutions would not. It gave Scallafazo $850,000 on his personal signature.
Denver Consolidated never got back the money. Scallafazo was picked up later with a suitcase full of Denver Consolidated's funds as he attempted to purchase raw heroin in Mexico. Undaunted, Denver Consolidated made another unsecured loan of an equal amount to Jeremy Wills, who was arrested without the money but with a trunkful of heroin. The Scallafazos and Willses were always being picked up, but no one could tie the evidence legally to the First Dallas Savings and Development Corporation, James Thurgood, President. There was no way to get Tucson's leading citizen into court.
So this day the man who financed heroin in the southwest would be gotten out of court. Remo casually strolled up the sun-baked driveway, examining his nails. His appearance certainly gave no hint of danger.