The Doomsday Conspiracy

FLASH MESSAGE

TOP SECRET ULTRA

DCI TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA

EYES ONLY

COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES

SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY

6. DANIEL WAYNE – WACO – TERMINATED

END OF MESSAGE

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Day Nine

Fort Smith, Canada

Fort Smith, in the Northwest Territories, is a prosperous town of two thousand people, most of them farmers and cattle ranchers, with a sprinkling of merchants. The climate itself is demanding, with long and rigorous winters, and the town is living proof of Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest.

William Mann was one of the fit ones, a survivor. He had been born in Michigan, but in his early thirties he had passed through Fort Smith on a fishing trip and had decided that the community needed another good bank. He had seized the opportunity. There was only one other bank there, and it took William Mann less than two years to put his competitor out of business. Mann ran his bank the way a bank should be run. His god was mathematics, and he saw to it that the numbers always came out to his benefit. His favourite story was the joke about the man who went to a banker pleading for a loan so that his young son could have an immediate operation to save his life. When the applicant said he had no security, the banker told him to get out of his office.

“I’ll go,” the man said, “but I want to tell you that in all my years, I’ve never met anyone as coldhearted as you are.”

“Wait a minute,” the banker replied. “I’ll make you a sporting proposition. One of my eyes is a glass eye. If you can tell me which one it is, I’ll give you the loan.”

Instantly, the man said, “Your left one.”

The banker was amazed. “No one knows that. How could you tell?”

The man said, “That’s easy. For a moment, I thought I detected a gleam of sympathy in your left eye, so I knew it must be your glass eye.”

That, to William Mann, was a good businessman’s story. One did not conduct business based on sympathy. You had to look at the bottom line. While other banks in Canada and the United States were toppling like tenpins, William Mann’s bank was stronger than ever. His philosophy was simple: no loans to start up businesses; no investments in junk bonds; no loans to neighbours whose children might desperately need an operation.

Mann had a respect that bordered on awe for the Swiss banking system. The gnomes of Zurich were bankers’ bankers. So, one day, William Mann decided to go to Switzerland to speak to some of the bankers there to learn if there was anything he was missing, any way he could squeeze more cents out of the Canadian dollar. He had been received graciously, but in the end he had learned nothing new. His own banking methods were admirable, and the Swiss bankers had not hesitated to tell him so.

On the day he was to leave for home, Mann decided to treat himself to a tour of the Alps. He had found the tour boring. The scenery was interesting, but no prettier than the scenery around I; Fort Smith. One of the passengers, a Texan, had dared try to persuade him to make a loan on a ranch that was going into bankruptcy. He had laughed in the man’s face. The only thing about the tour that was of any interest was the crash of the so-called flying saucer. Mann had not believed in the reality of that for an instant. He was sure it had been staged by the Swiss government to impress tourists. He had been to Disney World and he had seen similar things that looked real, but were faked. It’s Switzerland’s glass eye, he thought sardonically.

William Mann was happy to return home.

Every minute of the banker’s day was meticulously scheduled, and when his secretary came in and said that a stranger wished to see him, Mann’s first instinct was to dismiss him. “What is it he wants?”

“He says he wants to do an interview with you. He’s writing an article about bankers.”

That was a different matter entirely. Publicity of the right kind was good for business. William Mann straightened his jacket, smoothed down his hair, and said, “Send him in.”

His visitor was an American. He was well dressed, which indicated that he worked for one of the better magazines or newspapers.

“Mr Mann?”

“Yes.”

“Robert Bellamy.”

“My secretary tells me you want to do an article about me.”

“Well, not entirely about you,” Robert said. “But you’ll certainly be prominent in it. My newspaper …”

“Which newspaper is that?”

“The Wall Street Journal.”

Ah, yes. This was going to be excellent.

“The Journal feels that most bankers are too isolated from what’s going on in the rest of the world. They seldom travel, they don’t go to other countries. You, on the other hand, Mr Mann, have the reputation of being very well travelled.”

“I suppose I am,” Mann said modestly. “As a matter of fact, I came back from a trip to Switzerland just last week.”

“Really? Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. I met with several other bankers there. We discussed world economics.”

Robert had pulled out a notebook and was making notes. “Did you have any time for pleasure?”

“Not really. Oh, I took a little tour on one of those buses. I had never seen the Alps before.”

Robert made another note. “A tour. Now that’s exactly the kind of thing we’re looking for,” Robert said, encouragingly. “I imagine you met a lot of interesting people on the bus.”

“Interesting?” He thought about the Texan who had tried to borrow money. “Not really.”