"You don't even sound like yourself. Something rotten's going on, and I want to know what the fuck it is! And don't give me that bullshit about obscenity being a lack of vocabulary."
"In your case it wouldn't do any good, and I wouldn't say it."
"Yes, well, somebody else did. Where the hell is Wahlburg?
Washington, for Christ's sake?"
"He lives in Philadelphia, you know that. Why do you say Washington?"
"Let's put it this way," began Fowler, perspiring in his cool hotel suite.
"I heard a rumor, which is why I've-we've-got to find the Jew! .. . You know, I've got a lot of friends in Washington, a few on offshore payrolls, actually, and one of them told me-told me .. .
told me-" "Told you what?" interrupted Nichols.
"That Ben was seen going into the FTC building."
"The Federal Trade Commission?"
"I didn't say FBI, which is the only thing worse."
"I don't understand."
"Suppose the hebe got yellow and decided to cover his hymie ass?
Those people are clever, you know. He could do it in ways that wouldn't implicate himself, like he heard rumors, et cetera."
"About our .. . enterprise?"
"It's not about Disney World, you asshole!"
"I don't see how he could. Any deposition he might give to the FTC attorneys, they'd probe, and to be convincing he'd have to implicate himself, even in a minor way."
"That's lawyer talk. The Jew boys are smarter than you."
"God, you're offensive. My daughter is married to a fine lawyer who happens to be Jewish-" "Yeah, I know all about him. He calls himself Stone, but it's really Stein."
"I suggested that for professional reasons. They live in Boston."
"Now who's offensive? .. . Forget it, back to Wahlburg. What do you figure?"
"I just told you, I question your source. However, we may have a larger problem, and it concerns the schism in Amsterdam."
"What the fuck is that? Straight talk, not hypothetical."
"What?"
"Whaddya know, not whaddya think."
"I'm afraid my source is impeccable. The split in Amsterdam is between the Keizersgracht and Guiderone. The son of the Shepherd Boy will prevail, of course, but it pains me to believe that Albert has conceivably thrown in with van der Meer."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"He's apparently, according to my source, decided to go with the money from Amsterdam."
"Who told you this?"
"A rumor, like yours, that's all I will say."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all you're going to get, Jamieson."
"Everything's falling apart, for Christ's sake! This is crazy. You're crazy and I'm crazy. What the hell is going on?"
"I'd like to know," said Stuart Nichols, hanging up the phone.
It was a quarter past five in the afternoon and the offices of Swanson and Schwartz were closed. However, Albert Whitehead remained inside, having said a wary if pleasant good-night to Stuart Nichols. There was a knock on his door.
"Come in," called out the chief executive officer.
"Yes, sir." An attractive secretary walked inside.
"I did as you suggested, Mr. Whitehead. I waited in the ladies' room until Mr. Nichols left."
"Thank you, Joanne. Sit down, please." The secretary did so and Whitehead continued.
"As I briefly mentioned earlier, this meeting is extremely confidential in the highest professional sense. It may turn out to be meaningless, and I pray to the Almighty that it is, but certain information has come to light that might-I emphasize only might concern your boss. Am I clear?"
"Of course."
"Good. How long have you worked for Mr. Nichols?"
"Nearly two years, sir."
"I know he's constantly filing papers, legal briefs, that sort of thing, but can you recall any lengthy statements or depositions directed to be under a court's seal?"
"Not offhand.. .. No, wait a minute. About six or seven months ago there was a guardian ad litem situation where the inheritor, a minor, sought the protection of the court to keep the size of the inheritance confidential. Insofar as the taxes were prepaid, the court accepted the seal."
"That was the only one?"
"To the best of my knowledge, yes, sir."
To the best of my knowledge. Whitehead loathed that phrase. It was all too often used as a cop-out, just as secretaries frequently formed bonds of loyalty with their bosses. How many followed them to other and better jobs? Too many to count!
"Joanne, I certainly believe you, my dear, but the few stockholders we have insisted that I make a thorough search. Do you have records of Mr. Nichols's dictation, or the documents he prepared?"
"Every document and every letter, including interoffice memoranda.... I wasn't aware that Swanson and Schwartz had stockholders."
"It's not something we talk about; a small group of investors who helped me purchase the firm. Where are these records?"
"On computer disks, cataloged by date, day, and time of entry."
"Would you mind showing me where they are?"
"Not at all, sir." The secretary rose from the chair, preceding
Whitehead out the door and to an office down the hall. Inside, she led him to a huge white file cabinet; she opened it, revealing shelves of disks, the shelves in sections by years and months.
"My word!" said Albert Whitehead.
"That's quite a collection."
"Mr. Nichols started it five years ago. He decided it was easier and far more accessible to store things here rather than in the warehouse."
"He was absolutely right. Show me how it works. We all have the same computers, but I could be a little rusty pulling files up." The secretary named Joanne removed a disk, inserted it into the drive, and pressed the appropriate codes.
"Oh, yes," said the CEO, "I remember now. It's really very simple, isn't it?"
"Very, Mr. Whitehead. Shall I stay and assist you? I can call my husband-" "No, no, my dear, you run along. I'll be fine, and remember, our little meeting was just between us, as well as my visit here."
"I understand, sir."
"On behalf of the investors and myself, you'll find an envelope under your blotter in the morning."
"That's not necessary, sir."
"Oh, but it is, it is."
"Well, thank yo
u, Mr. Whitehead.. .. And I hope everything is all right. I think Mr. Nichols is a wonderful man, so kind and considerate."
"He's all of that and a dear friend." And a fucking Judas to boot!
"Goodnight, sir."
"Good night, Joanne."
It was close to midnight when Albert Whitehead extracted the last disk. He was exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, his breath short. He had gone back three full years and over four thousand documents. There was nothing! Had Nichols gone outside the office and hired a typist from some sleazy employment agency? Or perhaps from a third-rate newspaper's Help Wanted column? Of course he had. It had to be! He couldn't very well indict the head of Swanson and Schwartz in front of an employee-or could he? Secretaries were an unpredictable breed, ranging from stealing petty cash to breaking up marriages.
Shall I stay and assist you? I can call my husband.
Sure, young lady, call your husband and tell him you 're working with the owner of the company until midnight! What's next? Rape?
Blackmail?
Whitehead dragged himself out of the chair and replaced the final disk in the large white file cabinet. He returned to the desk, picked up Nichols's telephone, and dialed his limousine service.
"Madre di Dio! II mare Mediterraneo! Mare nostra!" The screams filled the silent night at the airfield in Senetosa, Corsica.
"What the hell is that?" shouted Scofield, bolting from the cot in the cabin north of the runway.
"Damned if I know," said Pryce, sitting up on the couch.
The door of the cabin crashed open as Luther Considine ran inside.
"For God's sake, will somebody translate? Krazy Kat's going nuts out there!"
"What is it?" asked Brandon.
"You tell me," replied Luther.
"He's running up here."
The air controller burst through the door.
"La radio! Mare nostra.
Fuoco, incendio!"
"Lentamente, lentamente," said Scofield, telling the man to slow down.
"English, piacere?"
"Over radio," answered the controller in his broken English.
"All through il Mediterraneo-fires everywhere! From bay of Muscat to Africa, Israel, fuochi. Inferno, maledetto! II diavolo takes up the world!"