Oath of Fealty Page 10

  Tennaha Electric had a generous pension policy. How many of its employees were overage? If there were a lot of them, the initial profits would be high, but after a few years things would come apart.

  MILLIE, she thought. Has Sam come up with the figures on the age structure of Tennaha yet?

  Data flowed into her mind. Age of employees, pension entitlement, average turnover, average age when hired. When the stream was finished she examined what she'd learned. From long experience she controlled her expression, but inwardly she frowned. Tennaha was an oldsters' outfit; old craftsmen. They weren't hiring new people, and they had a lot of elderly craftsmen who wouldn't be around more than a decade.

  No good. As she'd suspected, the iceberg was just too big. She toyed with the idea of buying Tennaha out, skimming the cream, and unloading; but that involved the risk of finding a sucker. She could probably do that. The inflated downstream cost load was well hidden, and it had taken a lot of investigation to nail it down. But she couldn't be sure of a sucker when she needed one.

  Besides, she had a better use for the sales force. There was another company, CMC Inc., small, located right here in Los Angeles, that was vulnerable to a stock takeover, and that looked like a much better deal. She had two of her people out talking to the employees; if the key ones were willing, the whole outfit could be moved into Todos Santos, adding to TS capabilities; the money would stay in TS banks and credit unions, available for additional investment, rather than moving outward to Columbus where Tennaha had its plant.

  There were a lot of advantages to that. Todos Santos was exempted from most of the stupid regulations that businesses outside had to live with. If they bought Tennaha they'd have a hell of a time streamlining the place, what with equal opportunity and anti-age discrimination and all. Far better to import the capability than acquire an outside firm.

  Of course the management of CMC wouldn't want to sell out to Todos Santos, but that was a technical problem only. The right offer to the stockholders at the right time and the directors wouldn't know what hit them. They were a pretty naive bunch anyway. A couple of the directors weren't so bad, and those she'd keep on, but most would have to go- "Hey, come back," Ted Binghampton said. "You're a million miles away."

  "Oh. Sorry," Barbara said. "I guess I was."

  "I can never tell what you're thinking."

  She gave him her best smile, which she knew was pretty good. "There's luck." Until she found out if the key CMC people would move to Todos Santos, it would be best to keep the Tennaha deal alive.

  She listened idly as he said something about what a pleasure it was to do business with a lovely woman. She'd heard that before, and she could respond with the proper smile without listening.

  She didn't have to listen. She had a totally objective appreciation of her attractiveness: high. After all, Playboy had once offered to do a spread on her when she was just getting started in business. Now that was flattery. Thank God she'd had sense enough to refuse, although at the time she sure could have used the money. Back then she was young enough and naive enough to think that physical attractiveness was terribly important. All the evidence said it was. She'd made plenty of money by modeling.

  Enough that she'd had to pay some attention to what was done with the money, and discovered that she liked business. It was the most exciting game in town. It hadn't hurt to be a pretty young thing who could talk like an ingénue, either. Not then. She was popular at parties, where she met a lot of other young women with money. Models, movie and TV stars, the whole panoply of Hollywood society, and after a while she was managing their investments; before that phase of her life ended she'd built a multimillion-dollar investment counseling firm, in which she still owned a 20 percent non-voting interest. She'd also earned enough to pay for her implant, and that was invaluable. While the people she negotiated with fumbled with papers and tried to remember figures, she had all the data available simply by wanting it.

  "And we have some new production figures," Ted was saying. "I didn't bring them down to dinner, but if you'd like to go over them now I can show you."

  She was considering how to refuse politely when the warbling began inside her head, and she knew she had real trouble.

  VII. NIGHT MEETINGS

  Those who would treat politics and morality apart will never understand the one or the other.

  -John, Viscount Morley of Blackburn

  The conference had started when Tony Rand came back to Executive Row. He entered quietly and took his seat at the big mahogany table.

  Most of the rulers of Todos Santos were there. Art Bonner at the end of the table, with Preston Sanders next to him. Sanders ware a strange expression: haunted eyes in a face relaxed by tranquilizers.

  Barbara Churchward, even more beautiful than usual, in a gold lamé gown that probably cast two thousand dollars, her red hair swept up into a sculptured helmet, her eyes focused on nothing.

  Next to her was Frank Mead, his buttocks overflowing the comfortable chair, his face in a perpetual scowl. As Comptroller, Mead worked for Bonner and Churchward, but he also reported directly to the Board in Zurich. Rumor had it that Mead was almost as powerful as Bonner. Certainly no one wanted to annoy him needlessly.

  There were others. Colonel Amos Cross, Chief of Security, a thin, dapper man going bald in a handsomely distinguished way. The young medical resident who'd given Sanders the shot, looking very out of place among the mighty. And John Shapiro, the head of the legal staff, self-conscious in a shirt open at the collar; usually he wore a full-vested suit and conservative necktie.

  They were all looking at Tony Rand. Bonner frowned. "Learn anything?"

  "Some. They had one signal generator that put out a code MILLIE interprets as routine maintenance, another that bollixed up the capacitance detectors, and a couple of others I won't understand without a few hours work."

  "Any conclusions from that?" Bonner asked.

  "Good brains at work. How could anyone that smart be that stupid?"

  "Tony, how did they know what they'd need?"

  Tony shook his head. "Some of it's logical, but they couldn't have guessed the frequencies, and they'd never have guessed the codes to open locks."

  "Meaning they had an inside source?" Frank Mead asked. "It's likely," Tony said. "Probably somebody who has access to MILLIE. But I've no idea who."

  "I don't either," Bonner said. "I hate to think of anyone as disloyal-"

  Mead asked, "Whose staff would he be an?"

  "Yours?" Rand asked.

  Mead shook his head. "None of my people know a damn thing about electronics. I don't myself. Look, if we've got a goddam traitor in here, we have to get rid of him."

  "Certainly," Bonner said. "We'll see what we can do in the morning. But for now, we don't need another penetration. Colonel, are your troops on alert?"

  "Yes, sir," Cross said. He smoothed dawn his nearly invisible pencil mustache, then put his hands together and laid them carefully on the table where he could watch them. "I've doubled the watch in Central, and we've got teams with dogs out walking the perimeter. Also, with your permission, I'd like to see just who's had access to MILLIE."

  Bonner nodded agreement. "I've already got MILLIE working up a report for me. Tony, is it possible they've got a way to get information out of MILLIE without leaving any record?"

  "Sure. You do it all the time. So does Barbara. And your deputies, and Delores. Anyone with an implant, or with a terminal and unrestricted access."

  "Aren't there records of who's, called up what file, and when?" Barbara Churchward asked.

  "Sure," Tony said. "But the accession records aren't secure. Almost anyone could alter them."

  "Why is that?" Mead demanded. "Seems awfully loose to me."

  "Well," Tony said, "every time you put in closed files, you complicate the programs. Complex programs are hard to maintain. We can do it, but it will get expensive."

  Bonner's lips tightened. "Okay. That's another problem that'll have to wa
it until morning." He took in a deep breath. "Planchet's kid, of all people. He's more powerful than the Mayor! He can really hurt us, and we've got to assume he'll try."

  "Scapegoat," Sanders said. "He'll want a scapegoat. Me."

  "Well, he won't get you," Bonner said. "Johnny, what's the legal situation?"

  "Not good," Shapiro said. "For the moment we're all right. We're a police department, and we've notified ourselves. But it's been an hour, and by now we should already have called the County Coroner's office. Once we do that, the D.A.'s men will take jurisdiction away from us."

  "Can we fight that?"

  Shapiro shook his head decisively. "No, sir, no way. Tados Santos has a lot of legal immunities, but we're still a part of LA County and the state of California. Nothing we can do about that."

  "I'd like to ignore it," Frank Mead said. "Bury 'em deep and say the hell with LA County."

  "Be serious, Frank," Bonner said. "A hundred people know about the break-in. Not to mention the Thompson boy."

  Mead raised hands the size of small hams. "Yeah, I know. It was just a thought." He brought his hands down flat on the table in a gesture of helpless rage. "But damn all, Planchet's going to hurt us, just now when the cash flow's a mess. It's just a bloody lousy time to fight LA."

  "There's never a really good time for economic warfare," Churchward said to no one in particular.

  "John, what happens when we do report this?" Bonner asked. "Will they try to arrest Mr. Sanders?"

  "Probably. They don't have to, but given the political situation they will if Planchet insists on it."

  "I don't like that much," Frank Mead muttered.

  Preston Sanders laughed. It was a horrible sound. "But Mr. Mead, you've always been so certain I'd screw up. Now it's happened."

  Mead was shocked. "Hey, Sanders, I don't deserve that!"

  "There's no need for that, Pres," Barbara Churchward said. Her voice was smoothly professional. "Art, we know what happened here. Do we need Pres any longer?"

  Bonner frowned. "He's my deputy-"

  "And doped to the eyes," Churchward said. "I suggest you let him get a good night's sleep."

  "I suppose you're right. One thing we make clear, though. Los Angeles does not put Sanders in jail. They can interview him all they want to, but right here. Are we agreed?"

  There was a chorus of assents, except for Shapiro. The lawyer looked worried. "Not going to be easy to do, Art. If they decide to arrest him, how do we stop them?"

  "For the moment, he's too ill to be moved. Dr. Finder, you take care of that. Take Pres down to your hospital and keep him there. No visitors without my approval, only don't say it's my approval, say it's Dr. Weintraub's. Won't that do it, Johnny?"

  Shapiro nodded slowly. "I suppose. Best get a couple of shrinks into the act. We have to have a plausible reason for this."

  "I'm not crazy," Sanders protested. "Damn it, I am not crazy!"

  "Nobody says you are," Bonner snapped. "But it's best if we say you're 'emotionally upset.’"

  Which he certainly is, Tony Rand thought. "Pres, it's all right. Just go down and babble once in a while. You know, think up some good stories for the city shrinks. Like you see green snakes crawling out of the air vents, and flying purple people eaters in the bathtub. If you lack imagination, I'll come help you."

  Sanders giggled. Bonner nodded to the medical resident and Dr. Finder stood. After a moment, Sanders got up and let Finder lead him out of the room.

  "He said it, not me," Frank Mead said after the door closed behind Sanders. "And he did screw it up."

  "What would you have done?" Bonner demanded.

  "Waited for Security to catch the upstairs intruder," Mead said. "And tried knockout gas."

  "Letting them blow up the hydrogen input lines," Tony Rand said. "That's not too bright."

  "Better than starting a war with Los Angeles!"

  "That's enough from both of you," Bonner said. "We are not here to go over what happened. We're here to decide what we do now. Understood?"

  "The first thing we'd better do is call the coroner's office," Shapiro said. "The longer we put that off, the worse we look."

  "All right," Bonner agreed. "I'll have Sandra do that now." He paused for a moment with his head tilted to one side. "There. Now we've got less than an hour before it hits the fan.

  "Next. Who should tell Councilman Planchet? If he has any special friends in Todos Santos, MILLIE doesn't know about it."

  "MacLean Stevens," Barbara Churchward said. "Call him and let him notify the Councilman."

  "Good thinking. I suppose I'd better do that now. Excuse me." Bonner left the room to go to an adjoining office.

  "We'll need statements for the press," Churchward said. "I suppose Sandra can get the PR people on that. I'll check with Art."

  Now she's doing it, Rand thought. Telepathy. Well, not quite. She tells MILLIE, MILLIE tells Bonner, and vice versa; but it's as close to reliable telepathy as I'm ever going to see.

  "And there will be all kinds of economic impact," Churchward said. "Sales of TS products in the LA area will fall like a falcon. I wonder if we'll have food shortages? Before this breaks it wouldn't be a bad idea to lay in supplies."

  "You sound as if you're preparing for a siege," Frank Mead said.

  "Not a bad analogy," John Shapiro said. "And not a bad idea, either."

  The man lay sprawled across the concrete stairs, a dozen steps below the subway exit. Beneath the bruises his long face had never been handsome, and the wrinkles formed a permanent sulk. His skull was distorted; it had been pounded repeatedly against one of the steps. His clothes were worn and dirty, but they had been expensive.

  The rookie who had discovered him walked away, wobbling a little and looking greenish. Lieutenant Donovan politely ignored him. He watched as a lab man turned out the pockets.

  Nothing. The muggers who'd killed him picked him clean. There was nothing in his pockets but a pocket pack of Kleenex and a Magic Marker pen. Donovan wondered why they had left those.

  Solving muggings is like bailing out a lifeboat with a teaspoon, he thought. He wouldn't waste much time with this one. He'd been on his way home when he saw the meat wagon pull up and had come over to look, otherwise he'd never have came to the scene. Muggings were for lower-grade detectives, not homicide lieutenants.

  Wonder what he was doing here? Damn fool. Of all the places to get off the subway. The trains are safe enough, but not this station. Damn fool. Donovan had given up crying for them.

  But he had to go through the motions. It was still a murder.

  No witnesses. No way to find anyone who'd been riding the train. They'd either come forward or they wouldn't. But there was another possibility. There was an access way into the uncompleted tunnel system right here in this station. The Todos Santos crews were working back there-if he stood very quietly he could hear it, the humming roar of their big digging machine burning its way under City Hall. Maybe one of their crews had come out to use the can or something. Not likely, but it was possible. He made a note to call the TS tunnel foreman.

  Or, he thought, I could go in there now and talk to their people. That would be interesting. I've never seen one of those big machines working, and I'd like to, and this is as good a chance as any.

  "Sir?" The rookie cop was back, still looking a bit greenish. His eyes avoided the dead man. "I've found something. If you'll bring that pen that was in his pocket." He led the way downstairs.

  Broad lines in blue ink, a freshly printed message among the other messages, less obscene than most:

  THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION

  "If that's a dying message, it's not likely to name his murderer," said Donovan. "You're right, though. It matches the marker. He probably wrote it." Another reason to talk to the TS tunnel crew. Maybe they saw him writing on their door.

  "I wonder what he meant?"

  "We can't ask him," said Donovan, and forgot it. Or thought he had.

  MacLean Stevens ke
pt his emergency phone on a fifty-foot cord rooted in the central hall. That way he could move around the house while tied up on the phone. In particular, he could reach the coffee cup and the liquor cabinet, and when he got calls on that phone he often needed to.

  This time he needed both. During a marathon bargaining session on the costs of digging new subways, Art Bonner and Tony Rand had introduced Stevens to the habit of lacing strong coffee with brandy. Now, as he listened to Bonner, he padded barefoot out to the kitchen to put on the coffee, then to the front room for brandy. Then he decided not to wait for the coffee.

  "All right, Art. I'll tell him," Stevens said. "God damn it - Oh, hell. I'll tell him." He put down the phone and poured two fingers of Christian Brothers. He was tossing it off when Jeanine came in in her lumpy flannel nightgown.