Overload

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely sure.” London met the old man’s gaze unflinchingly. “The D.A. is definite, too. He believes he has ample evidence to convict.”

  Eric Humphrey interjected, “I should explain to you, Paul, that Mr. London’s record with us has been outstanding. He has put teeth into our Property Protection program and shown himself to be a responsible executive. He is not given to making accusations lightly.”

  Nim added, “Especially one this serious.”

  “It is certainly serious.” Mr. Justice Yale had regained his composure and was speaking in measured tones as if, Nim thought, he were once more occupying the highest judicial bench. “For the moment I accept what you gentlemen say, though later I will insist on examining the evidence.”

  “Naturally,” Eric Humphrey said.

  “Meanwhile,” Yale continued, “I assume it is clearly understood and accepted that, until this moment, I had no knowledge myself of anything you have described.”

  Humphrey assured him, “That goes without saying. None of us had the slightest doubt of it. Our main concern was about embarrassment to you.”

  “And to Golden State Power,” Nim added.

  Yale shot him a quick, shrewd glance. “Yes, there is that to be considered.” He permitted himself a slight smile. “Well, I thank you for your confidence in me.”

  “It never wavered,” Humphrey said.

  Briefly Nim wondered: Wasn’t the chairman overdoing it a bit? Then he thrust the thought away.

  Paul Yale seemed to want to go on talking. “Apart from this unfortunate incident, I find the entire concept of power theft interesting. Frankly, I had no idea such a thing existed. I have never heard of it before. Nor did I know there were such people in the public utility business as Mr. London.” He told the Property Protection chief, “On some other occasion I would be interested to hear more about your work.”

  “Be glad to fill you in anytime, sir.”

  They went on talking, the initial strain gone. It was arranged that later in the day Harry London would disclose to Mr. Justice Yale the detailed evidence relating to Ian Norris and the Yale Family Trust properties. Yale announced his intention to retain private legal counsel to protect his interests vis-à-vis Norris. He explained, “The question of succession of trustees for that family trust has always been something of a problem. My grandfather made provisions which were inelastic and have not worn well with time. It will require a court order to have Norris removed. In the circumstances, I shall seek it.”

  Nim contributed little to the discussion. Something, somewhere in his mind, was bothering him. He wasn’t sure what.

  Two days later, Harry London returned to Nim.

  “Got some news you’ll like about that Norris case.”

  Nim looked up from the latest draft of his NEI convention speech. “Such as?”

  “Ian Norris has made a statement. He swears your friend Paul Sherman Yale knew nothing whatever about what was going on. So the old boy’s story is confirmed.”

  Nim asked curiously, “Why would Norris make a statement?”

  “Deals within wheels. I’m not sure the scales of justice are dead level, but here’s the way it is: Norris’ lawyer has been talking with the D.A. First, it’s been agreed GSP & L will be paid what’s owing—or rather, what we estimate is owing, which is a helluva lot of money. After that, Norris will plead ‘no contest’ to a charge of criminal stealing under Section 591.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Part of the California Penal Code. Covers stealing from public utilities like us and the phone companies, and allows for a fine and a prison term of up to five years. Anyway, the D.A. will ask for the maximum fine but will agree not to press for imprisonment. Put it all together and there’ll be no evidence presented in court, so the name of the Yale Family Trust won’t be in the record.”

  Harry London stopped.

  “Getting information from you,” Nim complained, “is like drawing corks. Tell me the rest of that under-the-counter deal.”

  “Some of it I don’t know; probably never will. One thing that comes through is that our Mr. Yale has powerful friends. The D.A. has been under pressure to get the case settled and keep the Yale name under wraps.” London shrugged. “I suppose that’s best for dear old GSP & L.”

  “Yes,” Nim agreed, “it’s best.”

  Afterward, with London gone, Nim sat, silent, thinking. It was true: There would have been harmful publicity for the company if one of its directors and its official spokesman had been involved in a case of power theft, however innocently. Nim supposed he should feel relieved. Yet something continued to nag at him, as it had for two whole days, a burr in his subconscious, a conviction that he knew something important if he could only remember what.

  There was something else. This time not subconscious.

  Why should Mr. Justice Yale have made such a heavy-handed point—as he did at the meeting with Eric Humphrey, Harry London and Nim—about never having heard of power theft? Of course, it was entirely possible he hadn’t. True, there had been reports in the press and an occasional mention on TV, but no one person could be expected to know everything in the news, even a Supreme Court judge. Just the same, the insistence had seemed—to Nim—overdone.

  He returned to his first thought: The nagging doubt. What in hell was it that he knew? Maybe if he didn’t try so hard it would drop quietly into his mind.

  He continued working on his speech for the National Electric Institute convention, only four days away.

  16

  A day of glory nears!

  The valiant people’s army, Friends of Freedom, fighting the vile capitalists who keep Amerika in chains, will strike a blow to be acclaimed in history.

  All preparations are A-okay for countdown.

  Georgos Winslow Archambault, writing in his journal, hesitated. Then, using his stub of pencil (it was getting uncomfortably short and he would have to discard it soon, Gandhi’s precepts or not), he crossed out the last four words. They had capitalist overtones, he realized, as he substituted:

  have been brilliantly executed by the Friends of Freedom high command.

  Better. Much better! He went on writing.

  The people’s enemies, consorting under the infamous, fascist-front banner of the National Electric Institute, begin assembling in two days’ time.

  They are in for a grand surprise—and a deserved punishment.

  Georgos smiled as he put the pencil stub down and rested from composing, which, as usual, tired him mentally. Standing, he surveyed the basement workshop, now jammed tightly with new supplies and equipment. He stretched his lean, lithe body. Then he dropped to the floor in a space he had deliberately kept clear and did forty push-ups rapidly. It pleased Georgos that he sailed through the exercise easily and his breathing was normal at the end. Three days from now he might be glad of his physical fitness.

  He would get back to the journal in a minute. With significant history in the making, it must not be neglected because some day it should find an honored place in the archives of revolution.

  He reflected: Everything for the impending operation was knitting together perfectly—planning, supplies, the logistics of getting explosive and incendiary bombs into the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The first set of bombs (containing high explosive) would detonate at 3 A.M. during the second night of the NEI convention, the fire bombs from five to ten minutes later. Both sets of bombs, disguised as fire extinguishers, would be placed in position the preceding day—roughly sixteen hours before detonation.

  Thanks to Georgos’ resourceful leadership, all was proceeding like … he groped for a metaphor … like those excellent clockwork mechanisms Davey Birdsong bought in Chicago and delivered here.

  Georgos had revised his earlier opinions about Birdsong. Now he felt admiration and love for the big, bearded man.

  Not only was Birdsong’s original idea sheer genius, but in helping implement it he was taking active risks. In addition to the shopp
ing trip to Chicago, Birdsong had helped to buy up fire extinguishers locally, a few at a time from different sources. In the basement workshop there were now almost three dozen—ample for the Friends of Freedom plan. Georgos had been cautious in bringing them to the house, mostly after dark. He had taken one calculated risk in delivering six extinguishers in daylight—he urgently needed the space in his VW van to pick up more—but had surveyed the street carefully first, then moved quickly, and was satisfied afterward that he had not been observed.

  As well as collecting the thirty-odd extinguishers, Georgos had already done the needed work on half of them. First he had emptied the original contents, then machined the insides of the casings to weaken them. After that, in those which were to be fire bombs, he inserted plastic bottles filled with gasoline, plus explosive charges with detonators, and timing mechanisms. In the case of the high explosive bombs, which would block off exits from the hotel, he substituted four pounds of dynamite for the gasoline.

  Soon, when he had finished writing in his journal, he would continue with the remaining extinguishers. It would be necessary to work steadily through the next forty-eight hours—and with great care because the amount of explosive now in the workshop was sufficient to wipe out the entire block if anything went wrong. But Georgos had confidence in his own ability and that he could finish in time.

  His thin, ascetic face lighted in gleeful contemplation as he recalled Birdsong’s words when they first discussed their plan to block off escape from the hotel, then start fierce fires on the upper floors: “If you do it right, not one person on those upper floors will leave that building alive.”

  A further plus for Birdsong: He had come through with all the money Georgos asked for, even though the cost of everything had been greater than expected.

  Then there was the diversion Birdsong had planned. It would help Georgos, aided by the other freedom fighters, to get the bombs safely into the hotel.

  As he had done several times already, Georgos went over the details in his mind.

  With some more of Birdsong’s money, Georgos had bought a Dodge pickup truck—used, but in good condition and by happy coincidence painted red. He had made the purchase with cash and employed fake identity papers, so later the ownership would not be traceable.

  The truck was now hidden in a locked, private garage adjoining a second Friends of Freedom hideaway—a recently rented apartment in the city’s North Castle district which only Georgos knew about. The apartment would serve as a location to fall back on if the Crocker Street house became unusable for any reason.

  The red truck was already lettered neatly on both sides: FIRE PROTECTION SERVICE, INC. A masterstroke (another of Georgos’ ideas) was the choice of an open pickup rather than a closed van. The vehicle’s contents—seemingly innocent fire extinguishers—would be exposed for all to see.

  Georgos’ own regular transportation—his old VW van—was in a private parking garage not far from the Crocker Street house and would not be used in the NEI attack.

  How Birdsong’s diversionary scheme would work was that he, with about a hundred p & lfp supporters, would stage an anti-GSP & L demonstration at the hotel at the same time that the load of fire extinguishers-cum-bombs would be driven to the service entrance and unloaded. The demonstrators would make themselves sufficiently a nuisance so that any police or security forces on the scene would be kept busy, permitting the red Dodge pickup to pass unnoticed.

  As to other details, Birdsong had come through, as promised, with sketch plans of the Christopher Columbus Hotel main floor and mezzanine. After studying them, Georgos had made three trips himself to the hotel to verify details and decide on exact placement of the high explosive bombs to go off first.

  Another thing Georgos learned was that behind-scenes service activity was so busy, at times frantic, that in the daytime almost anyone could walk through the hotel’s service areas unquestioned, provided they appeared purposeful and on some business mission. To test this, on the third trip to the Christopher Columbus, Georgos wore one of the neat blue-gray coverall uniforms, embroidered with the words “Fire Protection Service, Inc.” which he and the other freedom fighters accompanying him would wear three days from now.

  No sweat. No problem. He had even received friendly nods from several hotel staff members who found his presence unremarkable, and, for his part, Georgos practiced the role to be played when the time came to put the bombs in place. Then, he and the others would become obsequious flunkies—the way capitalists liked their serfs to grovel. Chameleons all, the freedom fighters would smile sweetly, mouthing inanities—“Excuse me,” “Yes, sir,” “No, madam,” “Please”—a sickening abasement to inferiors, but one to be suffered for the cause of revolution.

  Results would make it all worthwhile!

  For extra cover, in case any freedom fighter were stopped and questioned, Birdsong had had some Fire Protection Service, Inc. work orders printed. These were now filled in. They instructed that supplementary fire extinguishers were to be delivered to the hotel and left in place for subsequent mounting. Birdsong had also typed, on hotel stationery, an authorization for Fire Protection Service personnel to enter the hotel for that purpose. He acquired the stationery during one of his sorties into the Christopher Columbus where it was available, for use by hotel guests, at desks on the mezzanine.

  The two documents replaced Georgos’ original idea of getting hotel purchase orders, which had proved too difficult. Neither document would stay up to close scrutiny, Georgos and Birdsong realized, but might make the needed difference in a pinch.

  As far as Georgos could see, they had thought of everything.

  Only one thing, at this moment, vaguely troubled him and that was his woman, Yvette. Since the night, four months ago, when he executed the two security pigs on the hill above Millfield and afterward Yvette protested, he had never quite trusted her. Briefly, following Millfield, he considered eliminating her. It would not be difficult, as Davey Birdsong once pointed out, but Georgos decided to postpone action. The woman was useful. She cooked well; also she was convenient when he chose to work off his sexual excitements, which had become more frequent lately as the prospect of killing more people’s enemies loomed closer.

  As a precaution, Georgos had kept secret from Yvette the plan to bomb the Christopher Columbus Hotel, even though she must realize something important was pending. Perhaps her exclusion was the reason she had been silent and moody these past few weeks. Well, no matter! At this moment he had more important concerns, but soon he would almost certainly have to dispose of Yvette, even at some inconvenience to himself.

  Remarkable! Even thinking about killing his woman was giving him an erection.

  With growing excitement—in so many agreeable ways—Georgos returned to writing in his journal.

  PART FOUR

  1

  In a twenty-fifth-floor suite of the Christopher Columbus Hotel, Leah looked up from an exercise book in which she was writing.

  “Daddy,” she said, “can I ask you something personal?”

  Nim answered, “Yes, of course.”

  “Are things all right between you and Mommy now?”

  It took Nim a second or two to grasp the import of his daughter’s question. Then he answered quietly, “Yes, they are.”

  “And you’re not …” Leah’s voice faltered. “You’re not going to break up after all?”

  “If you’ve been worrying about that,” he told her, “you can stop worrying. That won’t happen, I hope, ever.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Leah ran toward him, her arms flung out. She embraced him tightly. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so glad.” He felt her young face soft against his own and the wetness of her tears.

  He held her, and gently stroked her hair.

  The two of them were together because Ruth and Benjy had gone down to the lobby floor a few minutes ago—to sample the wares of an ice cream parlor for which the hotel was noted. Leah had chosen to stay with Nim, claiming she wanted to finish
some schoolwork she had brought. Or was it, he wondered now, because she saw an opportunity to ask that crucial question?

  What parent, Nim reflected, ever knew what went on in children’s minds, or the hurts they suffered through parental selfishness or lack of thought? He remembered how Leah had carefully avoided the subject of Ruth’s absence while she and Benjy were staying with the Neubergers and they had talked on the telephone. What agony was Leah—a sensitive and aware fourteen-year-old—going through then? The memory left him ashamed.

  It also raised the question: When should both children be told the truth about Ruth’s condition? Probably soon. True, it would create anxiety, just as it had—and continued to—with Nim. But better Leah and Benjy should know than have it sprung upon them suddenly in a crisis, as might happen. Nim decided he would discuss the subject with Ruth within the next few days.

  As if Leah sensed part of his thinking, she said, “It’s all right, Daddy. It’s all right.” Then, with the adaptability of the young, she wriggled free and went back to what she had been doing.

  He walked to the window of the suite living room, observing the panoramic, picture-postcard view; the historic city, its busy ship-filled harbor and the two world-famed bridges, all touched with gold by the late afternoon sun. “Hey,” he said over his shoulder, “that’s some fantastic scene.”

  Leah looked up, smiling. “Yeah. Sure is.”

  One thing was already clear: Bringing his family to the National Electric Institute convention, now in its first day, had been a great idea. Both children were excited when they all checked into the hotel this morning. Leah and Benjy, while excused from school for four days, had been given class assignments, including one to write an essay on the convention itself; Benjy, planning his, expressed a wish to hear his father’s speech tomorrow. It was unusual to admit a child to an NEI business session, but Nim managed to arrange it. There were other activities for families—a harbor cruise, museum visits, private movies—in which Ruth and the children would join.