by R. Chauncey
“He programmed his com-cell to give different coordinates every day he was called that way no one would suspect he wasn’t where his com-cell was, and wouldn’t know the exact location of the com-cell which never changed. He probably had a cell phone that rang when his com-cell one rang and he’d answer it convincing whoever called him he was where his com-cell was. Then he figured out how to neutralize his tracking chip without the Council of Twenty finding out about it.”
Derrick turned and looked at him. “How do you know the Council of Twenty knows about the chip?” he asked.
The question struck Karl as an odd one for Derrick to ask. No leader had done anything since the creation of the Council of Twenty without the Council’s approval.
“Are you saying they didn’t know?” he asked. His face was as expressionless as a professional poker player’s face.
“Go on,” Derrick said in a calm voice.
Shit! Karl thought. They don’t know. And he knows they don’t know. He was smart enough to realize not to start asking why the Council didn’t know they were all implanted with tracking chips. “I figure whatever Julian put on a flash drive he gave to the person who visited his cabin, he’d need an hour at the most to put it on the drive. But it would have taken him weeks, probably months to find someone he could give the drive to. Someone he knew would make sure the public knew what was on the drive. That was why he played that trick with his com-cell.”
“I dislike intensely leaving my comfortable home in the Big Sur to come to a common hotel,” Derrick said in a cool voice. “You were given a specific assignment to do, Karl. I’ll repeat it in case I was confusing. Find who has that flash drive. Get the drive. Kill them. And destroy the drive, and bring me proof the drive has been destroyed.” He stood up. “Don’t bother me anymore. Just make your daily reports.”
“Yes, sir,” Karl said, standing up. He walked to the door without a word. But he was thinking Derrick would never give him a free hand unless he was being watched but by whom? Checking the Society’s list of soldiers to determine who Derrick had assigned to watch him would be foolish, because Derrick would be notified immediately probably by a computer through his com-cell. He’d just have to use his eyes and ears, and hope whoever Derrick had assigned to watch him would make a mistake. The Hidden Society was after all made up of humans.
***
Chapter 10
January 5, 3 p.m.
Larson had ordered coffee from room service before he got dressed to go looking for the Duffy Electric Parts Company.
He dressed in warm winter clothes, boots, and gloves. The kind of gloves with wool inserts not cashmere. Cashmere inserted gloves were for city people walking from their cars in underground parking lots, or from public transportation to their places of work or home. Not for the cold winters of Kansas. Larson intended finding out all he could about Paul Duffy, the Duffy Electrical Parts Company. And that would probably mean being outdoors in the cold.
He left his cabin and walked to the hotel’s parking lot with the key to the Jeep in his hand. The hotel had left the key on the table in the cabin’s sitting room while he was having lunch.
Ten minutes later Larson was driving around Westport in his rented four wheel drive Jeep.
It may have been two degree below zero with a wind chill factor of six below, but that didn’t stop Westport’s population from going about their regular Sunday habits. They just wore more warm clothes, and boots that were made for the bitter cold of Kansas winters. Larson’s boots were made for bitter Chicago winters, but he expected them to keep his feet just as warm in Kansas as they did in the Chicago area. He was, after all, inside the heated Jeep.
Westport was small enough for Larson to drive through every neighbor in less than an hour and that included the small downtown business district. There were only two department stores in Westport. A large three story JC Penny, a Sears of the same size, and no Wal-Mart. Though there was an abandoned department store building on the southern edge of the town that had a Wal-Mart sign on it. Written on the bottom of the sign in black ink in very large letters were the words ‘Hell no, Wal-Mart’. That told Larson the citizens if Westport were strong willed people who could take on high priced corporate lawyers and their public relations people, and send them back to their powerful corporate masters in New York or wherever the hell they came from with a strong ‘ hell no we don’t want your store in our town’. The citizens of Westport apparently liked their small individual stores that treated customers like humans and not like plastic credit cards.
Even the Chicago City Council had caved in to Wal-Mart and had given them everything they wanted. Thus proving even the members of the Chicago City Council had a price, so much for courageous big city politicians.
The Barton Tanning Company was on the east side of Westport separated from the rest of the town by a dozen acres. The foul odor coming from it proved that the process of turning cattle and other animal hides into leather wasn’t a pleasant smelling process, which explained why the company was separated from the rest of the town by a dozen acres. The western wind blew the stink east away from the town. Larson wondered if there were health problems associated with the tanning process. He’d never read anything about the tanning process so he didn’t know. The smell coming from the factory convinced him there was probably some serious health problems associated with turning animal hides into usable leather.
The two dozen vehicles parked in the company parking lot said somebody liked working for the company. Two people emerged from a side door dressed in orange plastic looking suits with matching head gear and gasmasks. At least whoever owned the company believed in protecting the health of their employees.
Larson was glad Paul Duffy hadn’t invested the money he’d gotten for his all-purpose chip into the tanning business and happy when he turned the Jeep around and headed west to get away from the stink.
The Duffy Electric Parts Company was located at the end of Lakota Street, Westport’s main street, just before it turned westward to become Route 171 heading west. The nearby houses meant that it was probably a safe place to work. He hadn’t seen any houses within six blocks of the Barton Tanning Company.
Larson parked the Jeep in the front parking lot of the three story building at 3:55 p.m. and got out. He took a deep breath of the cold winter air and was glad he didn’t smell the stink he had smelled at the Barton Tanning Company. He walked across the plowed lot to a cleared sidewalk and up the seven concrete steps to an automatically revolving glass door and into a warm lobby with a clean grayish-white tile floor. There was an automatic floor cleaner in the corner to the right of the entrance scanning the floor electronically and waiting to clean up any mud or dirt someone might track into the lobby. He walked over to the lobby desk in the center of the lobby, removing his stingy brim fedora felt hat and gloves.
“Pardon me,” he said to the gray haired attractive woman at the desk reading a romance novel. “I’m from the Oakland Electric Company of Oakland, Illinois.” He went through his pockets pretending to look for a business card. “Left my business cards at home,” he grumbled with a frown on his face. “Very stupid of me to do that.”
“And you’d like to buy some of Duffy’s electrical parts,” the woman said in a pleasant sounding voice that didn’t have the heavy western accent he’d heard in the voices of the few people he’d spoken to.
“Yes. I would. But, eh, I know this is rather odd, I’d like to see the company’s manufacturing process.”
“I’ll call Mr. Duffy,” she said, reaching for the phone on her desk.
“Not Paul Duffy,” he said with a smile on his face.
“No, he’s been dead for years. Mr. Harold Duffy. His grandson runs the company.”
She said as she picked up the
receiver on the phone, pushed a button on the phone cradle, waited a few seconds, then explained to whoever was on the other end there was a man here from the Oakland Electric Company of Oakland, Illinois looking to buy some of the company’s products but was interested in seeing the company’s manufacturing process first. She listened for a few seconds, hung up, and said to Larson, “Mr. Duffy is on his way, Mister?”
“Larson Western,” he said. Wishing he’d been smart enough to get some fake ID. Being a real snoop wasn’t like his fictitious characters. They always knew where to get fake ID because he created their methods of getting fake ID even though he didn’t know if people really got fake ID the way he wrote they did in his novels.
As she wrote his name down, he quickly looked her over and assumed she was somewhere in her late fifties, with a nice bust line, and face that showed only a few lines of aging. He looked her up and down without being obvious. She didn’t have the fat belly of many women who appeared to be in their late fifties, or early sixties or the plump sides. The winter red and white sweater blouse she wore was button to the top button to hide her cleavage, but not the simple gold chain she wore around her wrinkle free neck.
A minute later the door of the center elevator of the three elevators on the wall behind the information desk opened and a man dressed in a business suit and of medium height and weight with thick black hair walked out of the elevator. He looked like any normal white man. Larson wondered why he would have expected him to look any other way. He walked toward the information desk.
“Is this the gentleman, Marajo?” he asked as he approached the desk.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Duffy,” she said, giving Larson a suspicious look as if she didn’t trust him.
“My name is Harold Duffy,” he said, stopping in front of Larson and extending his right hand as he did so.
“Larson Western,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.
“And you are interested in buying supplies from Duffy Electric?” Mr. Duffy asked.
“Yes, but not a lot,” Larson smiled. “The company I represent isn’t that large.”
“My office, please, Mr. Western,” Duffy said, turning toward the elevator.
“You see, Mr. Duffy, we want a closer source of supplies.” Larson said as he started walking beside him. “The Oakland Electric Company does a lot of work, mostly small jobs, in Cook County and the northeastern part of Illinois. And a few times we’ve lost a few really good jobs because we didn’t have the necessary parts on hand and couldn’t get them for weeks.”
“Well, I can assure you, Mr. Western,” Duffy said as he pushed the up button on the polished stainless steel elevator panel. “We make a vast variety of electrical parts from the best material, and we’ve got a lot on hand.”
The elevator door opened. Duffy motioned for him to enter first.
“No offense intended, Mr. Duffy,” Larson said, entering the elevator before him. “But I’ve heard that before only to find out the company didn’t have the supplies we needed when we needed them.”
Duffy gave a short laugh as he entered the elevator and said, “We’re not like that.” He pushed the button for the third floor. “And to prove it, I’m going to give you a list of every electrical part we produce, how much we have on hand, and how quickly we can ship them. And how much they cost.”
“That sounds good,” Larson said.
“I’ll even show you how we manufacture our equipment.”
“Now that sounds better,” Larson said, smiling.
An hour and two cups of good coffee later Larson was walking toward the lobby exit with a flash drive in his pants pocket that contained all the information the Oakland Electric Company would need to make decisions about buying parts from the Duffy Electric Parts Company. Mr. Duffy was walking on his left side.
He stopped at the exit, turned toward Mr. Duffy, and said to him, “I’m sure Oakland is going to start ordering its electrical equipment from Duffy. You’ve got quite a setup here.” He extended his right hand to Duffy.
“Thank you, Mr. Western,” Duffy said, giving Larson’s hand a strong squeeze and firm shake. “My grandfather took great pride in starting this company and producing its products. And I’m proud to say we’ve kept that tradition going.”
“Good day,” Larson said as he walked toward the exit. He had his gloves on as he made his way through the revolving glass door. He turned around before he started down the steps to see Mr. Duffy smiling and waving good-by to him. He waved back.
He didn’t notice the suspicious expression on the face of the receptionist Marajo as she stared at him. Because he was too busy feeling terrible for the hour of lies he’d told Mr. Duffy. An honest man, who believed the Duffy Electric Parts Company was going to get a large purchase order from the Oakland Electric Company which did not exist, as far as Larson knew.
Larson thought one thing when he got into the Jeep and started the engine. He was the biggest damn fool in the world! A Hidden Society of powerful manipulative men and women controlling the world indeed! Julian Franks was full of bullshit! He decided that he was going to go home as soon as possible, and throw those two flash drives Julian Franks had given him into the trash. And to never again answer a letter that aroused his curiosity.
But there was the problem with Paul Duffy and the Duffy Electric Parts Company. Both existed as did the Arden Chip Company, and Arden. And then there was that cabin he’d met Julian Franks in. Why go to all the trouble of building a stone and brick cabin in a wooded area in Northwestern Illinois just to tell a lie?
Larson decided not to think about any of that.
He drove around Westport for half an hour to calm down. When he was calm he stopped in front of a tobacco shop that served coffee in the downtown district just across the street from the Westport Farmers Bank, walked inside and got a cup of coffee and a slice of delicious looking and smelling apple pie, his favorite type of pie. He bought a newspaper and read it while he ate his pie and drank his coffee.
It was lucky he did. The newspaper had a copy of the train schedule in it. There were to be no trains stopping at Westport until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Larson wondered what he was going to do until nine tomorrow until he saw the movie section of the paper.
There were two action/adventure movies he had wanted to see in Chicago last year, but he had never gotten around to seeing them because he always had something more important to do. Both were showing tonight in the Westport Movie Complex, a collection of four theaters south of downtown. He read the reviews of both movies, and decided to go to the second one starting at eight-thirty. It was three hours long. He’d have dinner at six, go to the movie at eight-twenty, get back to his cabin at midnight at the latest, get a good night’s rest, have a good western breakfast, and get a compartment on the train back to Chicago. He reasoned he’d be home no later than four o’clock. Julian Franks’ flash drives would be in the trash ten minutes later. He’d have to take time to remove his coat, gloves, and hat.
*
11:45 p.m.
The movie was better than he thought. It was a good action/adventure/mystery movie with a sensible plot, actresses that looked like women and not like skinny Barbie dolls and dialogue that made sense. Not that senseless tough guy crap language most movies offered the public with a lot of stupid shootings, and not a police officer within miles.
It was cold as he walked toward the Jeep. But he didn’t feel it because of his heavy parka. The Jeep was parked in the same dark corner of the parking lot where he’d parked it earlier, and there wasn’t a soul around. Everyone else had had the good sense to park their cars near the movie theater’s exits. Larson didn’t mind the walk even if it was cold and dark. He had no reason to fear the dark. There was a beautiful full moon direct
ly overhead and a collection of bright stars in the western cold, clear night sky. He had just reached the rented Jeep and used the key to click the driver’s door open when he sensed something behind him and a moment later felt a heavy blow against the back of his head. He didn’t feel anything after that as he fell to the ground.
***
Chapter 11
January 6, 3 p.m. Hidden Society’s main headquarters
“We’ve been looking for a needle in a million haystacks for over twenty-four hours,” Willow said, looking at his computer’s clock. “Julian was smart. During his time as a leader of the Society he did nothing to indicate he was making plans to run.”
“Right,” Betty agreed, looking at her computer and seeing the same information about Julian Franks Willow was looking at. “We’re at a dead end here.”
“Then we should start looking elsewhere,” Dodge said, typing on his keyboard.
“What do you mean?” Karl asked him.
“Julian Franks’ front business was sixty-four hardware stores in the northeast. The New England states,” he said without turning to face them.
“So what?” Betty snapped angrily. She, like the others, knew the Society didn’t accept failure on the part of its soldiers, especially with a matter as serious as the one they were working on. There was far too much at stake for them to fail – their lives.
“We run a check on everyone who worked for Julian’s hardware stores,” Dodge said as he turned to face them. “When they started working for the stores? What they did? When they reported to work, and left? How much they were paid, and where they lived? And if they quit when and why if possible.”
“That will take time, Dodge,” Willow said.
“And time is an element we don’t have,” Karl told them.
The three looked at Karl knowing that he meant taking too much time might mean failure. And failure meant their deaths.