"No," said the man.
"You described him pretty well."
"Yes, but it's not him."
"You sure? 'Cause we don't get too many that look like this feller. We get lots of blacks. Cut-up blacks. Burned blacks. Broke-down blacks. Blacks from the streets off the railroad tracks. Blacks with bullets in 'em. Blacks what had the bullets go right through 'em. Not too many all-white people. And this one's about as white as they come."
Bennett Wilson of the Nuclear Control Agency turned his head away, covering his nose with a handkerchief. He had not expected it to be this bad. But he had to be here. True, all he had wanted was for Braun to do his work and then get out of his life. But when he read about a blond man being found dead, he had to know it was not Braun. Because if it were, the whole thing might be unraveling, somehow. The people who might bring down Bennett Wilson's career, as Braun had threatened, might have been the ones to do the disposing. And that meant the worst of all world tragedies. Bennett Wilson might be next. And that was worth even this agony here in the morgue.
The attendant was from the Southwest. He was an old man, and Wilson was sure he took special delight in the discomfort of others. He kept on with his banter.
"Some white guys come in with cuts. Cut by blacks. Some shot by blacks. But this here a different wound. Blacks didn't do this wound."
"Excuse me, may I leave?"
"Don't ya want to give him a little pat before you go? He won't mind." The attendant laughed. He folded the sheet back.
"Know how I know this ain't a black cutting?" Wilson thought that if he did not answer the man, the man might stop talking. He was wrong.
"Blacks slash. But this one went right into the heart. Found the opening in the ribs and whunh. Sent it home. I'm no cop. But I know killings. White man did this one. If a black had done it, would have been ten, fifteen cuts. Black would have cut off his dingus . . ."
All of Bennett Wilson's most recent meals came into his handkerchief as he stumbled from the morgue. He did not see the attendant hold out a hand to a fellow worker for the five-dollar payoff.
"I knew I could get that one to do a go," he said.
"I never thought he would have gone."
"You hang around the morgue long enough and keep your eyes open, you always know. Now the real fat ones never go. Their stomachs are like iron. And the last time I saw a skinny one upchuck, I can't remember. But those fleshy ones, those just plump, are like sticking ripe plums with a shovel. Pow. Pop. Go for the hanky every time."
Bennett Wilson threw away the handkerchief and stumbled into the sticky night air of Washington. He was not panicked enough to lose his head and roam the streets. He was just panicked enough to phone Harrison Caldwell.
He was told by Mr. Caldwell's secretary that Mr. Caldwell would be informed of the matter sometime this month.
"It's too desperate for that. I'm sure he wants to speak to me. Wilson. Bennett Wilson."
"In what regard?"
"I can only discuss this with him personally."
"Mr. Caldwell discusses nothing personally."
"Well then, impersonally tell him to impersonally send someone to Washington to identify the corpse of a very blond man who knew him."
Harrison Caldwell got the message the following day, as the butler served breakfast in a very high bed and the secretary sat at his feet. He was so stunned that he stopped calling himself "we."
"I don't believe it," he said softly.
"It's true, your Majesty," said the secretary.
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Caldwell. He dismissed the butler and secretary and climbed out of the bed, spilling grapefruit sections and the crushed ice they'd been set on onto the monogrammed sheets. The silver spoon with his apothecary monogram fell silently on the deep pile carpet. He went to the window. For miles around, all the magnificent forests were his. The guards at the gates were his. Several congressmen were his. Wilson at the NCA was his. As were some very important law-enforcement officials.
He had more gold now than England. He could buy anything in the world. And he could lose it all because of those two men.
His first instinct was to hire more bodyguards. But that would be little more than window dressing against those two. Francisco Braun, the man who had survived a challenge that had taken so many lives, the man who had been his sword, was dead. And he had been done in by two especially deadly men looking for the cause of the uranium losses to the American govarnment. What would they do when they found Caldwell? He was sure eventually they would.
Harrison Caldwell, on that very dark morning of his life, realized he had the world at his feet except for two men who were going to take it all away from him.
At that moment, he felt he truly had become a king, because he realized that all his wealth and power had only given him the illusion of having help. He had only what he always had. Himself.
That, of course, was a great deal to have. He had the same cunning that made him the first of his family in so many centuries to reclaim what was theirs. He had the shrewdness that helped him dispose of the divers and take care of the last alchemist. There was nothing in his family history to prepare him for the complexity of his problem. But he did have one advantage: he realized how truly alone and vulnerable he was.
Harrison Caldwell refused entrance that morning to the valet, to the butler, to the personal secretary, even to some of the congressmen whom he had invited this day for a pleasant lunch among friends. He paced the room, eating nothing. But by evening he knew what he had to do. First, he had to find out who these men were. Until then he would be stumbling around like a blind man waiting for a truck to hit him. Second, he would have to find the greatest sword in the world.
And both of these things, no matter how difficult they might seem, were eminently possible because he was the richest man in the world. He had an inexhaustible supply of the one metal everyone for all time considered money.
And he had the will, the cunning, and the history to use it. He was far more dangerous than any Caldwell throughout the centuries had ever been.
He made a friendly call to Bennett Wilson in Washington.
Wilson was sure the world was after him. "My phones may be tapped," he said.
"Do you really think we would allow such a thing to happen? Do you think we have come so long, so far, to allow something like that?" asked Caldwell. His voice was soothing, stroking, as though talking to a child.
"Come, come, our good friend, Bennett, do you think we don't know these things? Do you think we would ever endanger you?"
"He came right into my office. Right here. I saw him alive, and he assured me . . ."
"Our dear Bennett, do not trouble yourself. Come up to our place in New Jersey and ease your worries. Let me comfort you in your hour of need."
"Are we all right, we ... I mean you and me ... sir ... your Highness?"
"Of course. You must come up here and let us talk. We can reassure you."
"Do you think we ought to be seen together? What with everything happening and all?"
"There is no one here to see you who does not wish to make you comfortable. Come, let us remove the doubts and worries that plague you, good friend," said Caldwell.
Bennett Wilson heard these words while he sat in the prison of his office, terrified. On one hand there was Washington, where he jumped at every phone call, sure it would be some investigative agency that had discovered what he had done. On the other hand, there was the soothing voice of a man who said he only wanted to reassure Bennett.
Some people got their reassurance out of a bottle or a sniff of white powder. Bennett Wilson would get his from the man who had to be his friend. Why? The man was in it even deeper than Bennett. It was he who figured out everything. He who directed which dispatchers should be bribed and even selected the routes for the trucks.
Bennett Wilson was just a poor employee of the government who had made a mistake. Of course, Harrison Caldwell would protect him with all the money at
the man's disposal.
Wilson was even more reassured when he saw where and how Caldwell lived. The metal fence around his estate went on for miles. Guards were at the gates. Servants groomed lawns and bushes, and carried trays around this massive brick-and-marble edifice set on a vast lawn. It was a castle. And in this castle, Harrison Caldwell was most assuredly a king.
When Bennett Wilson saw the proud figure seated on a thronelike high-backed chair, Wilson fell to his knees to kiss the offered hand.
"Your Majesty," said Bennett Wilson.
"Bennett. Our good, good Bennett," said Caidwell. "Rise. Come. Tell us your troubles."
"The man you sent is dead. I went to the morgue. Saw him myself. They said it wasn't an accident. A professional had killed him."
"And whom did you tell about this?" asked Caldwell.
"You."
"And?"
"No one. My lord, do you think I'd want anyone else to know about these things? I never should have become involved in the first place. If it weren' t for my daughter needing to go to a special college ... I never thought I would be dealing in murder. I was just helping out an American manufacturer." Wilson was crying now.
"Bennett. Bennett. Bennett. Please. Do not trouble your heart."
"I'm so afraid," said Bennett, clutching his hands. He couldn't control his body anymore. The tears flowed freely. "They came. The ones who were at the McKeesport plant. The ones whose pictures you gave me. They came with the woman."
"What woman?"
"Director of Security Consuelo Bonner."
"And does she know?"
"No. Your man said he would take care of them. Instead, they took care of him."
"The reports implicate those two?"
"Who else could it be?"
"Many people, Bennett. Many people. Perhaps the ones you told you were coming here did it."
"I didn't tell anyone. My wife doesn't even know where I am. Do you think I would want to tell someone?"
"But certainly, you must have confided in someone. What is a world without a close friend?"
"I didn't even want to let your man into my office. But he said you sent him. Now he's dead. They killed him. They're going to get us. They will. I know it."
"What you need is some fine wine. We will pour it ourselves, with our own hands."
Harrison Caldwell led the trembling man down to the vast wine cellars of the estate. There was a special bottle there they would share, one Harrison Caldwell was saving for just such a moment, just such a friend.
"You know, Bennett, we are lonely. We know few men whom we can trust. But we know we can trust you."
"You can. All of you," said Wilson.
"But we know you must have shared these troubles, with your wife at least." Caldwell examined the bottle in the dim light. Instead of a corkscrew, Caldwell used a small thin dagger with a jeweled pommel to remove the cork. He was careful not to jiggle the dark bottle excessively. Good wine always had a sediment. If it had been served to him, it would have been allowed to rest and then been decanted, the top wine being poured into a carafe for serving into glasses. But they were just friends here in the cellar, and what was a shared bottle, somewhat murky, between friends?
"Believe me, your Majesty. I am a very secretive person. I have worked for the government all my life and I trust no one."
Caldwell passed him the bottle. Wilson shook his head. "I'm not thirsty, sir."
"Are you afraid of the wine?" asked Caldwell.
"No. No. I trust you." Bennett Wilson was almost crying again.
Caldwell gave him a warm smile, put an arm around Wilson's shoulder, and then as proof took a long mouthful of the wine. Smiling, he handed the bottle to Wilson.
Seeing Caldwell take a drink, Wilson thought it had to be safe.
"Not that I didn't trust the wine . . . or you, your Majesty. It's just that this is so dark ... and wine cellars make me suspicious."
Caldwell said nothing, but nodded for Wilson to drink. Wilson held the bottle in both hands and took a long hard swallow, handing the bottle back. Then he dropped the bottle. His hand didn't seem to be able to close on things too well. The crack of the bottle against the floor sounded dull and muffled. So did the sound of his head against the floor.
He wondered how he came to have such a view of the stone ceiling and why, if he had fallen, he felt no pain. His arms were there but unmovable. So were his feet. Then his Majesty Harrison Caldwell spit the mouthful of wine over Bennett Wilson's body, along with a remnant of a pill that neutralized the poison's deadly effect. Even the slight amount of absorption of liquid in the mouth could kill.
So the wine was poisoned, Wilson thought. It was a strange thought, sort of a vague far-off wondering that really didn't have much to do with anything anymore. Nothing he thought had much to do with anything. His body was numb and on its way out. And he was sure he would go with it. And then he was sure of nothing. He wasn't thinking at all.
Caldwell rubbed his tongue along his sleeve to make sure none of the poisoned wine was accidentally swallowed. He washed out his mouth and then informed the local coroner, who was on the estate's payroll, that a man had died of a heart attack in his cellar. He even spelled the words for the coroner. An inquest would not be necessary.
He even took care of the funeral, planting the portly body of the former head of the Nuclear Control Agency under the sycamore where, if the coffin rotted in time, the body might help nourish the tree.
The link between Harrison Caldwell and the uranium had now been severed. This might slow up his two enemies or even stop them completely. With no apparent leads they might never find him. He had enough gold for a while. Caldwell and Sons needed no more uranium immediately.
But he had not eliminated pathetic Wilson to sit back and live off his gold. He would finish his enemies. And with gold a man had all the power he needed if he used his mind well.
He had two things to work with. One, that Braun had failed several times to kill them, and two, that they had killed him. Therefore they were special, superior to the average hired killer.
If gold was power, knowledge was the steering wheel which guided it. And Harrison Caldwell would get just what he needed. He wanted to know everything about Braun's first failure, the failure that brought death to the Islamic Knights in McKeesport. Harrison Caldwell knew that to rewrite the history of his modern monarchy he would have to start at the very beginning.
He found out that Braun's petty criminals had had weapons which proved useless against some machine. This machine crushed bones under tremendous pressure. And yet there were no signs of any heavy machinery around the house where the bodies were found.
"You see, these guys apparently were moving toward the house. Footprints showed that," said the investigator Caldwell had hired to examine the killings. He was keeping a tight hand on things himself now. When it came to his life he had a very personal interest.
"Now the machine would have had to move with them because they never reached the house. But anything that powerful would have made marks in the soil itself. But it didn't. So the police there figure it was one of them."
"One of what?"
"One of the strange killings that get reported to a central office in Washington.''
"So that the killer can be tracked down?" asked Caldwell. He wore a plain business suit, did not sit in a high-backed chair, and listened intently.
"I don't know," said the investigator. "Didn't seem important."
Caldwell listened to the report in full, thanked the man, and then hired someone else.
This time it was a coast-to-coast detective agency. He told them:
"There is a kind of killing that goes on in America, that the police are supposed to report to a central office. It seems as though there is a strange force loose on the land. It leaves no tracks and kills with machinelike power. Now every police department is supposed to report these kinds of killings to some central office in Washington. Don't make a big public thing of t
his, but find out what happens to those reports. Where they go. Who acts on them. Everything."
"Mr. Caldwell, there is no way to conduct a nationwide investigation without a tremendous amount of publicity. Can't be done. It will have to get out."
"Then just find out about McKeesport. There was a killing there recently. A half-dozen blacks. By the way, I pay for fast service."
The agency was back in a day. The situation with the reports on the special killings was this. In six places, McKeesport included, police officers reported strange sorts of killings. It was part of a national plan. They were to report to a joint committee formed by the FBI and the Secret Service.
"And that committee is where?" asked Caldwell. He had a pad in front of him.
"Glad you asked. That's the most important part of our investigation. And knowing you wanted discretion, we didn't pursue it."
"Why not?"
"Because the committee does not have an address. It is a computer terminal accessed by police departments."
"That doesn't explain why you didn't pursue it further."
"One of the killings, this one in Utah, was the brother of a motorcycle bum. He was outraged that no action was taken because everyone in his department thought the federal government would look into it. So he checked them out."
The investigator glanced down at his notes again. "Listen to what happened. His taxes were audited and found to be lacking-by about twenty grand. His driver's license was revoked by a computer. Everything he did or tried to do involving the federal government got one cruel scrutiny, and eventually some Department of Agriculture agent got him for not reporting proper crop acreage on his family farm. It is like you touch this place and it stings. I didn't think you wanted me touching it in your name."
"You did well," said Caldwell.
"I can be of better help if you let me know as much as you can as to why. Why are you interested?"
"Good question. And I will tell you. But not today." When the man left, Harrison Caldwell picked up the phone.
"He just left. Do you think you can clean out his office?"
"We have been at it all day."
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