"So give, my friend. Why the call ahead of schedule?"
"Just thought I would update you on happenings. We had an intercept yesterday evening, it got into the Selection file. The denial framework reacted as it was supposed to, only trouble was the original file call was from a miss-key, and the smart ass knew sufficient to chop his modem power when he got scared. That meant we could not trace the terminal. It might have been from outside, a hacker, or someone inside who was just fooling around."
"I thought you said it was impenetrable; that no one could get past the security! You promised me!" came the shotgun answer from the rasping voice.
"Look, I told you that the security we have set up would stop any further access than first level, which is exactly what happened! Whoever got in, got a peek at a set of encrypted instructions, and a long list of dates, is all. You would need to be Einstein's cousin to go from what was available on the screen, to what we have set up. It is all going according to plan, the boys are doing well, and no-one is even suspicious. Now do exactly what we agreed, and everything will be great, O.K. Mr. C.?"
The remote voice spoke once again, "As long as there ain't a whisper about this, because you know as well as I do, once somepun starts unravelling, it shoots awful fast back to home plate. Just look at Tricky!"
"Tricky got caught because he didn't take our advice. He kept the goddam tapes, and then tried to claim I.R.S. tax relief. If he hadn't been found with his hands inside the goddam cookie jar, he would still have been President. He was already to bring that Emergency Powers bill forward, with all those secret addendums; hell, he would have been President for life, iffen he hadn't been so greedy!"
"O.K., you are maybe right, I just have enough on my plate with the crunch in sales on the new models, without having to worry about the Selection problem as well. Everything buttoned up?"
"Everything. Don't worry, my friend. we are nearly half way towards the target, and just think of the benefits to all. Get it, benefits? Bye, Mr. C.!" The phone was replaced on the holder, the tray slid back into the desk. The occupant of the big office rose to his feet, walked over to a side desk, poured a cup of coffee from a full percolator, added cream, and, sipping slowly, wandered over to the armoured glass windows, and gazed out on to the wind whipped waters of New York harbour area, past the nearly deserted wharves, down to the Narrows bridge, and out to the open sea. The man, a trim, stocky figure with a full head of hair, naturally curly, but now artfully tinted to disguise the onset of grey, remembered when his own Family had received more than two thirds of their income from the wharves which now lay idle, and mused on whether things had actually got better, with the organisations' money now enmeshed in hard drugs, in laundered money controlling legal corporations which controlled garbage removal and abattoirs, and both legal and illegal gambling. He slid his hand across to an ordinary telephone, dialled out, waited for the call to be answered, simply said, "Ferry, ten minutes, routine!"; without waiting for a reply , the caller replaced the phone, put his coat on against the chill wind, called to his secretary that he was going out for about an hour, dropped down in the express elevator, and walked briskly towards the Staten Island ferry terminal, boarded the waiting ferry, and slowly walked forward to the top deck. He waited, braced against the movement of the small vessel, while the ferry manoeuvred out of the dock, and set course for the shore of Staten Island. After about five minutes, he was joined by the person he had previously called.
The young man who had joined him would have passed for a member of any number of occupations within the City of New York; in fact the majority of workers for the Corporation where he did work thought he was a senior analyst, working mainly within the automobile industry, forecasting trends and earnings from the major manufacturers. His actual occupation, which was that of a executive hit-man, was rather thoroughly disguised, mainly because Society tended to frown on his work. Tall, dark-haired, well groomed, and impeccably dressed, he smiled at the older man, and waited to be asked about any one of half a dozen operations.
Once prompted by the query, "Selection File activities, Ray. Update, please?", he proceeded to update his leader on the activities, of his teams, in the environs of Detroit, St. Petersburg in Florida, in three communities in Arizona and, finally, in Southern California. He ended his resumé by giving his forecast for the operations planned within the next week. "We have ten, spread in a net over five suburbs of Detroit, two in St. Petersburg, although one might actually pop before we go, two in Southern California, and one in Arizona."
"Thanks for the run down, Ray, appreciate it! By the way, in your analyst suit, what do you hear about Continental?"
"Well, it's rather weird that you should ask. We've been getting a few rumours that the two new ranges which Continental are leaning on rather heavily, are in fact not doing too well at all. No-one seems to be able to put a finger on why, from what the industry hears about things like recalls, and customer satisfaction, they should be selling like hot cakes, what with those ads., the ones which Morson, Zeno are running, and all the back-up and finance. They seem to be just sluggish, no kick-start at all. No-one seems to know if it is true, but the line up on the back lot at Continental is rather large."
"Are they gonna be in trouble?"
"If they pull their act together, they should scramble through. The price has been drifting steadily downwards, not through any particular buying pressure, although whenever a big parcel does come up, it is taken fairly soon. No one that I know has taken any significant positions on their stock, but if they are gonna go for a bath, do you think we should maybe take it easy on the Selection File. I mean, if there is gonna be new Management, maybe they won't take so kindly to the helping hand!"
After a few seconds hesitation, his superior answered, "No, we proceed as normal. We are working for a Friend, and I have given my word. That should be enough. It may be that things might change, but our operations are fireproof, and there is no connection to make, in the event of a significant change of management." Business completed, the two men strolled slowly around the deck, as the ferry came to rest in the small dock near Perth Amboy, resting briefly before the return journey, back to the power house which was New York
Chapter 7
The new working week, at Continental's Grand Rapids pension fund offices, which looked after the whole Corporation's group fund, was not an hour old before a phone rang, at a desk in the facilities department. A middle-aged black man fielded the call, leant forward and asked, "Facilities, Ben Newcomb speaking; how can I help you?" he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, and if he had been able to, would have paled slightly. "You goddam fool," he heard, "You know what is happening, and your instructions were to carry on as normal. But no, big Ben has got to act like the Lone Ranger, on his white horse! How many times do I have to tell you, you act normally when you have a death and medical clearance to attend to, don't jump and tear over like it's the most important thing on the horizon; you act just like the rest of the clunks in your department, and take it easy! The last thing we want is someone showing the slightest interest in what is a run-of-the-mill job, and especially we don't want E-mail memos coming from godamm Joe Kozcinski , congratulating us on a remarkably well-done job! You hear, slow down, or you will attract attention." Ben sat back as he heard the call break off, uneasily fingered his throat, and silently promised himself to do worse in future.
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Joseph Kozcinski sat in the reception area fronting the office which held his Chairman, Nick Cavalieri. He was due for his updating session with Nick, although Joe was privately convinced that Cavalieri knew exactly what his Sales and Marketing V.P. was going to say, before he opened his mouth. Finally, he heard the gruff voice calling goodbyes over the phone, and stood up as the door opened, and Nick beckoned him into the office. "Sit down, Joe. Coffee?" One of the three P.A.s brought over the cup, and helped Joe to cream and sugar before returning to the desks outside. "Well, Joe, my boy; what
have you uncovered? Have your team come up with anything, or is it still early days?"
"Nick, I think I should start with the worst first! Virginia Horrigan, and her team of number crunchers, have been burning incense, with the result that they are recommending, to the cross-corp team, for early discussion, that we scrap the new models, go back to the old lines, and bring forward next years lines as a replacement. She said that the cash layout was growing all the time, we were starting to hurt, and the finances would not stand for much more in the way of building cars which were not moving!"
"Jeez, Joe, she sure knows how to play hard ball! What do you think?"
"I don't know whether I would go so far as Virginia has forecast, but she is right in one area, we are hurting, and it will get worse! Howsomever, the next area I would like to cover is Advertising. Harry Lassitter hauled the Morson, Zeno team in from New York, and they gave us chapter, verse and chorus on the entire run of predictions, polls, posters and screen commercials for both Stiletto and Sabre. Got to admit, Nick, they were impressive, and much as I hate to say this, I don't think we can lay much of the blame on the ad. crew. The only thing they haven't done was a poll to get a feedback within the last month, because they relied on the post-launch wrap poll for their final information input. Alisson Klein, she is the ramrod for the account, offered to do the poll as a freebie, so we'll hear in about three weeks."
"No sign of sloppiness, nothing that came out of the woodwork?" asked the C.E.O., more hopefully than anything, "we are running out of alternatives!"
"Well, Nick, I went around the table at the last meeting, you should have the minutes already, and I got less than zilch for ideas, and got a bit chewed with hearing that everything should be okay! Engineering poked their heads above the parapet, and said that the nuts and bolts side of things was running like a sewing machine. Oh, and I even sat down and played with the sales spreadsheets for both models, and it's just like the guys said, the complaints, if anything, are down on last year, discounting the shortfall in numbers, from both Franchise holder workshop returns, and from Customer Engineering."
The C.E.O. got slowly to his feet, walked over to the window, then beckoned Joe over to join him. "See that stack of autos slowly deteriorating in the sunshine. That is our problem. Have we all got it wrong, Joe? Is there something we have all missed. God knows I have been in this industry for over twenty years, and I have read the bible; hell, I wrote part of it myself. Someone is making this happen, Joe! I feel it in my blood. By some devious means, some sonofabitch is intent on driving this outfit into the ground, and no-one knows what the hell is happening. We can't afford what Virginia is proposing, hell; you know that as well as I do. Pull out all the stops, Joseph, we can't afford to lose this fight; too many jobs, including ours, depend on your team coming up with the goods. Good luck, Joe, my best to Alex when you see her!"
The young executive head of the marketing department, a division which employed directly some three hundred workers, and which handed out contracts which gave employment for thousands more, sat in his car, steadily driving along the parkway towards his wife's real estate office. He glanced at his mirror, and suddenly registered the presence of the same Toyota he had noticed a couple of days back. He remembered it's presence in his mirror on two previous occasions, and realised that he was being systematically followed. An off-ramp sign came level, and Joe suddenly veered across from the center lane he had been driving in, and shot down the ramp, but the Toyota just kept on driving down the parkway. Unconvinced, Joe circled around, and drove back downtown, to possibly the one man who would tell him what to do, and whose advice he would trust and take.
The uniformed figure, seated at the desk in the open reception area, glanced up in query as Joe stood before him. "How can the City of Detroit Narcotics Department help you, sir?," asked the firm young voice.
"I'd like to speak to Inspector Costello, I believe he is attached to this unit." stated Joe, still worrying if he was doing the right thing.
"In connection with..?" asked the young patrolman.
"Uh. it's something I gotta talk over with the Inspector, uh.., confidential, O.K.?"
"Certainly, Sir; if you would wait over there, " pointing to a group of seats, "I'll call the Inspector straight away!"
Inspector Patrick Costello sat back, his chair tilted back against the wall, shifted his bulk gingerly into a more comfortable position, and wondered if he should finally book off and finally get his haemorrhoids sorted. The pain was not bad, but the itching sometimes drove him up the walls; his only reason for not getting his problem eased was the simple truth that he was scared. Not of the surgery, which he knew was straightforward, but the possibility of the word getting out into the general offices, and the laughter which would undoubtedly follow, as 'piles' still was the great unmentionable. "Hell," he thought, "a few guys had come straight out and announced that they were homosexuals, and the news had been greeted with a few nods, and a general air of, 'so what, as long as you do your job' . But let some poor guy go into hospital, and have a very necessary operation performed on his asshole, and the laughter rang around the City squad rooms." He gazed down at his stomach, which comfortably protruded over his belt, and once more toyed with the idea of getting fit, but gave it up as a bad idea. He knew that a dozen files awaited his attention, and was about to return to vertical working position, when his phone rang, and the desk patrolman announced that he had a visitor, confidential status."What's this guy like?"
"Not one of the usual low-lifes, good suit, clean, confident, looks like a Taxpayer,"
The ultimate accolade, in the Detroit Police Department, was to be called a Taxpayer, as these were the people who paid the bills, and hence called the tune. "O.K. Stephan, I'll drop down and see what has wandered in to our orbit." so saying, the Inspector heaved himself upright, scratched his butt almost out of habit, shrugged his coat on, and headed for the stairs down to the lobby. He walked across to the holding area, as the tall figure unfolded from the seat before him. "You wanted to talk, sir?"
"Can we go somewhere private?" replied Joe.
"We've met before, haven't we! It's Joe, Er Joe.."
"Kozcinski. Inspector, we met about a year ago, when we were doing that outreach thing, for the sports club for the,.."
"Deprived among us'. that was the title. Some title!"
"What happened to the club, Inspector?"
"They burnt it to the ground about three weeks later, Mr. Kozcinski. Seemed that there was a little argument about who had the right to sell crack cocaine to the kids who went to the club, and it was sorted by torching the whole complex."
The pair walked up the staircase, along the corridor, which smelt of a mixture of paint and socks, and into Costello's office. The policeman pointed to a chair, dropped into his own behind the desk, raised one eyebrow, and asked, "How can the police help you, Mr. Kozcinski, or are you here as a representative of Continental Auto, in which case we can offer a coffee, as well as help!"
Joe grinned at the differential, and said, "I have an idea I am being followed, by car, and I think it's been going on for a while."
The Inspector raised one eyebrow, spoke, "Why would anyone wanna follow you, Mr. Kozcinski? Have you upset anyone more than usual, or have you been less than careful with your marriage vows?"
"No, Inspector, I am very happily married, and I don't believe I have upset anyone in a long time."
"Tell me why you came to see me, rather than report it to your local precinct Captain. I mean, we're a long way from Grosse Point, in every sense of the word!" asked Costello, "not that it isn't nice to see you, but this is the Narcotics branch, and there ain't a lot of our brand around your complaint, if you get my drift?"
"Inspector Costello, I know that you are in Narcotics, but maybe you can understand the worries that may crop up when I suddenly realise I am being trailed. I don't want some bored cop who takes notes, pats me on the shoulder and waves me out. No, I need the support of a Detroit policeman
who knows me, maybe can help, and wants to do so!"
"Okay, first of all, what did you do when you realised that someone was following you?"
"I recognised a Toyota, a brown or beige model, dirty, '89 or '90 model. He was behind me when I drove to see my wife at her work, and when I saw him again, I just pulled right over and pushed off the parkway, just to get rid of him."
"Unfortunate, that last bit, Mr. Kozcinski. You see, it might have been smarter to go where you were heading in the normal fashion, make a phone call, and we could have picked him up, dusted him down, and asked a few polite questions. But you now have alerted your tail to the fact that you have made him, and he'll either be replaced, or changed cars. However, damage is done. What I propose is this, I'll alert your local precinct that there is a 'risk' situation in your area, and let them increase the patrols around your home streets. I will be in touch with a buddy of mine in Central, and we will arrange for our own surveillance, to try and locate our friend if he turns up again. We want you to go about your travels exactly as normal, and if you spot a car that has been around before, if it has the offside wing done with unmatching respray, that will be our guys, doing their job. Has your wife noticed anything unusual, guys loitering, that sort of thing?"
Continental Attack: Murder and Mayhem in Detroit's Auto Industry Page 6