Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

  There was a nostalgic aura about this street and house. It was a visit to time past, to an older America—a replication of bygone days when young men sat on verandas and sipped lemonade while coquettish young women in high shirtwaist blouses sat decorously by their sides. The street belonged to an America that had been obliterated by the rise of suburbs and the deterioration of cities. It recalled a secure and confident time when Teddy Roosevelt carried a big stick and rode in the West, while the American Navy showed the flag with the Great White Fleet.

  The feeling dissipated when Cory rang the bell. He heard the chimes sound in the rear of the house. The door was opened by a ramrod-stiff man with graying hair. Cory recognized him as a professional army noncom. The neat blue apron covering the man’s shirt front seemed to verify the fact. He had probably been the general’s orderly and retired simultaneously with his commanding officer.

  “General Rainman, please.”

  “The general is not at home. Who is calling?”

  “Can you tell me when he’s expected?”

  “He is away for an indefinite stay. If you have a message, sir?”

  “Major Williams, Department of the Army, Sergeant. I have important business with the general.”

  His guess had been correct. The man in the apron straightened to attention at the command. “Yes, sir.”

  “It is imperative that I reach the general.”

  “He is at the Wiltshire Club, in New York City, sir. I can get the address for you.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Cory turned and walked abruptly down the sidewalk. He got into the front seat of Ron Sawyer’s car and signaled for Ginny to leave. As they pulled away from the curb he saw the ex-sergeant look after them quizzically and then abruptly slam the door. Cory knew he would make a phone call.

  “Where to?” Ginny asked.

  “The library. Wherever it is.”

  Cory felt the tentacles of a massive headache encircling his head in a relentless grip. He pushed back from the microfilm machine and pressed fingers to his forehead.

  The newspaper files in the public library had provided what he wanted to know. He had searched the indices for any information the New York Times might have on the Wiltshire Club, and looked at all recent references to General Rainman in the local papers.

  He stared down at his legal pad in front of the microfilm reader. His last notes were on the top page and concerned the Wiltshire Club, in New York City. He had found a feature article a month old, concerning the club. He scanned the notes again:

  … A newly formed private club that will not only be a bastion of the wealthy and powerful, but probably one of the most exclusive enclaves on the Atlantic seaboard. Membership is not necessarily based on wealth, but will be extended to army officers, police officials, and governmental bureaucrats. Achievement and potential will be the criteria for membership. No one seems to know, or admit to knowing, who the members are and exactly how they are selected.

  “It is an exclusive club,” the article concluded, “shrouded in mystery.”

  Cory turned the page. He knew damn well what the criteria for membership at the Wiltshire Club were. It was chilling that the Committee felt confident enough to bring its recruitment out of hiding.

  The remainder of his notes concerned feature stories the local papers had run on one of their famous home-town sons, General Lucius Rainman. The notes were succinct:

  … A firm believer in old fashioned patriotism, the American way, and a strong defense posture … “Certain insidious elements are at work undermining the government … and these reach into the very highest ranks of government.” He is a man often found in the enlisted men’s clubs of his command during off-duty hours, playing a dozen or more chess games at one time … hardly ever defeated … “Sharpens the mind to a high degree,” the general was quoted as saying, concerning his chess prowess.

  There was an article with yesterday’s dateline.

  … General Rainman will be leaving for an extended stay at an undisclosed location, where he will visit with high-ranking South American military officers who are on an “unofficial” visit to the United States.

  Cory tore the notes off the pad and rewound the last reel. There was something going on in New York, and General Rainman and the Committee were deeply involved.

  Hand in hand they walked along the quiet cross-town street near Gramercy Park, in New York City. A light rain had recently fallen, and the city had a clean, fresh smell.

  Ginny gently moved her hand and created a swinging motion to their clasp. He looked at her. She was staring straight ahead. A small smile teased the ends of her mouth. He knew she was indulging in a daydream and hoped that it would not be shattered by the impending violence.

  They passed the Wiltshire Club. A doorman stood stalwartly in front of the brownstone building. The windows of the first two floors of the club were crisscrossed with heavy metal grating, ornamental in appearance but obviously strong and burglar-proof.

  They ambled slowly on the opposite side of the street from the club. The doorman watched them warily. It was not the look of an obsequious servant. The only designation of the club was a small brass plaque near the front door, which simply read:

  WILTSHIRE CLUB

  Members Only

  They walked past the club and down another block before Cory broke the silence. “I wonder about inside security.”

  “What did you say?”

  “The doorman looks big enough to play defense for the Steelers. I wonder what other security they have inside.”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  “Easy. We just walk in.”

  Ginny laughed. “Of course. I never heard of a private club that didn’t need temporary help, particularly if they have a group of visitors from South America. The pay is lousy.”

  He held her arm. “When can you try?”

  “In the morning.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Cory waited for Ginny at the north end of Gramercy Park. The weather hadn’t improved, and a light rain splattered the sidewalk around him. The sawed-off shotgun was still in the interior pouch of his trench coat.

  She had left at seven-thirty that morning. The day had passed anxiously. His worry over her well-being precluded any attempt at concentration. Finally, he had given up and gone to a movie on Forty-second Street. It didn’t help.

  He could think of nothing else. Suppose they “made” her? She would be trapped inside the massive bulk of the Wiltshire Club.

  She had laughed at his fears. “They need help They always do. Particularly the likes of me, right?”

  “Right,” he mumbled.

  “I’ll be back in an hour unless I get a job.”

  The door closed, and she was gone.

  The day dragged on interminably. The Committee would have no reason to believe Cory was in the city. As far as anyone except Crescatt was concerned, he and Ginny had dropped out of sight.

  General Rainman had come to the city for some sort of international meeting of the Committee. There would be security at the Wiltshire Club tight enough to keep out unwelcome intruders, but not a planned onslaught.

  He walked around the park for the fifth time. Two women pushing baby carriages gave him a sidelong glance.

  At five-fifteen, finally, he saw her hurrying down a side street toward the small park. She smiled as the distance between them closed

  They sat in the back booth of a workingman’s bar on Second Avenue. She was flushed with excitement.

  “Did you see Rainman?”

  “Absolutely. He played chess most of the day.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “I couldn’t miss him. It was the same man we saw in the news photos in Toledo.”

  “What kind of job do you have? What about security around the general?”

  She laughed. “Let me tell it in order, OK?”

  “From the top.” He leaned back in the booth and drank a draft beer. A sense of relief at her safe
ty washed over him.

  “I told you they needed help. Well, I work the bar room, on tables, from eleven until two. Before and after that I clean rooms upstairs.”

  “Minimum wage?” He smiled tightly.

  “But of course. There are two entrances to the building: the front, which we passed on the street with the doorman; and there’s an alley two buildings down that goes behind the club and has an entrance into the rear of the club.”

  “Any guards on that entrance?”

  “Two. Right inside the rear door. They carry some sort of short rifle.”

  “Rifles?”

  “I think so. In the front there’s more than just the doorman. Inside, in the vestibule, a guy sits at a desk. He has one of those funny looking guns in the desk well near his feet. There are two more men in the hall that runs off the vestibule.”

  “My God! It’s as well guarded as Camp David.”

  “They have metal detectors in the front hallway and in the back, where the help comes in. Everyone’s bag is searched, and they frisk you. You have to walk under a metal detector … you know, like they have at airline terminals.”

  “Did you see anyone else inside the building who appears to be security? Besides those in the hall?”

  “About ten or twelve. Some of them wear uniforms and speak Spanish. They all seem to carry the same kind of gun.”

  “Christ! They act like they expect an armed invasion.”

  “There are several older men around who wear uniforms or dark suits. I guess that’s the contingent from South America.”

  “That might account for some of their security. I don’t see how Rainman could be alarmed.”

  “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Tell me as much as you can about the interior of the club.”

  She borrowed a pencil from the bartender and made quick slashing line drawings on napkins. It was a fairly detailed account of the building’s interior, and Cory was amazed at her powers of observation.

  The Wiltshire Club was located in a building originally designed by Stanford White. Immediately beyond the entrance, at street level, was a wide marble vestibule with a winding staircase to the upper floors. The man with the gun behind the desk was at the far end of the vestibule. Two hallways ran off the side of the entryway to the bar room, reading room, and game room. Kitchens, offices, and storage were at the rear of the house and in the cellar. The upper floors were reached by the front or rear staircases or a small self-service elevator. Ginny thought that the upper floors were all rooms and suites for overnight guests.

  From her description, armed men were patrolling every entrance, hallway, and were stationed at critical points in the building.

  It was an armed camp.

  “And they search you when you enter?”

  “Yes.”

  “The weapons these men carry, do they look like this?” Cory took the napkins and pencil and made several drawings of automatic weapons and machine pistols.

  She recognized the fifth drawing. “That’s the one. That’s the type of gun everyone seems to have.”

  Cory nodded. It was the drawing of a Kalashnikov automatic assault rifle. The barrel and trigger housing mechanism were little more than twenty inches long, with a shoulder stock of tubular steel that folded back. It fired thirty-five rounds at single intervals or nine hundred rounds per minute on full automatic. It was an extremely lethal weapon, and exactly the one he would have chosen for men guarding individuals in the close quarters of an enclosed building.

  “How do they explain the South Americans and guards to the help?”

  “There’s a big sign on the employees’ bulletin board, near the time clock. They call it an international invitational chess meet and request efficient service. When they hired me, they said that some of the visitors were from overseas, and they were taking precautions against terrorists.”

  “Terrific,” Cory said.

  “Crescatt here.”

  “I’ve found him, sir.”

  “Where?” The President’s question was curt. Cory sensed an inner tension in the man.

  “At a place called the Wiltshire Club, in New York. It’s got a dozen guards and is practically impregnable.”

  “We must have that list, Cory. General Rainman either has it or knows where it is. Every organization has to operate with some authority, and Rainman is our key.”

  “If I could have two squads from the Eighty-second Airborne company you have at Camp David, we could make a full frontal assault with grenades and automatic fire. There’s a doorman to be taken out, and several men downstairs.”

  “Impossible! We can’t risk it.”

  “I don’t see how else.”

  “Cory, I was in Division G-2 during the Korean War. I know the work and training required to mount such a mission.”

  “There are Rangers and Green Berets at Fort Benning who are trained for this sort of thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t get them. We can’t risk going through Pentagon channels, and there’s no way even the President can go directly to a field commander. You’ve done a lot of resourceful things recently, and I need one more from you. We must have that list if we are to survive.”

  It was to be a one-man show.

  “All right, sir,” Cory said slowly. “Then I’ll need two items.”

  “Which are?”

  “A grease gun and …”

  “Grease gun?” The President seemed nonplussed for a moment. Then he remembered it was a .45 caliber automatic weapon designed for resistance fighters in World War II.

  “Yes. It’s automatic fire and lethal, but small enough to be disassembled.”

  “What else?”

  “Drugs. Something like a truth serum, with instructions on how to administer it.”

  The President thought for a moment. “I think I know how to arrange the machine gun, but the drugs are another problem, as is delivery. We’re going to have to take another person in on this. It’s a risk but will have to be done. I’m going to request to see my personal physician, Colonel Halliburton. He can provide the drugs and be our messenger. Where do you want delivery made?”

  Cory gave the President the address of their hotel in Brooklyn Heights.

  He walked from the phone booth, deep in thought. How in hell was he going to get into the Wiltshire Club and get Rainman out to a “safe house” for administration of the drug?

  Colonel Edward Halliburton wore bright yellow slacks, an off-white shirt, dark blue blazer with brass buttons, and a regimental tie. He had a long shock of brown hair and a smile that cleaved his handsome face in two. He was deeply tanned, with an athletic build maintained over countless hours on the tennis court. The man reeked of ingenuousness. Cory understood why Crescatt trusted him. The good-looking young colonel seemed incapable of any deviousness outside of occasionally sandbagging a doubles match.

  Halliburton lay the attaché case on the bed and shook Ginny’s hand. “I’m Halliburton. Is Williams here?”

  “Right here.” Cory stepped out of the bathroom with the sawed-off shotgun. The physician seemed startled at the weapon and couldn’t keep his eyes off the lethal device. “Did you bring the things?”

  “Sure did.” He unsnapped the case. “Had to take a train. I’m sure the airlines would have arrested me on the spot. One .45 caliber automatic weapon.” He handed the grease gun to Cory. The weapon, with its stock folded, was not much longer than the shotgun. He watched as Cory unsnapped the stock. “It does look like a grease gun, doesn’t it?” He bent back into the case. “Five full magazines, several hypodermic needles, and a supply of Succinylcholine Chloride and Triopental.”

  “Why two drugs?”

  “Two different uses.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The Triopental is a narcotic, and if used properly in the right dosage will act as the truth serum you wanted.”

  “The Chloride?”

  “Succinylcholine Chloride is a powerful muscle relaxant. If
administered in a massive dosage it will cause nearly instantaneous death. No trace of the drug can be found in the body at post-mortem.”

  “Terrific. How do I use the truth serum and in what quantity?”

  The doctor’s smile faded and was instantly replaced with a professional mantle. He held up a syringe. “This is the needle. How’s that for openers?” And he explained the process.

  “Suppose I want to put a man out for five or six hours?” Cory asked after the drug orientation was complete.

  “Physical build, age, and that sort of thing would have a lot to do with it.”

  “They’re big men in their late twenties or early thirties.”

  “Use the Triopental; increase the dosage about this much.” Halliburton demonstrated by sticking a syringe through a rubber top of a drug vial and pulling back the plunger.

  Cory took the hypodermic and held it a moment before plunging it into Halliburton’s arm.

  “Hey!” The doctor looked down at the hypodermic protruding from his arm in astonishment. “That was a rotten thing to do. I have a tennis da—” His head lolled to the side as he slowly folded over onto the bed.

  “Why did you do that?” Ginny asked.

  “Crescatt trusted him, so I do, too, but we’re going to keep him under until this is over.”

  “You’re not going to hurt him?”

  “Good God, no!”

  “How are we going to get into the club, Cory?”

  “You’re already in. You work there, remember?”

  “They search me when I report to work.”

  “A full body search?”

  “No, but they have a security matron who pats you down. You also have to walk under those metal detectors, and they open all handbags and packages.”

  “I think I have a way to get in. All I want you to do is take in the drugs.”

  “I told you; you’re not listening. They search you.”

  “You also said it wasn’t a full body search.”

  Ginny blushed. “Okay. We get the drugs in, but how do we get a zonked General Rainman out?”

  “We don’t.”

  “But then …”