The several levels of the complex had been named rather than numbered, catering to some small whim of Andrews's, but the Vanguard's leader knew he had reached the thirteenth floor when the pneumatic doors whisked open, offering a view of the resplendent corridor beyond. No effort or expense had been spared in decoration, from the deep shag carpet to the hardwood paneling and the seemingly authentic artworks on the walls. He was impressed; the vision Andrews had created reaffirmed his own desire to live in luxury with servants waiting on him hand and foot. Male servants. Young. Delicious.
Freeman drew his mind back to the present errand, double-checking that his tie was straight before he reached the broad desk of the receptionist. She graced him with a dazzling smile designed to set his blood on fire. Not her fault, Freeman thought, that her attempt did not have the desired; affect.
"Good morning, Mr. Freeman. Mr. Andrews is expecting you. I'll let him know you're here."
The sleek receptionist returned, all smiles. "Mr. Andrews will see you now. Please follow me."
"My pleasure, hon."
She almost giggled, caught herself and led the way along another corridor to reach the inner sanctum of the man who covered both their salaries. She left him with another hundred-candlepower smile and stopped just short of winking at him as she sashayed back along the hall. It was a pity, all that effort wasted.
"Jerry, glad you could make it. Always good to see you."
That was bullshit, seven ways from Sunday. No one called him "Jerry" anymore, and there was no way in the world he could have missed the meeting, even if he'd wanted to. Not that it had ever crossed his mind.
A face-to-face with Andrews was a rare event. A challenge, testing Freeman's own ability to keep up his facade. He must not let the banker know his secret had been compromised. Not yet. Above all else, he must preserve his own small mysteries from prying eyes. If matters got away from him, it would be serious — no, fatal — and he had no great desire to die before his time.
"My pleasure, Michael."
They were on a bullshit first-name basis, even though he recognized that Andrews thought himself superior in every way. It was ironic, with his thinning hair and his waistline running recently to blubber. Middle age had not been merciful to Andrews. Neither, Freeman thought, would he. When it was time.
"A glass of brandy?" Andrews offered. "A cigar?"
He knew Freeman did not smoke, had known it for more than a year, and still he offered, every inch the perfect host.
"No, thank you."
"Ah, too early in the day, perhaps? How are you, Jerry?"
"Busy."
"Yes, of course." The blunt reply did not seem to faze him; he was still all plastic smiles. "It's business that I wanted to discuss."
At last, a stab at getting to the point. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm curious about your progress," Andrews said.
"You could have said that on the telephone."
"I sometimes find the element of human contact beneficial in analyzing situations." Same old bullshit, Freeman noticed. "Please speak freely. I assure you that this office is secure."
It should be, Freeman thought. The banker spent a small fortune every year on debugging and antisurveillance equipment, employing technicians with government backgrounds to spot weaknesses, trace them and see to their swift elimination.
"Very well," Freeman began. "As you know, Theo Brown's funeral was held day before yesterday. That portion of our contract is completed."
"And the union?"
"Hanging on, but obviously weakened. Protests are on hold while they select another leader to replace the dear departed."
"Candidates?"
"The front-runner seems to be Brown's father. He's an outsider, new to the union, but he's articulate enough, and he's got the sympathy vote sewed up tight. At the moment, he has no viable opposition."
"Plans?"
"I'd like to wait a while and see what happens. Taking out another organizer now would bring down heat you won't believe."
"That bothers you?"
"Of course it bothers me. The ultimate objective is to crush the farmers' union, not be crushed ourselves. Another hit this soon would draw the FBI like flies to honey. It might even force the Chatham County locals to wake up and take some action."
"I'm not interested in the problems. Just results."
"You should be interested in the problems, Michael. Problems cost you money, and they could cost me a great deal more."
"Your people are expendable."
"I'm not. The kind of heat we're risking wouldn't stop with grass-root arrests. The Feds aren't satisfied with triggermen these days. They want the backers. The capos. The imperial wizards."
"You're worried about Ritter?"
"Certainly. If he goes down, there's every possibility that he might talk to save himself."
"A leak can't be that difficult to plug."
"We're making smoke here. None of this has happened yet, and there's no reason why it should if we use common sense and bide our time."
"I need results," the banker said. "My backers are impatient."
Freeman knew about his "backers" — those he publicly avowed, and those who really pulled the strings. If Andrews had been conscious of the way in which he stood exposed, it would have wiped the smug self-satisfaction from his face. Oh, yes, indeed.
"Advise them of the risks involved."
"I've tried." The banker spread his open hands in a helpless gesture. "They have profit on their minds. It's strictly business."
"Sometimes business has to wait."
"Not this time, I believe. The union is already wounded. It would be a foolish error to give them time to lick their wounds and find another charismatic leader."
"You must realize that every act of violence strengthens their resolve. For every member lost, they find another one to take his place. Short of wholesale annihilation, I can't guarantee a broken union on any sort of timetable."
"But you have guaranteed it, Jerry. Remember?" The voice was satin-covered steel. "You promised satisfaction."
"If I ran the show my way. You can't impose a whole new set of terms and still expect the same results."
"Regrettably, I have no choice. My backers..."
"Have a lot to learn about America."
OK God.
"What do you mean by that?"
Too late to snatch back the words, but he still might have a chance to save himself if he was quick and cool enough. "I mean you've all been living in your ivory towers so damned long you don't remember how the little people think, or how they feel." A little bluster wouldn't hurt at this point. "When you slap a farmer down, his instinct is to get back up and kick your ass. My men can't play this game by boardroom rules."
Andrews studied his face for a long moment, finally seemed satisfied with what he found there, reassured that his cover was intact, his secret safe from prying eyes.
"Results," he said at last. "The money's not important."
"While we're on the subject, there's a hardware shipment coming in tonight or late tomorrow, C.O.D. I'll need to cover it."
"Of course."
"I also have another man on salary. A trainer for the troops."
"Is that advisable?"
"I'd say it's mandatory for the kind of plays you have in mind. We won't get anywhere with untrained rednecks."
"I suppose you're right. Is he secure?"
"We ran him through the sheriff's office. He's an ex-con with a history of racial incidents. I'd say he's perfect."
"Fine. I'll leave it in your hands. About Brown's father — what's his name?"
"Wilson."
"I think we should deal with him promptly, don't you?"
"I've explained what I think. It could be a disastrous mistake."
"Even so/'
"You insist?"
"If you like."
"Very well."
"Good. It's settled, then."
"I don't suppose you
had a special date or place in mind?"
"I wouldn't dream of interfering, Jerry, you know that."
"Of course."
"Some time within the next two weeks should be sufficient."
"And the rest of it?"
"Long-range, I'd say we have six months."
"Six months!"
"Surprised?"
"You could say that."
"You have my sympathy, of course, but circumstances alter cases, as I'm sure you understand."
"We'll need more trainers.''
"As you like."
"More money."
"Certainly."
Six months was lunacy, but Freeman saw no gain in pointing out that Andrews was demanding nothing short of suicide. The banker knew that, had to know it. He might be many things, but he was not a reckless man; each move was calculated, weighed in terms of energy expenditure and probable results. If he was opting for a deadline that was certain to result in chaos, then he had his reasons.
Fine.
Six months was time enough for Freeman to inflate expense accounts and "order" shipments that would never be received. Acceleration of the schedule meant acceleration of his plans, as well, but there were unexpected benefits. With Andrews pushing for results, a six-month deadline, there would be less opportunity for him to breathe down Freeman's neck, observing every move. If money was no object, he would not be prone to question Freeman's spending, the amounts that disappeared without a trace into the Vanguard leader's numbered Swiss accounts.
He had been counting on a longer time, demanding different strategies, but shorter deadlines would require a change of plan. Instead of wooing Andrews for the money, it would be a case of rape and run... but that could be amusing, too. It could be damned amusing with the proper partner.
Later.
Business now, with pleasure in the back seat, waiting for another time, another place. He had too much to deal with as it was, without the complication of a hasty love affair. Still...
"I beg your pardon?"
Andrews frowned at having to repeat himself. "I asked if there was anything else?"
"I don't believe so." Freeman made a show of pondering the question, finally shook his head in an emphatic negative. "No, not offhand."
"Well, then, I know you're busy, as I am..."
Dismissal. Freeman shook the banker's hand and thanked him for his time. "I trust your partners will be satisfied with the results of their suggestions."
There. The dig was irresistible, but it was time to go. He left the banker standing at his desk, a quizzical expression on his face, and closed the door behind him, cutting off the stare. He passed the receptionist's desk, then paused and turned back to face her.
"I wonder if I might just trouble you for one small thing?"
"Of course?"
"Your phone number?"
Freeman noticed that her hand was trembling as she wrote it, folding the piece of paper twice before passing it into his palm.
"I hope you'll use it soon."
"My dear, are you Italian, by any chance?"
"Why, no. What makes you ask?"
"Because I think you made an offer that I can't refuse."
Delighted laughter trailed him to the elevator. Freeman felt pleased with himself, overall. He had outwitted Andrews, or would do so shortly, and had simultaneously found a way to relieve his pent-up tensions. It would take some getting used to, but the girl seemed sympathetic, eager, and he thought that with a bit of raw imagination he would manage nicely.
It would be a memorable new experience.
* * *
Michael Andrews spent a moment staring after Freeman, finally settling back into his leather-upholstered desk chair. The mercenary's arrogance was irksome, but it came with the territory. If Freeman thought himself in charge, so much the better. Let him posture for his troops, for the jackals of the media. While Freeman drew attention to himself, Andrews was free to operate behind the scenes, secure from public scrutiny. And if the heat got back to him at some time in the future... well, there were means of dealing with that problem, as well.
It had been easy so far, manipulating both the Vanguard's chairman and his "partners" in the Southern Bankers' Conference. How foolish all of them would feel if they knew how they had been used. And all the time they thought they were using him.
Suppressing laughter, Andrews crossed the room and poured himself a brandy. Never mind the hour; he had earned a drink, and he would have it. Celebration was in order now, with victory approaching, well within his grasp. There had been times — and recently — when he had lived in fear of failure, dreading contact with his secret sponsors, fearing they would sicken of delays and scrub his mission, laying waste everything he had achieved.
It had taken years for Andrews to achieve his present status. Years of private struggle with support from his clandestine backers, knowing they could snatch the rug from under him at any moment. If his associates could only realize...
At age nineteen, he had arrived in the United States from Canada, a border crossing carried out in darkness by a young man frightened for his life. The documents he had carried were forgeries — the best Dzerzhinsky Square could offer at the time — and they had served him well as he began the journey southward, following the Mississippi River to his destination. He was Michael Andrews, then, and so he would remain. Mikhail Andreivich was dead and gone, his memory entombed in Moscow in the files of KGB.
The concept of a "sleeper" agent was not new, by any means. Throughout the postwar era they had been used to good effect in Europe and America.
Sleepers had succeeded in securing information that a transient operative might have missed. A few had penetrated special targets — even, it was rumored, the inner ranks of Hoover's sacred FBI. Andreivich could not evaluate such rumors, and he did not waste time trying. His employers had decreed a different sort of mission in America for him, and he was anxious to begin his work on behalf of the people's revolution.
Unlike sleepers who were planted with an eye toward the gathering of information, "Michael Andrews" had been trained to serve as a provocateur. His placement in the South in 1955 had been no accident of fate. A short year earlier, the American Supreme Court had struck down the "separate but equal" rule established during the nineteenth century, with Plessy v. Ferguson. Racial integration was the new law of the land, and Washington commanded that it should begin "with all deliberate speed." In more than a dozen states where segregation was enshrined as God's own law, an angry ruling class responded with defiant shouts of "Never!" Political careers were built on little more than the ability of candidates to bellow "Nigger!" from the back of flatbed trucks, and grass-roots bands of white Americans devoted to "patriotic resistance" sprang up in abundance like noxious weeds across the fertile countryside.
In all, it was a situation made for propaganda, and the KGB was not naive enough to let the chance slip through its fingers. Michael Andrews was among their best, and he had been assigned to penetrate the South, achieve financial prominence, acquire respectability, present himself to one and all as a staid pillar of society. In that pursuit, the coffers of the Comintern were opened wide; what Andrews needed he received, and in a decade he had risen from a lowly teller to the presidency of Razorback Savings and Loan. From there, investments had paved the way for corporate expansion and proliferation, dollars breeding dollars, and in time, he hardly ever called upon his backers for support. He had arrived.
In the beginning Andrews reported faithfully to his control, a minor politician, formerly a lawyer noted for resisting integration suits — and losing every time. Another sleeper, the control had done so well at taking on the attributes of an American that he had gradually drifted out of Moscow's confidence. Members of the KGB had suspected him of "going over" to the enemy, in mind if not in fact, of becoming "too American" to be of further use. Upon command, Mikhail Andreivich had killed his sympathetic contact, staging the event to pass for accidental death, the result of t
oo much alcohol behind the steering wheel. At twenty-seven, he had suddenly been in business for himself. .. and business was good.
Along the way from a subsistence wage to comfort and from there to opulence, he had contributed his time and money to a wide variety of racist groups. A dozen different factions of the Ku Klux Klan had welcomed his largesse, as had the White Citizens' Council, the American Nazi Party ' and the National Association for the Advancement of White People. When disgruntled Klansmen found the KKK too tame and organized their own mobile demolition team, dubbed Nacirema — American spelled backward — Andrews was among the contributors who helped finance their hobby. Wherever racial violence seemed a possibility, the rising banker did his secret best to make it a reality, the word made flesh and blood. Especially blood.
To prove himself nonpartisan, he funneled cash to other groups as well. At one time or another, Andrews had patronized the Black Panthers, the Black Liberation Army, the Republic of New Africa and the Revolutionary Communist Party, which had no more connection with the KGB or Moscow than it did with Ronald Reagan's own Department of Defense. It pleased him to amuse himself by playing both ends off against the middle. How much more exciting if the blacks were armed and ready — even eager — to fight back.
When Andrews thought about it, which was seldom now, he realized the FBI was likely to maintain a file on his activities. Their infiltration of the KKK and of black militant societies was well established in the press, and it would be pure luck if he had managed to escape their scrutiny for more than thirty years. In fact, he had no reason to believe that he had been so lucky, no desire for them to overlook his humble efforts.
If the Bureau had a file on Michael Andrews, why, so much the better. From the outset of his mission, he had been aware of every risk involved, the possibility of his indictment and conviction on assorted charges of conspiracy. Donations to the Klan and allied groups was not a crime per se, but Andrews had been instrumental in supplying weapons, ammunition and explosives to the groups he favored with his generosity. How many churches, schools and private dwellings had been leveled with the dynamite he had purchased through the years? How many victims had been killed or wounded by the weapons he had supplied to Klansmen, Nazis and warriors of "black liberation"?
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