Continental Attack

A novel by

Mike Cunningham

Copyright              1999

For Jacqueline, who simply, these days, does not know how much I love her!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter  3

Chapter  4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter  7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter  12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Continental Attack

Chapter 1

Tadeusz was dead, and the family had gathered to do him honour. The spadefuls of earth had thumped down upon the coffin lid within seconds of the last of the mourners leaving the graveside, as the undertakers had another seven burials to go before the end of the day's workload. "Jeez, that's what you'd call the pits! The old man was a bastard, but to go like that, left to die by some hit-and-run cowboy so soon after we finally got rid of the old Hitler off the assembly floor, I wouldn'ta heaved that on anyone." The overheard conversation was about his late father-in-law, but  Joseph Kozcinski, instead of turning and belting the speaker in the face for the disrespect he had shown, merely nodded in silent agreement, held his wife just that little closer, as the crowd split up while they trudged across the cropped grass towards the waiting limousines. A sudden marketing thought slid into his consciousness, asking why there were no funeral cars in the range his own company manufactured, but he filed it away into the "things to look at" slot, and concentrated on trying to comfort his wife. She had been very close to her father, and besides having had him living with them for three years, she had looked after him for over ten years after her mother died. Her way of looking at the world had been coloured by the dictatorial old Polish immigrant who had laboured all his life, and hated the 'bosses' every second of his time in the giant works. The old man had almost burst a blood vessel when his 'little girl' had introduced a member of the hated 'boss' structure into his house, and she calmly announced that he was to accept Joseph as his future son-in-law, or she would turn around and walk straight out. It had taken two years for Tadeusz Bor to admit that not only was Joe a member of the human race, but also had some moderately acceptable ideas about sport, work, and how to treat his only, and favourite, daughter.

A heavy hand thumped across his back, as the owner took the advantage of the occasion to act in a familiar manner with the young executive; "We'll all miss the old man, down at the union hall, and at the Legion, Joe! It must have been a great blow to your wife, and if there is anything my Sadie can do, just tell Alex to call, and we can work sommat out, ya know."

Joseph Kozcinski looked across at the speaker, a squat, heavily-built, second generation Pole, with a beer gut that had taken a valiant effort to build, and smiled. "Don't worry, Jerzy, if Alex needs anything, she knows who she can depend on. Now if you will excuse me, Alex is very upset, and we'd like to be alone, before we get back to the cars. Thanks, Jerzy!"

As the couple slowly climbed the slight slope towards the waiting cars, Alex stiffened once more, and Joe prepared to hold her tight, for he thought that another crying jag was about to erupt, but his Alex surprised him by quietly asking him if he would let her walk alone. "If I can reach the car without breaking apart, I reckon it'll be O.K., Joe." Her soft voice reassured the tall husband that his wife could weather the storm, and relaxed, as they finally made the gravel drive of 'Rest-in-Peace' park. Joe never saw the cemetery sign without remembering the political machinations which surrounded the purchase and fitting-out of the cemetery area, with three brothers all going to prison for fraud, and a dozen political careers all on funeral pyres. He had been offered a five percent share, on start up, but the whole thing had smelt too good, and in one of the rare times when Tadeusz had given advice which he actually agreed with, the old man had simply said, "Joe, there's a polecat around the works, and I reckon you are far too smart to even consider getting your name up. You don't need it, and I wouldn't want Alex to be involved with a shifty funeral deal. I would not rest properly!" The old mans' eyebrows had risen vertically, as Joe started laughing, but the sense of humour which his daughter had in abundance, had simply missed out on her father.

He looked around for the other members of the Bor family, and one by one located them among the crowd as they closed in on Alex and him, as they prepared to get into the limousines. Alex' brothers, all six of them, wives firmly in tow, were grouping together, with the eldest advancing towards Joe, rather unsurely, for a change. "Er, Joe, everyone back to your place, is that the plan?"

"Sure, Sig, everything is set up, the family has been baking for three days now, and we wouldn't want anyone to go to the wrong house!" Alex' elbow bit into his ribs, as he realised that he should maybe stop poking fun at his wife's family, especially right now. "No problem, Sig, how would you like to organise everyone into the limo's, then come and share ours for the ride back home."

His brother-in-law mollified with a task which gave him a sense of control, Joseph looked down at his wife's face, saw it break into a reluctant smile, and knew he had done the right thing. "Don't worry, honey, I'll keep my big mouth firmly under control, so just don't hit me again. Sigismund likes to feel wanted, so I'll do my best to engender the family spirit. All the locals are here, and your father has been given the send-off he would have wanted, so let's get back to the house, and just make sure all the ornaments have been put out of the way." Alex shushed him once more before her brother, complete with Tracy, his wife, apologetically slid into the limousine, and sat facing Joe and Alex for the slow journey home.

Home, for the Kozcinski's, was a sprawling ranch-type house in a quiet street in Grosse Point, which was the equivalent in Detroit of Georgetown to Washington, D.C.. The affluence of the mansions and houses, nearly all owned and occupied by senior members of the automobile hierarchy of Detroit, stilled what little talk there was among nearly all the passengers of the limousines, used as most of them were to much more modest surroundings. The second limousine, which carried three of the remaining Bor brothers and their wives, who had been to Joe's house a few times, mainly on occasions to do with their father, was silent as the wives costed each house as they passed it, and the six brothers linked together in a mute alliance of envious antagonism towards the husband of the one member of the family who had made it out of the rut of the assembly plants. Lech, the second son of Tadeusz, voiced the thoughts of them all, by simply saying, "Got it all, some of these fat cats. The cars, the houses, the stock options, the feather-bedding in the organisation, there ain't no redundancies around here. Shit, I know Joe Kozcinski is more than smart, but its' like a million miles away from our life, or anything we could get."

His wife, MaryBelle, whose figure had occasioned a surreptitious design exercise in support techniques by an irreverent bunch of trainee auto design students, wriggled around, while still staring at the houses which sat near to Joe's; "I think that you all oughta give over. Alex did allright for herself, 'n they looked after Daddy when no-one else would, mainly because he was such a sourfaced old grouch; and they have done O.K., and thats' what it's all about, in America. All you guys make me tired, Joe is a real sweet guy, and you forget the number of times he has helped, without making a song and dance about it. Remember when there were four Bor names up on the hit list for lay-offs at the plant two years ago. No-one found out how you were either removed from the list, or else sent for re-training and transfer, all to better jobs. That was Joe K. at work, and you better believe it; he didn't have to do it. No, he did that because we are all family, and Joe belongs just as much as Sigi, or Lech, or me!" As the crowd of family and close friends exited from the long line of black cars, and moved into Joe's house, the upshot of MaryBelle's spirited defence of their host led to a shamefaced acceptance from the Bor clan that maybe they ought to suspend their unspoken feud with Joseph, with the result that the gathering became much happier, and with fewer undertones, that just about any previous family gathering in years.

Alex Kozcinski stood in her bedroom, gazing at her reflection in the broad dressing table mirror. She took mental stock of what she saw, from the unusually reddened eyes, through the blonde hair, worn long now for the past year, the porcelain finish to her complexion, an inheritance from her mother; the black full-skirted dress covering the trim figure which she worked hard to keep in shape, the nylons and the black pumps. She knew that she ought to get out into the midst of the family and many friends of Tadeusz, but delayed, to say a private farewell to the man who had dominated her life until she had met Joe. She bent her head forward, her eyes gazing at the small framed portrait of her father, taken years before. She remembered the fuss he had made, before bowing to his Elena's demand that he have his picture taken, because his wife was the only person, apart from Alex, who could quell him with a word. The square, uncompromising gaze looked out from the photo, with the years of toil inscribed deeply into his forehead and cheeks, the mass of white hair which surrounded his head like a halo; "No," Alex reprised, "halo was the wrong word," for Tadeusz Bor had long since given up contact with organised religion of any creed, despite Elena's entreaties. She took one final look at the old man, gently raised the portrait to her lips, and gave him a farewell kiss, before turning to repair her light make-up, fluffing out her hair, and walking forward to join the clan in the main house.

The extended family, which was the mainstay of the Polish American lifestyle, had indeed been baking for three days, and the results of their labours, spread out on dozens of serving plates and trays, was fast disappearing as the appetites of over two hundred mourners came to the fore, aided by the unaccustomed fasting on the morning of the funeral. The many aunts, cousins and distant relatives who had helped cook all the food, watched in satisfied wonder as the piles emptied, were replenished, and dwindled once again. The booze side of things, the province of the male members of the clan, had been given deep thought, and the results were almost as gratifying as those on the food front. Watching the inroads on the beer mountain, Joseph was glad he had arranged for the taxis and limousines to pick up just about all the family members, and return them at a specified time, to their homes. He didn't want anyone to feature in the Detroit drink-drive listings, especially after the old mans funeral. He was therefore not really listening intently as yet another distant cousin stepped forward, and spoke of the times that Tad, and the cousin's own father, had endured in the old country, finally asking, "Do you think they will ever catch the clown who killed the old man, Joe?"

"No, the police say that they have received no sightings at all. Green or grey Chevy, two-door, about three years old. It wasn't a local car, they've swept the whole area looking for front-damage. No-one got the plate, seemed to be too dirty; the cops have been more than helpful, but I guess it's on the back burner now." Trying to change the subject, Joe asked, "How is your father keeping, you didn't say!"

The cousin's face fell, and a small voice answered, "Thought you knew, Dad died about three months back. It was only about six damn weeks after he'd retired from the Continental plant in Grand Rapids, he cut his hand on a tin can spur. Went into Dragon Bend hospital for a routine check-up, mainly because I told him to, got complications, and he never came out."

Joe reddened, sad that he had raised wounds which had started to heal. "Fred, I'm sorry. Haven't been keeping up to date with family matters, I apologise for even mentioning it. Everything settled with the company, no problems with the insurance?"

"That side of it went like a Cadillac, Joe. The hospital bills were all paid, the funeral the same. Nice guy came from the main office, and sorted out all the problems. Even though the old man only drew six weeks pension, got to admit, Joe, the company has really got the personal pension side of things sorted!  Wish that the cars sold as well as the back office organisation functioned." With a smile, his wife's cousin headed for the beer, and Joe leant back against the patio support, watching the people who made up his only family as they milled around, catching up on all the gossip. He made a further mental note to inter-memo a congratulatory note to the Pension administration offices at Grand Rapids, mainly because there had been some almighty foul-ups in the distant past, and he was pleased to hear praise from the sharp end, as there had been a complete shake-up of both personnel and methods in that side of the administration.

The last words of cousin Fred stayed with him, as they formed an ongoing problem within the giant corporation which was Continental. The cars just were not selling, or at least not breaking into new market share, and no-one could figure out why. The old models, which had been running in production for the past three years, were still selling, and were the mainstay of the selling line. As Main Board Sales and Marketing V.P., Joe had been given the task of figuring why, even with a brand new line, fancy finance facilities, and the slickest ads that money could buy; Continental new market share remained dormant, with even a worrying tendency to decline, at less than thirteen percent. He had organised a cross-corporation team to brainstorm the problem, and so far they had come up with zilch. He smiled, partly because his wife was approaching along the terrace, and partly because he envisaged putting the extended Bor clan onto the same problem, sit back and watch chaos result.

"Hi, honey, I see you are slacking on the job again!" Alex's nose always wrinkled at the tip when she smiled, and slipped her fingers into her husbands big grip. "you should be swanning around, forcing more food down the assorted throats, there must be at least two pies and some fruit left. God, my family sure can put it away!"

"They didn't spend three days cooking just for fun. I reckon they had the quantities down to the last ounce. Hell, they would do great in the army, your aunts and cousins. It's not every day that a horde of two hundred get fed, all content, and there is virtually nothing left. I reckon they must have used a computer to check out all the supplies needed!"

The thought of her assorted aunts even venturing near a computer brought Alex to giggling, and the couple walked into the big living room, and were promptly engulfed in talk, and the thought of a super efficient pensions office dropped into the back of Joseph Kozcinski's memory.

The afternoon wore on, with the resultant acceleration in alcohol intake, with the usual unfortunate result, one of the Bor brothers; who happened to be Lech, who had solemnly promised his wife not to utter another word about Joe, taking long-distance, noisy, verbal swipes at his wealthy brother-in-law. Finally, Alex came into the fray, picked up the drunk by his ear, and loudly asked who owned the garbage. MaryBelle strode forward, her own face like a sunset, and claimed the wriggling body as her one and only. Alex, who had heard about MaryBelle's defence of Joe, simply smiled and asked MaryBelle if she was ready to take her husband home, as maybe he needed a rest, especially around the mouth. Knowing that Alex was capable of much worse, as she had a vocabulary which had regularly won contests, and she was ashamed of her drunken husband, MaryBelle simply squeezed Alex by the hand in thanks for taking it quietly, gripped Lech by the arm and marched him out of the gathering, and down towards the cars.

The gathering started to dwindle from that point, with the hire cars taking most of the visitors back into the other suburbs of Motor City. Joseph and Alex waved their final farewells towards the last of the mourners as they walked, rather unsteadily, towards the big limousine, then watched until the car disappeared around the bend. Joe hugged Alex, and turned towards the house, murmuring, "Well, the old man got a good sendoff; not as wild as he might have liked, but you can't have everything!"

Alex grinned, as they walked through the wide doors together; "Dad would not be really content until there had been at least a minor damn revolution, preferably one which took out at least a whole management level in Continental Motors. He hated being dependant upon the assembly plants for work, hated the whole idea of working so that other people could sit back and collect dividends. Hell, you know old Tadeusz, you fought with him often enough, he took the money, but always under protest, and if the truth be known; he made things more difficult for the union men, because of the way he laughed out any move they might have made to come to terms with the management. It always had to be confrontation, had to be 'the struggle'. God knows, I loved the man dearly, but he was a right pain in the butt!"

Joseph Kozcinski squeezed his wife to him, before heading across to the bar, and mixing a drink for each of them. "Did you know about Fred's father, you know; the one who was almost attached to Tad by an umbilical cord?"

"Old man Chyman, is that the one? What about him?"

"Yes, you got him. Well, it seems he died just a short time ago. Fred was rather chopped up about it, and of course I jumped straight in and asked how his father was! Seems old Chyman went into hospital for a routine check after cutting his hand, or something, developed complications, and, bingo, slow walk time for Fred.  Tough thing was he had only been on pension for six weeks before the accident. Seems the infection spread, or something; I didn't get all the details from Fred, only thing that lightened the gloom was the way the pensions office took care of the hospital and funeral expenses, on the double as it were. Most impressed was our Fred."

The couple went through into the bedroom, to change before going out. They had arranged that a clean-up crew would appear, and, neither being truly domestic animals, preferred that the house be cleaned, all crockery washed, and generally tidied in their absence. As the house crew arrived, Joe handed them the spare keys and asked that the locks and windows all be checked before leaving. He handed his wife into the seat of their Continental Stilletto, the top of the range model which had, unaccountably, not made any inroads into the target market; got into the drivers' seat and after the motor responded with its' usual refined purr, left for the club.

Their destination, the Auto Club, was a little different to the average idea of a business club. Membership was by invitation only, and was heavily restricted to one category only; namely that you had to eat, live, think and even die while thinking about the staple of their existence, automobiles. The founding committee, comprised of three senior executives of what used to be the biggest car company in the world, G.M., saw a niche market, got the subscription money together, and had never looked back. The present team of chefs had been offered so many bribes to even think about leaving to join rival establishments that they had stopped reporting them to the committee. The same committee had only given one set of instructions to the head chef, and his chosen team; 'Give us the best, every day, O.K.!' and had sat back and reaped the rewards ever since. The decor had also been left to a complete outsider, whose only guide had been, 'we want a place to relax, and not remind us of all the goddam cars surrounding us', and the result was a warm ambience throughout the complex which half of Detroit tried to copy. Some wives of auto executives hated it, because their husbands saw and talked to the same people that they talked to during their days, but Alex and a few others saw it for what it really was, the perfect sounding board for ideas, and often shepherded their menfolk towards its' imposing portals.

The couple walked through the lounge area, Joe waving to a few faces he recognised, were met at the rope by an attentive maitre 'd, and escorted straight to their table. The restaurant was deceptively big, with lots of divided sections, and it was indeed rare that anyone calling for a table was disappointed. Seated, Joe sat back, while Alex scanned the menu, peeked over the top, and asked, "You want me to order, as ever?"

Joseph, who had confidence in both his wife's selection capability, and the kitchen team to deliver exactly what was required, simply grinned, nodded and ordered drinks from an attentive captain. When his order arrived, a soda for himself, and a martini for Alex, she leant forward, toasted him with the glass, while asking, "Any further forward on the great sales mystery?"

Shrugging his shoulders, the marketing V.P. had to admit defeat. "We have tried everything, and our unit of high-priced brains has come up with exactly the same as our own team, first time around. We have had a couple of brainstorm sessions already, and a big fat zero has been our reward. I sometimes feel that half the guys in this room know about our problems, and are laughing fit to bust, while softly thanking their God that it ain't happening to them. Truth; Alex, the sales and marketing expertise that we have pushed onto the Stilletto and Sabre range has been tried and tested over a dozen launches. There should have been a big jump in sales about five months ago, after our big advertising push, according to our projections; what we got was a rise, but more along the lines of someone turning over in bed. Whatever we are doing wrong, it should not happen, and no-one can figure out what has gone wrong. Damn it, they are good vehicles, with good engines and safety built in; and what happens, we get overtaken by Chevrolet.."

Alex, who guessed that the thing which really hurt was in the last sentence, started to speak, but then their starters arrived, and silence reigned for five minutes. Joe had just wiped his lips with his napkin when he saw his opposite number from Engineering angling through the room towards him. Larry Burnett stopped at their side, and simply asked, "Everything go O.K. this morning, Alex, Joe? I tried to make it, but I got hijacked by our illustrious leader, and had to perform the rain-dance to placate the evil spirits." Alex, who liked Larry more than Joe did, asked which dance section had been called for. "Now there is only one dance that Nick Cavalieri likes, it's the one which ends in everyone chanting 'costs are reduced'" replied Larry, "when Nick arrives in hell, if Satan has any sense, he'll send him straight back to heaven, because Cavalieri will have his empire checked for efficiency inside three weeks!" Smiling, the Engineering V.P. said his goodbyes, and strode off towards his own table, which was graced by yet another of Burnett's bimbos.

"Don't know how he does it," smiled an amused Alex.

"He got retro-fitted with better equipment, plus he has an inexhaustible supply of grasping young female talent who think that they can sleep their way into the design office. Not one of them has so far worked out that the last thing Larry would do would be to elevate someone who has slept with him. They keep trying, and Larry ain't gonna be the one to tell them that they are wrong, so he leads the life of Riley, gets laid so frequently he has to have week-ends off just to recover!"

"You are just jealous, he's free and you aren't, that's what it is all about."

"I would have to give you up, if I were to be free, and that, little lady, would be a very bad deal for me," smiled Joe, while stroking his wife's hand softly with his fingers, "Larry can have his non-stop circus; I prefer the quiet life, with one girl and one only!"

Alex' eyes softened, and suddenly wished they were back in their own home, instead of a crowded restaurant. "Thank you kindly, Sir," she dimpled. Their food arrived, New York strip for Joseph, and a filet for Alex, and they both started, suddenly hungry as neither had eaten much during the function after the funeral. Dabbing at his mouth after he had finished, Joe smiled at his wife, who was busy mopping up the gravy  with a piece of breadroll, "The old man used to do just that, God, I know I'm gonna miss him! He might have been self-opinionated and impossible, but he was first of all your Daddy, and I could go a long way with him for that."

Alex' eyes suddenly filled, and she had to scrabble for a kerchief, "That's why I married you, because you could stand up to Tad, and not worry when you let him get the better of you. Joseph Kozcinski, you are a nice man, and I love you dearly!" The pair sat gazing across the table at each other, holding each other by the hand, not realising that half the room was watching, all with warm smiles on their faces, for everyone liked young Joe, and his wife. Their coffee arrived, and after Joe had signed the check, they sat on a while, just chatting about inconsequentials, letting themselves slowly relax after the long day, with all it's memories. Gradually, their talk veered around one again to the things which were worrying Joe at work, with the non-existent take-off in sales in the foreground. "Hell, Joe, worst things come up, you can always join me in the office," joked Alex, referring to the real estate operation which Alex ran, as the owner and operator, in the suburban shopping mall four miles from their home.

"What, and have a slave driver as a boss, I'd rather dig coal in Kentucky," riposted Joe, who was trying to keep things light.

"Honey, you know Nick Cavalieri as well as I do. His gospel, as Larry said, might be 'cut costs', but he doesn't particularly worry about where the costs are in fact sliced. Why do you think he has given you the task-force idea? Because you are the blue-eyed boy! Possible, but if you don't come up with something solid, the target is being pinned to your broad back while we speak. Nick is not slow when it comes to pointing the finger at someone else, especially when the finger might just as easily be pointed at him! Remember I worked for him for two years, and he didn't get the nickname 'Slicer' just because he could pack bacon. He is as devious as all get out, and I worry about you having to deal with any pack which he has shuffled."

Joeseph Kozcinski stared across at his wife, and realised that she was in earnest. "Think he has his knife out for me, hon?"

"I just don't know, Joe; but it's just as well to be armed with the knowledge that he might be looking for a scapegoat." answered Alex.

After finishing their coffee, the tall auto executive walked beside his wife towards the exit, then hesitated as his chief executive, accompanied by two other men, loomed into view in the foyer. . "Damn, it's Nick, and he's waving us over. What the hell is he doing here? He hardly ever comes near the club!", Joe mumbled as they walked towards the chief executive of Continental Motors, who was busy handing his coat to the attentive hatcheck girl.

"Joe, glad I caught you. I know that today was Tad's funeral, so I'll keep it short. Hope everything went smooth today! Hi, Alex, how's my favourite real estate operative? Got a minute, Joe? I'd like you to meet Vince Lombardi," gesturing to the small man on his right, whose dead eyes swept over first Joe, then his wife, before nodding slowly; "then Harry Mettaliou," a big man, with the same expressionless eyes as his compatriot, who reached out a hand as big as a shovel, gently squeezed Alex' hand and then Joe's with a control which said to Joe that he could quite easily break his arm off at the root, big as Joe may be. "Vince and Harry are doing some consultancy work for me, Joe. Anyhow, the reason I glad I met you was simply to let you upgrade me on the marketing glitch we have. I'm behind on everything, after being away for a week.  Anything new, or has there been any progress?" asked the C.E.O. of the young marketing V.P.

"We have sat down twice with the team, Nick, and we are just getting our strategies together." replied Joe, "there hasn't really been time to unearth any problems, so I gotta say that there isn't a lot to report so far, Nick,; but when you hear gunshots in the grass, that will be me heading for your office to tell you, first thing, Nick."

"Thats what I like to hear, Joe; confidence. Thanks for your input, Joe; Alex, nice to see you. Take care, and drive safely!"

As Alex and her husband drove homeward, Joe was silent until Alex simply asked, "Well, do I get to hear your thoughts, or do I have to use truth serum again?"

"I just don't know, Alex. It's Nick. First with the phoney questions, and second with  his so-called consultants. There is just no way he doesn't know what we have done, less than five minutes after we have done it. He has got at least two of the so-called 'taskforce' reporting straight to him, that's the one's that I know of, so that is all bullshit! You just may be right about our revered chief executive getting set up to do me down! And those two that we met; there is only one word which describes them; muscle. What the hell is Nick Cavalieri doing with two guys who are straight out of some neanderthal movie?"  The Kozcinski car was strangely silent for the rest of the trip home.

Chapter 2

The familiar frontage of the Continental Corporation's head office complex shone in the spring sunshine as Joe hefted his briefcase from the trunk of the black Stiletto, before handing the keys over to a waiting car jockey, who would drive the vehicle away, to be cleaned, serviced, checked and fuelled, before it was readied to be driven away by Joe in the evening. The senior management perk, of having a clean, serviced car, was given on the understanding that various tyre and fuel combinations would be tested by the recipients. Joe wasn't so sure about this story, as he never got to even drive in heavy commuter traffic, as his day started early, and finished late, and only went from home to office or plant, with very little variation. "Still," he mused, "don't rock the boat, Kozcinski, because some of the others like it, so why worry!" He jogged up the steps, pushed through the revolving doors and headed for the lifts, and his office. His secretary, a motherly woman, aged around fifty, who was both super-efficient, and devoted to Joe, smiled as he entered his section office. "Hi, Mrs Grady, if you have the mail pile, lets bring it on in; then contact the team and let them know we have a team meet in two hours time. No excuses, everyone to be here! Conference room three, right?"

After alerting her junior staff to make all the calls, Mrs. Grady carried in a brimming tray of letters, and memos from other departments. "Did everything go smooth yesterday, Mr. Kozcinski? At the funeral, I meant," she asked.

Joe smiled as he took the pile of mail from her hands, "Everything went very well, both at the service, and afterwards back at the house, Mrs Grady. There was only one serious drunk, and Alex silenced him before he could wreck a pretty decent, if rather sad, day. The old man would maybe have appreciated a little more uproar, but fortunately nothing too untoward happened. But thank you for your concern, Mrs. G. Any urgent calls, among this lot?"

"No, sir, nothing that can't be done in due course, there is just one memo I would highlight, it is from Mr. Cavalieri; he was asking for an update on progress!"

"That's O.K. Mrs. G., I saw the boss yesterday evening, at the club. I just told him the truth, that we were just getting started, and when anything popped, he would be the first to know. Seemed to make him happier, so we left it at that. Right, if you would be so kind as to pour me a coffee, and one for yourself, we can plough straight in to the letters, and get them out of the way. Ah," he said, "can you start with a E-mail memo to Drew Garnett at the Pensions department at Grand Rapids. Seems as though they got all their problems licked these days. A distant cousin of my wife, seems his father died about three months back; after working for Continental at the Rapids plant for about twenty years. Well the pension and insurance people really turned it on, and sorted everything out in double time. He was very impressed. Perhaps you could draft a little message saying how much their hard work and understanding is appreciated." His secretary nodded, while making her notes, and the executive team started shovelling their way through the pile of correspondence, leaving only the occasional one aside for further consideration. About half way through the tray, Joe suddenly had a thought, and made a note to bring up the subject, at the meeting, of the Sabre and Stiletto adverts which may have been signally unsuccessful. The shorthand pages of Mrs. Grady's pad whisked by, as the replies were dictated at speed, with little pause for rest. Finally, the last letter had been answered, with Joe gazing at his watch. "Can you sit in with me at the meeting, Mrs.G? The girls can handle most of the replies, and it would help if you can take the minutes. O.K.?" His secretary nodded, having previously expected the request. She farmed out the pages to the three junior staff girls in her section, picked up a new pad, and new pencils, and followed her boss along the corridor to the conference room where the Marketing meeting participants were already gathered. Joe swung in, took the head seat, with Mrs. Grady beside him; tapped the carafe with a pen, and called the meeting to order.

"Right, you all were at the last meeting, when we discussed our possible action plans to find out why we are doing so lousy, despite all the money we have spent since the launch." Pointing to the man seated next to him, he simply called, "Ad feed-back, Harry Lassiter. Can you begin, and we shall go round the circle? Keep it to five minutes, and no interruptions, please, boys and girls. We have a problem, and we must find a way through the maze!"

As the Advertising man started the run down on what paths they had started to explore, Joseph Kozcinski suddenly remembered his mental note about the television adverts, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it once more, as he remembered his own strictures on interruptions. The words ended, the message being that the launch had been exactly the same as ten others, and the Madison Avenue team who had been chosen, had even been involved in the previous four launches. The run around the table continued, with input from Customer Engineering, reporting on the low amount of problems and return autos, of both groups, which signalled that the assembly plant had got their act together, but the elusive 'feel-good' factor, which helped to sell the cars off the showrooms, had somehow been missed. From voice after voice, Joe Kozcinski received the same message, that the team had seen the same act do so well in the past, and they just could not out a finger on the cause of the slump in sales. The cars had been well received by the people who had bought them, and had been well reviewed by the motoring press. The final section to speak was the one which Joe worried about the most, because it was finance, in the shape of Virginia Horrigan.

A smart, slim red-head, with a brain like a Cray computer; she held an open folder in her hands. She sat forward, and quietly spoke, "We have a problem, which is rising all the time. Our inventory, both on the forecourts of the franchise holders, and our own parking areas, has now reached a total value of 680 million dollars. The sales team, based on the forecasts at present available, has told me that their efforts to reduce this have been a straight line. In other terms, we are just holding our own, but the log-jam is not being reduced, and does not look likely. Our finances are not rocky, but the present interest rates are not doing us any favours. We are hurting, and it is probably gonna get worse, not better. The lay-out, in money terms, is so big that I have to tell you that we, in Finance, are going to be saying that we should maybe cut our losses, and try again; by scrapping both Stilletto and Sabre ranges, write them down and bring forward next years models, so as to give us a fresh start." The silence which greeted her uncompromising words spoke volumes in itself, as what she was proposing was almost heresy.

Finally, Joe stood up, and addressed the shaken meeting. "I would like to thank all present for being frank in your appraisal of our present difficulties, especially Virginia. This meeting, however, must regard her options with as much gravity as any other, for I do not believe that her appraisal was taken lightly. I would therefore request an urgent update, from all your departments, on possible paths our corporation may take. You shall all receive the minutes by, " he raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Grady, who smiled and held one finger up, "tomorrow afternoon. Please treat this meeting, and the minutes thereof, as confidential. Thank you for your attendance. Harry, " gazing at the Advertising mans' face, "Could you give me the name of the contact on the Advertising agency, the one you normally deal with? I have a few questions which we might explore with him, or her.  Virginia, would you do me a favour and walk along with me to my office? We might need to cover a  few more details." The other participants left slowly, having attended few meetings as dynamite as this one had been.

The Finance executive strode along with Joe as he walked back towards his own office section, saying little until she was inside, with the door firmly closed. "Surely you might have guessed what I was about to say, Joe?" she asked in a level voice. "you have been around the mill just as long as I have, and I also know that you have an accountancy degree taken by correspondence. I haven't said anything which hasn't been known about before, it is just that nobody has had the balls to lay things out on  the line!"

"Jeezus, Virginia, you can't expect everyone to just line up and shout 'hooray' after you calmly announce that you want us to ditch three years work, all that tooling and design time, all those millions of dollars; and start all over. It might well break us!"

"It might break us, yes; but if we go on the way we are right now, it will break us!" Virginia walked over to stand in front of the Sales and Marketing V.P.,"I have laid out the probabilities. Nothing more, nothing less! You have been deputised by Nick Cavalieri to find a way out. Well, this is one way. Cut our losses, and start again. I'm sorry if it is unpalatable for you, but we have been starkly realistic in Finance. That is our position! Bye, Joseph."

As Joe watched her walk away from him, and exit past his secretary, he heard the dull buzz of the internal phone, watched his secretary answer, then lift her head, "It's Harry Lassitter, says he has a name for you!"

Picking up the receiver, he answered, "Yes, Harry, what have you got for me?"

Lassitter answered him, "The team leader at Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno goes by the name of Allison Klein. She's the one that we met when we okayed the final running for the t.v. ads before the launch."

"Harry, I want you to get hold of our Miss Klein, and say that we want her, and her team, complete with all their storyboards, first shoots and final cut films, in these offices at ten tomorrow morning. No excuses, no cancellations. Those people have been paid a fortune to pass the message along to the buying public, and I want re-assurance that the message is correct. Give it to her straight; she can come alone, or with an armed escort, but come she will, or else we will pull the plug! Got it?"

"Sure thing, Joe. She'll be here, I can guarantee that. Have you got anything in mind, or is it just a general waltz around?"

"Let's just say that I want to cover all bases. I don't have anything to go on, Harry; but the adverts just don't seem to be doing their job, and we should have a review!"

The advertising section leader replaced his phone, rubbed his chin with palm of his hand, then called his secretary and asked her for the number of M,H,D &Z on Madison Avenue, in New York. He dialled out, and with the latest Bell technology, was answered just as the last tone had sounded in his ear. "Morson, Zeno, how can I help you?"

"This is Harry Lassitter, from Continental Auto. Put me through to Allison Klein, please!" He twiddled the phone cord around his finger for maybe ten seconds, then he was answered.

"Klein here. Is that Harry? How can we be of service to Continental?"

"Allison, you are maybe not gonna like what I'm about to say, but that really burns me! We want you, and as many of your team as you think necessary, plus all your original story boards, rough shoots, semi- and final finished clips on a plane from Kennedy, and sitting in our offices in Detroit tomorrow morning. Our marketing V.P., Joe Kozcinski, is on the warpath, and we gotta have answers. We need a complete run-down on your demographic structures, how the ads were targeted, why you did things in a certain way in a specific area; the works. Before you answer, I have to tell you that, if your answer is not positive, we're gonna pull the plug, and you lose a billion dollars worth of billings! What say, honey?"

"Jeezus, Harry, you sure know how to say the sweetest things to a girl! We will be there if I have to hitch a lift on the turnpike; you are too damn important to us not for us to move. Can you give me any sort of a clue, so we can review as we travel?"

"We think that, somehow, the damn ads are somehow not working, something has gone screwy. Hell, I just don't know if it is your ads. for certain, but we have to review all areas, and you are mine. Do you want me to organise transport at the airport?"

"No, I'll be getting the team together, and we'll probably shoot out this evening, and get into Motortown late, catch a friendly Hilton bedroom, and see you tomorrow, when, ten?"

"Ten is fine by us," replied Lassitter, "see you tomorrow!"

Chapter  3

The calm which Joe Kozcinski exhibited to the world was, on this particular day, very much a front. Having stirred up a hornets' nest in the advertising burrows of Madison Avenue, he called up Larry Burnett, and announced that he wanted a fast walk around in the main Stiletto assembly area, so as to get a feel for the car. He hadn't been able to make any of the previously scheduled tours, and had regretted those lost opportunities. Burnett, who knew the pressures which were building the fire underneath Joe's call, simply asked when Joe would like to turn up. Joe replied that he already had his coat on, and would be waiting at the front for Larry to drive him.

Five minutes later, having told Mrs. Grady to take messages, Joseph Kozcinski stood waiting as Larry's fire-engine red Stilletto eased up to the kerb. "What made you choose a car colour like this, Larry?" asked Joe as he snapped his seat-belt closed.

"It's all part of the Burnett mystique, my man," grinned Larry as he gunned the car away towards the freeway, "this is what's known as goose trap red! Psychologist statistics say that girls are more likely to get turned on by a powerful car painted bright red, than virtually any other colour. Now I ain't saying I believe totally in the theory, but every little helps, and my own statistics have not dipped since I got the new car."

Joe shook his head wryly as his associate sent the car along the freeway off ramp, at the end of the short drive into the heartland of Motortown. The vast assembly halls of Continental, lay spread out before them, as they came on to the feeder road towards the main entrance. The security guard, recognising the car as it came up towards the barrier, raised the pole, but Larry slowed as he passed, "Quentin, a minute please!"

"Yes sir, what can I do for you?"

"No warning calls to the plant. O.K.?"

"No problem, Mr. Burnett. If you want quiet, you got quiet!"

"Thank you, Quentin!" Larry eased the car forward, keeping strictly to the ten mile-an-hour speed limit inside the works, before setting course for the exit ramp, where all the cars were driven away to the vast parking and holding areas at the back of the plant. While they cruised slowly along, past the long buildings where the actual cars were assembled, Joe suddenly asked, "Larry, if you had to buy a car, if you had no company car, if you were Joe six-pack; would you buy a Stilletto?"

The big car slowed almost to a standstill, while the Engineering V.P. put his answer together. "If I didn't know anything about how the autos were designed, if I was just an average Joe; like a dentist's assistant, or a foreman somewhere,..., I might buy. Maybe a Sabre, more my price range, but then again, maybe I would need persuading. If I had been a Continental buyer before, probably 'yes', because I would have had value before, and wanted to buy the same again. I might not, however, if I was just looking to trade in, and buy the new year model. I don't know why, Joe, I just have this feeling that, well maybe they aren't to be trusted. Hell, I should know how well we put these heaps together, and you have just heard it from the horse's mouth! No-one has asked that question of me before, and I think maybe you have hit on something. What made you ask, Joe?"

"I have a vague idea, nothing more than a feeling, but your answer has helped; I think. Gotta admit, Larry, when two top directors are unsure about the product that has so much money invested in it, it does kinda make you wonder why!"

Larry Burnett slid the big car into a spare slot near the ramp, both men got out, and then  slung Day-Glo vests, marked with a big 'V', around their shoulders, and slapped hard hats on their heads. Larry flicked the lock switch on his key ring, hearing the locks thud down, before turning to walk, abreast of Joe, towards the ramp, which gave birth to a brand-new Stiletto every five minutes. The two men watched the procession for maybe three minutes, before setting their ear protectors down, and walking into the roar of the main works of Continental Motors.

The controlled frenzy which was the daily life of the assembly lines, more like a ballet of machinery, with the human attendants forever darting to and fro, was the first thing which always gripped Joe as he walked slowly into the plant. The final inspection lines, with quality control men, armed with clipboards and white cotton gloves, ducking and checking all the paint and body lines in the brightest of lights. The driver-inspectors inside the vehicles, answering the calls of the outside staff; the headlights flashing, the indicators blinking, the engines starting with the first turn of the ignition, and the horns blasting as the final efforts of seven thousand men were judged in the space of five minutes. The TQM, or Total Quality Method, adopted by Continental after the Japanese invasion had been recognised for what it was; namely economic war, was working well; with the trumpeted Zero Defect program in place both in fact and in theory. As the two executives walked slowly down the long final assembly lines, with motorised slave buggies bringing parts and components to the right spot at the right time, Larry simply turned to Joe, motioned with his hand, and shouted, "This is sure one hell of an investment to even think of junking it!"

The news of the entrance of two senior V.I.P.s, however quietly done, had not taken long to be spread towards the Plant management, and a covey of shirt-sleeved men started hurrying towards the last reported sighting of Larry and Joe. The Plant Manager, Axel Fallden, a big, burly man, whose Scandinavian ancestors had bequeathed him a superb physique and a mop of almost white-blond hair, was first to catch up with the two men, as they stood watching a team slotting engines into place in front of the gear and drive trains. The hydraulic ram, operated by one man who only answered to one voice, because of the danger of sudden accident, slid up, hesitated, while the leader felt with his hand inside the back section; he withdrew his hand, checked his crew were all clear, ordered the final rise; the bolts slapped into place on the mountings and drive cap, and another Stiletto drive train slid forward for finals.

"Larry, Joe, you should have let me know, and I would have been at the front door to meet you," shouted Fallden, leaning close to both visitors, "was there anything special you wanted to view?"

Larry turned, and screamed, "No worry, Axel, we don't need the grand tour. We're just mooching along, getting Joe here updated on the latest line operation. We have a bit of a problem in house at Head Office, and we thought to come out here and view the operation might just clear away some of the cobwebs, is all!"

The Plant Manager nodded dubiously, but he, and his attendant retinue, kept pace as the two senior men slowly made their way through the view gallery of the high-tech paint shop operation, with pre-programmed robot arms delivering charged paint in exactly the right quantities, to otherwise inaccessible areas. They walked through the dipping and cleaning tank area, with the fumes and steam carefully ducted away, with reclamation in full use wherever possible, and then side-stepped towards the start of the main metal assembly lines, where the chassis were mated with the bodies, and the air was hellish with the flash and crackle of automatic welding tools, all operated totally by robots, which resembled some deadly dance, in a nightmare ballet. Joe and Larry watched as the 'hammer' man, wielding a plastic-headed mallet, gave the assembly the human touch by tapping the roof sections into place before the robotic welding machines advanced to complete the work. The procession slanted off towards the inward goods lines, where pre-quality checked items, such as seating, complete dashboards, wiring looms and gas tanks were shuttling in on command of the 'Just-in-Time' philosophy, which kept parts inventory to a minimum. Joe's eyes never settled on one item, but fed everything into a check pattern he had established in his mind, looking for the one thing which seemed out of place in this computerised cathedral.

The pair watched as a painted shell paused over a reader, which electronically noted the information contained on a transponder, and then, through remote terminals, alerted the loading of seats, tyres, special equipment such as radios and air-conditioning. These would arrive down carousels, or overhead tracks, just when the assembly workers on the bodies or engines needed their presence. The track workers removed the doors, and slung them onto moving lines which would return the doors, fully fitted and equipped, to the car as it neared the end of it's assembly run. The protective plastics guards were slapped on to the gleaming painted wings and sides, and the shell moved forward for the start of the final run towards completion. Joe remembered the uproar when the cost of the computerised order system had been laid before the Main Board, but the expense had been agreed, and the savings had been unique.

The retinue had slowly dwindled, as Axel Fallden had realised that he wasn't included in this particular walk around by senior management, and had tersely detailed all to return to their tasks in the main plant. He alone remained, as Joe Kozcinski and Larry had swung back up the lines, to return to their start point near to where the big red Stiletto was parked. They paused next to a notice board, full with the usual company and union notices, with a luminous red bordered poster extolling the virtues of the"enhanced Continental pension fund" benefits, including the newly-negotiated "early retirement on extra payout", and listing the options which were available to the Continental pensioners.

"Axel, please accept my apologies for skating around your works without formally advising you of our visit." Joe called out, "it's just that I have an itch, and I thought I might scratch it in the plant. Didn't succeed, but I appreciate the visit. The guys have really started to put out a good set of wheels. Thanks again, Axel!"

The burly blond manager slowly scratched his head in puzzlement as the two Main Board directors shed their protective gear, entered their car, and slowly drove away towards the main gate.

One other pair of eyes, belonging to a plant administration worker, had carefully watched the progress around the plant of the two unheralded visitors. He went to a payphone in the deserted canteen, dropped some coins in, dialled, and immediately the receiver was lifted, simply said, "We had lice around this afternoon. Know about it?"

The answer was given, with some hesitation. "There is a small possibility that action may be necessary, if he starts sniffing around deep enough. He has ordered the Morson, Zeno team out to Detroit for a review meet tomorrow morning. I think he is just covering all bases, and does not have any idea what is happening. We have very good intelligence on what our friend Joe is doing, and I don't think he has any idea where to go with this one. Just keep us informed if there are any further visits, not that he would discover anything in the plant; after all he would be looking in the wrong direction entirely. Did you get your usual envelope?"

"Yup. No problems there. Be in touch!"

The big red Stiletto moved steadily along the freeway, back towards the Continental office complex. Joe slouched against the door, one foot propped up over his knee, as Larry drove the car back towards their original start point. The silence was finally broken by Larry, as he asked, "this itch, can you maybe describe it?"

The Sales and Marketing V.P. grunted as he glanced across at Larry. "It's not in the plant, not in the build of the cars, or the components, or anything to do with the actual manufacturing process. Anything wrong would be so quickly picked up on the line that it wouldn't last half a day. It is as I asked you earlier. 'Would you buy a Stiletto?' That was the question; and your answer was 'only maybe' or even 'probably not'. And you are Joe Six-Pack, not the goddam Engineering director. If we can't even convince you, we may as well follow Virginia's lead, and start all over again."

Larry Burnett nodded slowly, as he steered the big car towards the reserved parking lot, situated right next to the main entrance. Parking, both he and Joe got out, and headed for the main doors, then Joe turned back, saw his car was already in it's slot, ready for his use, and called, "Hey, Larry, I'm gonna play hookey, head off and pay court to my bride. I need a bit of space, and there ain't nothing coming up before tomorrow with the whizz kids from the Big Apple. I'll just get my case, and I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, Larry. Get some rest!"

Joe whipped in, up in the elevator, took the back route to his office, picked his briefcase up before Mrs. Grady had registered him back, tipped her a wink, and was out of the office section before anyone could call him back. He flipped his keys up from the reception desk, unlocked his car, and was moving out of the complex before his phone started ringing, as people had been advised he was back in the offices. He turned the bonnet of the car towards the suburban mall where Alex had her office, and leisurely eased himself towards an early afternoon and evening with his wife, knowing that he was away from his desk early for the first time, apart from duty trips, in maybe four years. He drove past the 'numbers', a huge automated poster which registered, or at least used to register, the numbers of cars produced every day in Detroit, before the advent of the Japanese invasion started the steady downward path of the American domination of it's own auto market. He turned off the freeway, and headed into the suburbs of Detroit, past the park where, he had been told by a senior Detroit policeman, Jimmy Hoffa had been shot before being entombed in a barrel full of concrete; to become part of the freeways of the city. He honestly did not really know why he had given any credence to this story, apart from the tone in the voice of the Inspector, a man who never exaggerated. Further along the parkdrive, the young executive turned off once again, to find himself in the midst of outer suburb America, where all the whites had escaped to, when their inner city life had been taken over by a Black and Hispanic wave. Tightening his lips a little, because he was part of that very same problem, he navigated around the tree-lined streets, until he came up to the Garden Mall, and swung into an empty parking slot. After he had locked his car, he walked slowly down into the air-conditioned atmosphere of the covered mall, and wandered along until he came to his wife's own little empire. A sign above the door read simply, 'We don't sell houses, we sell homes'. Alex spotted him as he paused in front of the window displays, jumped to her feet and welcomed him with a big kiss in front of everyone.

"You didn't actually leave early?" the words came from a scandalised Alex, whose grin belied her words, "A Marketing Vice-President, and you left before six in the evening! What has happened to all the dedication that you used to show?" The smiles on the faces of the two other saleswomen were proof that this was an unusual event.

"Got a little urge to play hookey, and I thought I might buy you a cup of coffee!" returned Joseph Kozcinski , knowing that he had left himself wide open for more of the same, "two coffees if you play your cards right!"

"You must think I come cheap. I just don't know about you Polish guys, two coffees and you reckon that I'll fall into your arms!"

"Well, it worked before!", he grinned, as his wife grabbed her purse, called to her girls to lock up when ready, and waltzed around towards her husband, ready for a welcome early break with her Joseph. The couple slowly walked along, content with each others' company, pointing in the occasional window and commenting on the displays. Suddenly Joe stopped in front of a gown shop, and simply asked, as he pointed to a beautiful, silken shawl, "You like?"

"Why yes, Joseph; I like very much!" replied his wife, and in they went, Joe simply saying, "We would like the shawl in the window, please. Wrap it up!"

Once outside, parcel under arm, Joe smiled and said, "Two coffees and a shawl, now I know that Polish girls don't come cheap!" The couple wandered along the mall, stopping now and again to comment or look at the displays. Joe stopped in front of an electronics hobby store, his eye caught by an unusual offering in the window. Telling Alex he would not be long, Joe entered, fished out his wallet and, after a short conversation with the clerk, returned with a flat parcel in his coat pocket. In answer to his wife's raised eyebrows, he just shrugged, and muttered "You can't be too careful!"

-------------  '---------------

A dime dropped into a pay phone, which was sited at the Mall entrance, a number punched in, and when the call was answered, the caller simply stated, "It's just young love. He came straight to the Mall, waltzed along with his wife, and bought her some wrap as a present. No other reasons for leaving early. No problems. See ya!"

Chapter  4

Allison Klein lit a cigarette, in defiance of all the scandalised looks around her in the hotel restaurant, and glared around her team, as they hurriedly finished their breakfasts. "Have we got all the goodies? Herman, all the tapes stowed?" She was answered by a nervous nod, Allison being known for her vicious tongue, especially when a major client was coming down to the wire. "Serena, wipe your face, you have jam all over your lips. Have you got all the storyboards set in the sequence we talked about last night?" The young, dark-haired assistant, so addressed, nodded just a little too much. "What does that mean, Serena? Are you nodding to the fact that you have jam all over your face, or have you set up the boards properly? Please answer!"

Serena, miserable to be the centre of attention, simply replied, as she wiped her lips, "I sorted all the boards last night, and checked them again first thing this morning, Allison; honestly."

Having achieved domination over her team, which was her sole purpose in acting like the mother shark in 'Jaws 2' , the media director, Continental Account, for Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno, drew contentedly on her smoke, eyed the last member of her team, John Tynan, and snapped, "All statistics, demographics and conclusions ready for exhibit, John?"

The statistical and population expert gazed back at Allison, grinning widely, as he knew that this action set her boiling quickest. "No worries, Big Al," using the name she hated, "We got enough stats to blind the guys with science, never mind truth. What=s the big deal with this trip, anyhow? The boards were approved, the shorts and clips were refined a dozen times, and now you act like you have just given birth to a dinosaur in the middle of the night!"

Allison gazed levelly at the Australian, blowing smoke straight into his eyes, an action she knew he hated, before smiling grimly, and replying, "I had a quick word with a contact within the Client, late yesterday evening, a source you might call it.  What we are being hauled in for, is to demonstrate our competence in our choice of billboard, television and showroom advertising, for all the new models within the Stiletto and Sabre ranges. My source didn't know for certain, but the take-off in sales, forecast by our company, just has not materialised, and they may well be looking for scapegoat material."

"Jeezus, Allison," this from Herman, the conceptual artist, "Are we gonna lose Continental?" The query was reflected in the eyes of each member of the team, as they realized the consequences of the loss of such a major billing, with the fatal fall-out which would undoubtedly result.

"The reason why we departed Kennedy, at such speed last night, when we should really be doing final wrap talks with Boeing on the 777 launch, is because we have no intention of losing Continental; so get this straight! We are going to be positive, we have conducted a professional campaign, there are no, repeat, no loose ends, and we are able to demonstrate exactly that!" Allison rasped. "You are all paid pretty well, even by Madison Avenue standards, and you will help me convince our client that there would be absolutely no reason to junk Morson, Zeno as their ad agency of choice, and go with someone else; O.K.?" The identical nods from around the table, gave the media woman the answer she was wanting, as did the determined looks on the faces of all three of her team. "Right, finish up here, we don't book out; keep the rooms for tonight at least, we might have to stop over. I don't know if we can avoid it," seeing Serena's face fall, "we might not be able to wrap this up in one session. There is one hell of a lot to go through, and if they want to dredge deep, and with all our answers having to go to a single person, our session might stretch over into tomorrow, so we gotta be prepared! Herman, have we got a Hertz car on tap?"

The artist answered, "No problems, Allison, it is already in the lot in front of the hotel. I got the keys, cards and things from the desk before we came into breakfast."

"Okay, team, because this is what we are, a team, going into bat for our company! There may be someone in Continental who is looking for an easy way out, point the finger at Morson, Zeno; then leave us to be kicked off down the freeway, but we will not let this happen, will we? One final thing; if you even think you have discovered a chink in our armour, under no circumstances will you disclose this to any Continental staff member. If we have a problem, keep your goddam mouths shut, tip me a wink, and we can talk it over later!" The small group left the table together, welded into what Allison hoped would be a combination which would emerge as victors, from the gladiatorial combat which was about to ensue.

The big rental Ford, Herman at the wheel, slid into the Continental visitors' car park, and the four Morson, Zeno troopers emerged, passing out the weaponry of their profession between the four; from a case of video tapes, to four folders of marked-up story boards: from the case of computer discs, carefully guarded by John Tynan, to the big roll of glossy full-colour flyers, which had been worked upon by some of the worlds' most talented graphic artists. The four laden figures walked up the approach ramp, through the main doors, and announced their arrival at reception. Margi Goering, whose unfortunate namesake had given her a lot of grief, keyed the appropriate numbers, heard Harry Lassitter's voice reply, and simply said, "They're here Harry!"

"Hold them there," was the answer, "I'll be right down to pick them up. Thanks Margi. Bye!" Harry rekeyed his own intercom, heard Mrs. Grady's measured tones reply, and asked, "Is Joe ready in five minutes, Mrs. G.? The squad from the agency has just piled in, so I am getting them settled into the small theatre. I have coffee and everything laid on, so we will be ready and waiting."

"I'll be sure and tell Mr. Kozcinski that everything is ready for him, Mr. Lassitter. Thanks for the call." replied Joe's secretary, rising as she finished speaking, to advise her boss that his visitors were being installed and welcomed.

Joe nodded, returned to his task of scanning the latest sales returns from the nationwide franchise dealers, shuddered at the story they were telling, closed the files and asked his secretary to secure them, before shrugging his jacket over his shoulders, smiling a farewell at the junior office girls, and started heading off down the long passage towards the waiting advertising team from New York. He paused, deep in thought, returned to his office, reached into a desk drawer, and retrieved a small, flat, black-cased box; hefted it in his hand, then thoughtfully put it into his pocket, before once more walking towards the demonstration theatre area.

Joe reached the theatre just as the advertising team were setting out their wares. He was introduced to all the members, having only met Allison once, at the final run-down before the actual launch. The amenities over, he listened as Allison, after prompting from Harry Lassitter,  started to lay out the review which she proposed to undertake, and the various areas that the track would pass through. Joe casually rose, asked Allison to continue while he stretched his legs by walking around the theatre, and proceeded to do just that, wandering aimlessly around the seats, back towards the projection kiosk, and in between the rows of seating. Unseen to the visitors, or indeed to the advertising co-ordinator, he slipped out the small black case, and, flipping a switch on it's side, kept glancing at a little read-out panel as he walked. Treading through the aisles between the rows, he kept checking the panel, and finally was rewarded by a change in the figures as he passed the corner of the raised area which held the lectern, and from which the demonstrations were controlled. He circled the lectern area twice, while all the Morson team members were fully engrossed in the strategy of their director; checking all the time, with quick glances at the small case in his hand, that the read-outs were real, and there could be no mistake. Making his mind up, he leant down, flipped open the small power distribution box which sat at the side of the stand, and pulled out the main fuse from the slide. Replacing the cover, he stepped down to the group at the front of the theatre, and, raising his hand, broke into Allison's pitch; "Before we begin the general overview of your company's approach, can we review the slides which formed the basis for the billboard and showroom posters; there are a couple of items I wish to check."

Allison, who hated to be interrupted, simply nodded at Herman, who stepped back towards the lectern, which held the slide projector previously set up for the visit; and started to load the magazine into the projector. He then switched on the power switch, but of course nothing happened. Herman flicked the toggle a few times, then called out, "Harry, your little machine doesn't work! Can you get it to wind up?"

Before Harry could reply, Joe stood up, simply said, "We'll move next door, the second theatre is unoccupied, and we can't wait for maintenance to come crawling out of the woodwork. Sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Klein, but if we move next door, we can get on with the business faster than if we wait. O.K.?" The party picked up the stack of items which had been laid around, and shuffled around into the next room, which was identical to the first, Joe double-locking the door as he left. As he waited for the Morson team to ready themselves, and with a few mystified looks from Harry Lassitter, Joseph Kozcinski once more went striding around the theatre, but came to a halt after the second tour he had completed around the small auditorium. "Miss Klein, please accept my apologies, if  you could revert to the original track you had planned, we will get to see the slides when you are ready to show them!"

Allison Klein paused, completely wrong-footed by the conciliatory tone from her client, shrugged and went straight into her rain-dance on how the agency had approached the task of persuading a great many people to part with a huge amount of money for the purpose of buying transportation. Joe sat, slouched in one of the armchairs, intent as the story-boards were displayed one by one, and then compared to the individual televised adverts which were the end product of their input. They paused for coffee, while John Tynan set up the display which projected the screen of a computer on to the big screen of the theatre, and then led the company through the demographic statistics which had been the basis of their targeted series of thirty-second pre- and post-launch video clips, and the strategy behind the carefully crafted voice-overs which had accompanied the brightly polished series of advertisements. The occasional interventions from either Harry, or Joe, which were answered rapidly by one or other of the four, showed how much emphasis had been placed on the visit by the media director. Joe looked at his watch, murmured "Lunch break, I think. I realise that you have some very confidential files, and information wrapped up in your equipment, so I shall have the door locked, and a security guard posted outside; so we can all relax for maybe forty-five minutes, before returning to the fray." So saying, the Marketing V.P. picked up the intercom phone, requested a guard on the door; then led the way out of the theatre, locked and pocketed the key, and waited the minute until a uniformed security man appeared from the lift. "No one in until we return," he instructed the guard, then led the way forward, talking with Allison, as they made their way towards the executive dining rooms.

The dining rooms, once another bone of contention between Joseph and his father-in-law, were comparable to the Club in their approach to their customers digestive systems. Old man Tadeusz had often howled abuse at the system whereby a few privileged people had access to some of the best individual service and food in the whole of Detroit, while the canteens which served the vast assembly plants of Continental could only be described, rather kindly, as a superior greasy spoon operation. The service was slick, and aimed at executives who could not spare a great deal of time in ordering and waiting for their meal. There was a set menu, with little choice, but what was speedily served up to the lucky few was of the best. The four from Madison, used as they were to fine food in good surroundings, were silent as their choices were served within two minutes, complete with a glass of the appropriate wine. Joe sat back and inwardly smiled as his guests demolished the contents of their plates, not having expected anything near their standards outside New York. The group talked shop all the way through the meal, but only generally, with Joe interested mainly in the agency's approach to the marketing of the big new jet from Boeing. John Tynan, who had been nursing the project from inception, said, "Well, seeing as you are totally away from the aviation market, I guess there would be no loss in telling you that what we are playing on is the testing of the Triple seven, rather than anything else. What we have determined is that people look on airlines as much the same these days, and the only thing they are really interested in is, quite simply, is it safe? Can it be maintained easily; what do the pilots and ground crew think of it? That sort of thing. Now, if subliminal input did actually work, and of course was legal,..."

"Hold on, John, " asked Joe, "Subliminal, what the hell is that when it hits the track?"

"It's a term used in psychology. What it boils out to is there is a message within a message. It was assumed in old time psychology that, given the speed of old time films, at thirty-two frames per second, if you changed one of the film frames for another, with a message, you would be able to sneak it, the second message that is, past the conscious mind, and into the subconscious mind. The trouble is that, if you see a message, you register it on your conscious mind, and decipher what is being sent through. Human beings, being the way we are, all have different levels of conscious threshold levels, and the psych people found out that if the message was flashed much faster, then it didn't register at all, and at thirty-two frames, there was a significant section of people who actually saw the message in the first place. Actually, it is the ad-mans dream, because what would be happening is a form of brain washing, but targeted at selling a single item. It couldn't be used these days, mainly because we use video for just about everything. The advertising oversight people, worldwide, decided to ban any form of suggestive advertising, mainly because it doesn't work, but because it would give us all such a lousy name if anyone ever succeeded in passing one message off inside another."

The lunch over, the six walked back into the corridor, and approached the security guard, who made way for them as the group approached. He leant over, and spoke quietly to Joe as the marketing man stood back, to let his companions through the door. "Mr. Kozcinski , there was a maintenance man here during the time you were having lunch, seemed a bit cheesed that I wouldn't let him into the theatre, but even more chewed that he couldn't get into Theatre number one. Seems he had a call that something was wrong with the power plugs, and because you had double locked the door, he was gonna have to come back!"

Joe nodded, smiling as he assured the guard that everything was under control, before turning into the demonstration theatre for the second half of the agency demonstration. His smile was, however, rather tenuous, as he had been certain that he had called no-one to complain about the power loss in the first theatre, the head office maintenance department was famous for not responding speedily to calls for help, and there was still the evidence from his little black telltale box, to be considered in the cold light of day. When he sat back and waved the reprise presentation forward, he was able to concentrate with about ninety percent of his conscious mind, leaving ten percent to struggle with the new problems he had uncovered.

Herman Dahler, the artist who now stood before the two Continental men, was explaining the approach which had been taken to the differences in advertising strategies for the Sabre, as opposed to the Stiletto. Joe suddenly interrupted, as Herman was discoursing about the polls which had contributed to the plans for the two ranges of automobiles; "Herman, has anyone at Morson, Zeno taken a poll on attitudes to the two ranges since the wrap-up of the launch?

"I can answer that, Joe," called Allison. "we haven't, mainly because we have never been asked to. I mean, we have submitted the post-launch polls, they were part of the statistics which John ran past you earlier today. They have always been considered to be the final check, and as was demonstrated by the answers received, the responses to the Stiletto, and the Sabre ranges, were more than satisfactory. Product awareness, which had first been stimulated by a series of low-key clips, was reinforced by the main launch series of billboards and thirty second commercials, as agreed with Harry here, and the final push came with the poster campaign  States-wide, combined with the ongoing prime time commercials, which are running at present."

"I'd like to commission your agency to do just that, Allison; a attitude poll aimed specifically at product awareness, at what message is being received by the American public from the commercials and billboards presented by your agency, on behalf of Continental Motors!"

"No need to commission anyone, Mr. Kozcinski, we at Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno would be more than happy to do this survey as part of our contract with Continental." Allison gritted her teeth as she committed her agency to the extra expenditure of two hundred odd thousand dollars, but considered it cash well spent either to quiet the client, or to discover if anything came out of the woodwork.

The presentation came finally to a close late in the afternoon, and the six sat around for a wrap-up. Joe finished by rising, and speaking to all four of his visitors; "I have got to say, in front of you, that I am quite impressed, Allison. Under normal circumstances, we would be looking at an award winning set of commercials. Now as you know, our sales figures are slightly less than forecast; in fact they are damn near disastrous. However, from my own knowledge of the industry, I don't think I can honestly pin our troubles on the lapel of Morson, Zeno. Thank you for your efforts, and I hope you have a safe journey back to New York".

The team began packing their various gear together, and the two Continental men escorted them down to their rental, helped stow everything in the trunk, and waved them off towards the airport. Joe bade goodbye to Harry, made his way back to his own office, and, after about ten minutes work clearing up various documents, prepared to close his briefcase before heading down to fight his way homewards. He suddenly remembered his errand within Theater number one, and walked the long corridors to the lift, dropped down two floors, and emerged at the Theater level. He walked towards the door of the demonstration room, then paused as he realized the key he was twirling would not be necessary, as the door was splintered and cracked, and was lying open. Joe's hand pushed down on the handle, widening the door, as he peered around into the room, but it was completely empty. He moved forward into the small auditorium, and walked quickly to inspect the base of the stand, but he found absolutely nothing, either with his own eyes, or with the help of the small black case, because the small read-out numbers resolutely stayed at zero. Returning to his own office, Joe made his mind up, and scanned the entire office, both his and that of his secretary and her auxiliaries, and found absolutely nothing. He fished out the discarded box and wrapping, which had covered the black box, decided to take it all home, and pushed all the cardboard into his briefcase. The lettering on the outside of the package read, "You can ensure privacy, with the Handy Hobby BUG Detector! Detects all known surveillance devices, without warning their user! Batteries not included."

Chapter 5

The floodlights which lit up the surrounding parkland of the big Detroit hospital also cast a generous amount of light into the area where relatives of 'Emergency' patients usually sat. The young intern approached the couple who sat, close together, clutching hands as though there was nothing left to hold onto. "Mr. Larrabee, Mrs. Larrabee, might I have a word with you? Your father, well, he seemed to be doing fine at first; really fighting back after the initial heart attack. We had high hopes, because you did all the right things, the ambulance guys did their job, and he arrived in pretty good shape, but unfortunately his system just wasn't strong enough for the long haul. It may have been due to the length of time he lay in the boat hull before you arrived from your own home. We had him resting in a Intensive Care bed after the initial treatment, but he suffered two more attacks, one after the other, about thirty minutes ago. We tried our best, and when I say 'best', I mean it; but there was no coming back. I hate to be the one to tell you, but your father, Mr. Larrabee, died without regaining consciousness, fifteen minutes ago. I am truly sorry."

"Thanks, doctor. The old man had a pretty good innings, he had taken retirement from the Continental engine plant about four months ago, all alone but for us after Mom died, and he was looking forward to finishing off the sailboat he had always planned, he must have been trying to reach something inside the hull, which is where we found him; but now I guess....." the young man's voice trailed away, as his wife clung to him, her face streaked with tears. An auxiliary helper moved forward, to help comfort the newly bereaved couple, and to help them over the hurdle which few these days were really ready for.

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The staff doctor, who lived in the retirement complex on the outskirts of the Florida town of St.Petersburg, and was thus easily available for the care and treatment of the five hundred elderly people resident there, stood at a bedside, trying to reassure the weeping wife of the man who lay, comatose, in the bed. "Mrs. Clements, your husband has had a second heart attack, and although we were here," gesturing to his assistants, "there was not  a great deal we could do. Your husband has had a history of illness, his first attack, while severe, could have been fought off by a stronger man, the second makes it more than likely that you should prepare for the worst, with your husband not being strong enough to withstand the strains imposed on his system."

The woman who stood, buffetted by the swirl of death as it crept around her life, simply asked, "Why has it got to be my Joe? He's only been retired for five months. He worked at the Grand Rapids plant for forty years, he only wanted a few years in the sun!"

-------------'---------------

Joe Kozcinski sat in the lounge armchair, feet up on the coffee table, gazing without enthusiasm at the television screen, flicking from channel to channel, in the vain hope of finding something which was not aimed at the moronic, or the sports-mad. Alex walked in from the kitchen, carrying a tray with coffee cups, and jug. She laid the tray down, gently shoved her husbands' feet off the table, and poured the coffee. Joe took the proffered cup almost absentmindedly, as Alex picked up her own coffee cup, and sat down on the carpet beside Joe's chair. He stroked her hair, as they drank, then he switched off the television in irritation, despairing at the crap which was pumped out onto the airwaves. "Honey, you know that gadget I bought at the Hobby shop in the Mall, well, I, er; it worked today!"

"What was it you bought, Joe?" asked Alex, not really paying attention, "I didn't see it. Anyway, thats the whole idea, you buy something because it works; don't you?"

"Well, Alex, it is not just that I didn't want this item to work; it's just that the gadget showed positive. It is a device for checking if there are any 'bugs', you know, listening devices, in the office area. I scanned the demo theatre area, just because we were about to go through the whole ad agency promotion, and I was just, well, uneasy. I found at least one listening device tucked inside the lectern stand. I got the whole crew moved to next door, and we had the meeting, but when I went back, after they had gone, hell, I was just about the last one in the office; the door had been busted open, and the 'bug' was gone. Now I don't think it was Nick Cavalieri, because, as I said, he gets all the minutes, he gets his own feed-back from our task force, and a draft copy of my own report is ready to go to him right now, in advance of the task force hearing about our meeting. So, what we have, is either someone has been paid to do a first-class job of industrial espionage, or we have outsiders coming in to do the dirty work. I should have pulled the damn thing out immediately I heard that maintenance was early on the job! You worked at Continental, when did they ever get off their butts less than two days after being called out?"

His wife nodded slowly, "But why would anyone want to listen in on a meeting which was going to expose possible shortfalls in the advertising?"

"The only outfit I can think of would be another ad agency. We shovel a great deal of money out, when we establish our billing with the agency. Morson, Zeno is currently in charge of  around seven or eight hundred thousand dollars worth of our money. Thats to cover the commercial airtime, the poster campaign, and the marketing polls. Now if some devious bastard hears that Morson, Zeno is on the skids with Continental, they are gonna come out of the sky like vultures with afterburners."

Alex rolled her head against Joe's knee, as she gently asked, "You worried, honey?"

"Worried enough to get that damn detector out when I got home, and do a thorough walk around of every room in the house! Some of these espionage people, they are really right off the wall. We had a lecture once, must have been about two years ago, all about security, that sort of thing. Anyhow, the guy that gave the talks, he was trying to tell us that every major company and corporation has either been the target of this stuff, or is so easily penetrated that they can walk in and pick up what they want. Look at today. I must have been away from that lecture theater door less than half an hour, forty minutes tops. Someone walked straight in, jemmied the door, and pulled out the evidence really fast. They must have known that I was heading back towards my office, and took the chance to remove the 'snooper', or whatever it was. I'll have to get a thorough review of safety and plant security going, but not making a big song and dance about it. Ahhh, the hell with it for now! Look honey, I've got about thirty minutes work on the computer, then you and I can maybe have an early night, Huh?"

"I like the 'early night' sounding bit, although the last time you made that sort of proposition, you climbed into the sack with me, and twenty seconds later you were snoring your pretty head off!" grinned his wife, as she rose to collect the coffee things, and took them through into the kitchen.

The Marketing V.P. rose to his feet, walked through to his den, which had wall shelving filled with files, surveys, reports and data. On the desk was the usual desk computer, plus modem, so that Joe could, as he did regularly, sign on to the big mainframe in the basement of  Continental, and access whichever file he needed for his work. He powered up, hit the keys which gave him remote access to the big VAX set in the Detroit office, set his second and third passwords in to play, and the screen blinked back "section file, please?" Joe keyed in the file name \sabre\sales, and the screen, after a delay of about three seconds, flashed up the spreadsheet which had been compiled to give all possible variations of information on the sales of the smaller of the two new Continental  automobiles. He checked the 'returns' numbers, as well as the complaints listings against various problems which had cropped up in previous model launches, but found that the figures gave him parameters well within the 'acceptable' figures. He converted the listings into a series of graphs, and gazed glumly at the same answers. The buying public had no direct access to information listings like these, and the news which the screen gave him was that the numbers of 'complaints' and 'returned' autos, which had a problem bad enough to warrant a return to the Franchise holders workshops, were if anything, smaller than those of the previous model.

He signed off the file, and called in the same file listings for the Stiletto, but failed to notice that his finger, as it hit the 'S' on the keyboard, also touched the 'X' key, and watched as a spreadsheet, but a sheet with a very different layout, flashed up on the screen. The column headings seemed to be in months, and the hundreds of row inputs were coded to be incomprehensible, but gave target dates, and space where a '+' sign seemed to be the target, from what Joe could see of the sheet on the screen. A secondary column, listed 'forward assessment' listed the same coded column, but the dates were in the future, running from the next month forward by a year. The spreadsheet had opened up at the very base of the sheet, so Joe was able to read the line number, which was 1005. A panel flashed up on the screen, which said, "Unauthorised Access. This file is classified. Your entry has been noted. Your terminal is not listed. Please key your Terminal code in, so your name may be taken for disciplinary action!"

Joe sat gazing at the screen, wondering what the hell he had broken in to. He had clearance, through his three passwords, to all the company data, with no restrictions whatsoever, but he remembered the advice given by a college buddy, who was into computer hacking in a big way, "If you ever get into a system, and you think that they can trace you, just pull the plug; the lot. The system can be logged, and tested for access, but if you have a modem, and remain on line, no-one can check until you log out; so you don't! Just switch everything off, the modem first, and they can't trace you! You may think I am wasting your time, but everyone gets problems now and again. I pushed through once into the main Norad center computer, God, what a fright I got! They were down my throat before I could hit a key, so I just pulled the plug, and no-one ever found out." Following the instructions of his friend, Joe simply pulled the power plugs of the modem, computer and printer out of the wall sockets, and let the disc drive noises die completely away.

He reset the power, switched on and re-booted his computer, hit the modem keys and logged on once again to the Continental VAX mainframe, sent his passwords through, and asked for the \Stiletto\Sales file. The familiar logo flashed up, followed by the spreadsheet for the sales of the flagship model, followed by all the variations. The young executive played around with the information, the same as he had done for the Sabre model, and got virtually the same answers, but he had lost interest in his task, as his mind worried with the strange file he had inadvertently broken into. Whatever it represented, there had been a hell of a pile of work just to set the system up, and the coding seemed to be part of the whole spreadsheet. Joe had never seen anything like it, in his time working on computerised information systems, because what it meant was that there were two levels of clearance, with the higher level both password and terminal user-protected against unauthorised entry. The speed of response of the denial system, had been of the order of five seconds, which meant that the file had tried to identify one terminal out of over four thousand in that time, and presumably because he had wrongly keyed in the code call, the system could not trace his entry. He logged out of the Continental system, closed down his own computer, and went towards his bedroom, but with a brand new worry to compound the others which nested in his mind.

Alex cuddled up to him as he slid between the sheets, but grew still as he explained what had been the result of his short foray into the computer network. "The thing was just so big, honey. The data input time alone must have consumed weeks of work for someone, and I know it is in regular use, because the updated figures were given up to last week. The first column, which could have been names, addresses, locations; I don't know for certain, they were all encrypted. The layout of the column, what I took in before I was challenged, tells me that it may have been names and addresses, but whose? Hell, Alex, you know my clearances for the computer system, I can go anywhere, look at anything, check everywhere, and I ain't seen anything like this." The couple drifted off to sleep, with Joe remaining awake the longest, as he wrestled with the latest problem to appear on his horizon.

Chapter 6

At nine a.m. the next morning, a discreet buzz sounded twice, paused, then rang twice again, in an superbly furnished and decorated executive office which looked over the Battery Park, in downtown Manhattan. The occupant of the office, who had not expected this particular  signal to ring for at least another month, slid back the disguising panel, lifted up the receiver, and simply announced, "Scramble! Watcher here. Why call?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded worried. "We had a break in on the Selection file, last night. The file-server could not identify the user, or the terminal, because we think it came on through a miss-key; one in a million chance. Trouble is, whoever it was knew enough about procedure to chop his modem power, so his log-in signal was destroyed! He must have had the file in sight for maybe five seconds, what should we do, boss?"

"Nothing, do absolutely nothing! Whoever broke in could not read any of the names, because each is encrypted separately. If they can't read what is on the sheet, they don't know what they have got hold of; so we still ain't got problems. I shall simply inform our Client that there was a temporary malfunction in the security arrangements. The access was detected, was it not? The file could not be accessed further, because the server was not authorised by the fourth level password; it was simply someone fooling around. No-one knows what has been happening, and the way things are set up, as long as we do our jobs properly, no-one shall know. O.K.?" The man at the desk broke the connection, swung his armchair around so he faced the window, and relaxed back against the upholstery of the chairback, as he analyzed the call which had just been concluded. He had sold the Client on the idea of hiding the Selection file in the Continental mainframe unit, mainly because it could be so easily updated from the vital information resident within the system. Indeed, it was the only route to take, because all the information, cross-references, up-dated mailing addresses and all, being there in the first place had been the spur which had allowed the formation of his ingenious solution to a problem which had threatened to escalate out of all proportion.

He reached back to the telephone which still lay on the sliding tray, hit three fastcode numbers, and then waited until the receiver was lifted. "Yeah, what's new?" came the response from the speaker.

"Can you scramble?" Both men simultaneously pressed a separate red key on the body of their telephones, and, from then on, any words spoken by either party were broken down into a digitised code pattern, undecipherable except by the receiver, keyed as it was by the extra random input from the scramble unit. One of the New Yorkers' employees, who just happened also to be an C.I.A. communications expert, was given the task of trying to break the system open, and had been given full encouragement in his task, but had admitted defeat after five weeks of effort. Knowing that his conversation, if trapped from the ether by the aerials of the F.B.I., or the N.S.A., would just emerge as electronic mush, gave him more confidence. His office, and those of his inner associates, were 'swept' every day, with access to only cleared personnel, including cleaners. He was aware that, if locating a scrambled communication coming from his office might make him a further target for Law Enforcement  Agencies did not worry him one bit; used as he was to their constant snooping. The recipient of his call had no worries either, because the original number dialled was patched through a random series of dry connections at the exchange, which effectively masked the identity of the man whose voice now spoke again.

"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?"

"No, Inspector, as I told you, I drove straight here. What do you suggest?"

"Let her keep her eyes open, and act normally. If she does spot some clown trying to follow, let her use the phone, and dial this number," handing Joe a small printed card, "and we will drop on him from a very great height. Same applies to you; if you spot this clown, make the call on your mobile phone, and act perfectly normally; because that is the secret; if they don't know you made him, we can find all kinds of delicious things about them without them even suspecting. If you can furnish me with the details of your cars, your address, the places where you would normally travel during the week, your wife's workplace; I shall see if we can find out why you have attracted the attentions of low grade life. Don't worry, Mr. Kozcinski, my buddies are professional, and we definitely do not like our taxpayers being tailed, or even annoyed."

After his visitor had left, Pat Costello resumed his tilted position, and gazed at the ceiling for maybe a full minute before he picked up the phone, dialled out and waited, tapping the desk until the call was answered, "City Central, Murphy here, how can I help?"

"Johnno, how would you like to clear that favour which has been outstanding now for three years?"

"Costello. Why did you have to phone, and ruin what was a perfectly good day! And anyhow, you have been trading on that one favour, with me, for ages."

"John Murphy, how soon does a favour fade in the eyes of the unkind, and the unwise?" Patrick Costello sat back, and listened with a connoisseurs' ear to the tirade which came from the mouth of his colleague, John Xavier Murphy. The narcotics Inspector had organised a sweep of a club, and one of the catches had caught his eye, simply by being both youthfully vulnerable and beautiful. She just did not fit in to the usual smart, gum-chewing hard cases which were trawled in every day, but she had been picked up on suspicion. Costello asked a few discreet questions, the desk sergeant spilt a bottle of ink over a whole page of the Booking Blotter, and a shaken and wide-eyed daughter was restored to the home of a speechless Homicide detective.

The insults finally wound down, and a grinining Costello simply said, "Now that you have got that off your chest, I'd like to lay a small job on you, as one of our more prominent taxpayers might have a few problems, and I think we should help!"

Murphy simply raised his eyes to the sky, and took notes on the latest problem to be slung at his branch, then asked, "what sort of timescale we got here, Patrick?"

"Well, I don't somehow think our Mr. Kozcinski is imagining things, and if we can let things run for maybe a week, we may trawl something from the dirt; but not much longer than that. Do a swing around his head office now and again, unmarked cars again, and to and from his home. Anything comes near the surface, lets give it a swing, and see who we pick up, O.K.? I am gonna get the local precinct to swing their patrols around more often, and give them a little confidence. I gave Mr. and Mrs. our mobile contact number, and we shall see!"

Chapter 8

In an office in downtown Detroit, a phone jangled, the receiver was lifted, a voice rattled through the receiver, "I think he made me! Kozcinski was driving along as usual, and suddenly he sliced straight off the parkway, and down the underpass. I couldn't follow him, it was impossible, with the traffic. What do you want I should do, boss?"

The occupant of the office, a big, square set man, with a pair of eyes which made many people uneasy when they made contact, sat back and considered his answer; "First things first, dump the car. Take the plates, they're the only thing of value, because they are runners, and take the radio receivers. Get up to Johnny's Car Fayre, that's F-a-y-r-e, and there will be a new set of wheels waiting. But you should now count on changing wheels every day, mainly because he'll be looking. We have to keep tabs on him, but we gotta be careful. If you are picked up, just ask for your phonecall, and leave the rest to us. O.K.?" Upon hearing an assent, the contact man sat back, then dialled out on the phone again, waited for the distant receiver to ring three times, then broke the line, dialling out again after a minute, but this time waiting for the phone to be picked up.

The phone called by the big contact man rested on a burr rosewood desk, the matching patterns of the rare wood being the reason why its cost had been so astronomical. A hand traced the patterns of the burr, before touching the 'accept' key, which switched the call on to a loudspeaker.

"Carl here."

The hand, tapered and slender, belonged to a slim handsome woman, dressed with subdued elegance in cream silk, who called, "We have a problem, Carl?"

The contact man, Carl, replied, "Joe Kozcinski has spotted our tail. He swung off the parkway, and lost our man. I recommend that we discontinue surveillance from tomorrow, mainly because nothing has come from it. No-one has any idea what has been done, and the run-down by the agency from New York showed up no problems, as we knew it would. The target date is only four weeks away, and I suggest we just keep our heads down, until you are ready to move. Concur?"

"Give me a minute, Carl," asked the woman, reaching over to a computer terminal, and calling in a file, which showed a listing for the shares in Continental, and buying of the shares over a two month period. "We have a bought a total of ten percent, and we really need seventeen, on top of the twelve percent we already control. The second phase of the advertising campaign will draw the price down further. There are six hundred different nominee buyers; from your own knowledge of the market, with the downward trend of Continental, if I give the order to start buying, what sort of reaction would you expect?"

"Jeez, boss, please don't do anything like that. If we give the signal now, with a total of seven percent left, that means a purchase sum, on a lump of eleven million shares, of plus-minus seventy-one million. If we let the shares slide down, with the negative trend we have built, we can save a layout of maybe twenty mill. If we start buying on a charge basis, the shares might just recover, and we will lose our chance!"

The woman gazed over the desk, at a man whose face had remained immobile during her phone conversation. She raised one curved eyebrow, asking, "Lazarus, what say you?"

The man named Lazarus, who posessed a figure which still retained the broad shoulders of his youth, but had lost the use of his lower body due to the inconvenient action of an Mossad agent, who had managed to fire one last aimed shot before being mown down by machine pistol fire, sat immobile in a wheelchair, cupped his chin in the palm of one hand, as he considered his reply. "We need to continue mobile surveillance on Kozcinski, mainly because it is the only time he is not wired. We need to follow because the pick-ups that are fitted to his car only have a limited range, and need to be followed fairly closely in order to  catch everything in his journeys; mainly because the mobile phone he uses is untappable. We have intercepts on his office telephones, at the exchange naturally, and direct mikes in his office, wired back into the phone, so as not to be detected. Same at his house, and that office which his wife, Alex, runs. As he has been deputed by Cavalieri to try and find what is happening to the sales of the new lines, he is the one person that we need to listen to, in order to establish if there are any problems, right up to the moment we make our final move against Continental." The  man named Lazarus leant forward, and spoke both to the woman, and Carl in Detroit; "Let our friend continue his surveillance, but if he gets picked up, as well he might if Kozcinski  has gone to the police, we will have to, well, terminate his contract. Agree, Elspeth?"

"Carl, as you get your orders from me, just continue with the watch, I'll talk to you later, O.K.?" called the woman, then pressed the cut-off key on the phone. She glanced over at her companion, still immobile in his wheelchair, her face pale, asking, "We are in danger of coming unglued! The syndicate went ahead on the clear understanding that if there was the slightest sign of our negotiations and share purchase being made public before we were ready, we should immediately close down the operation, but now you are starting to talk about killing people. Hell, Lazarus, it is only a business we are trying to control, nothing is worth anyone's death!"

"That is where you are wrong, Elspeth! We have invested millions in an effort to achieve control; and the fate of one fool who cannot do his job correctly, without being tagged as a follower, is irrelevant to our strategy. You cannot have been unaware that we would have to eliminate any weak link in the chain, there is simply too much at stake not to take every step to ensure that we are undiscovered. I am aware that you have displayed this so-called human weakness before, and I am disappointed that you feel unable to go along with the majority view in this area!"

"Don't threaten me, you old fool,"snarled the woman, all veneer of civilisation eliminated from her face, as she shot to her feet, "remember that you are in this city, and this country, because I made it so, and your stay can also be terminated very speedily; only the termination would be carried out at the behest of the Israeli Government!" She hit a call button, the door opened as if on a motor, and a man appeared who simply asked, "Your wish, Madame Elspeth?"

"My guest, Mr. Lazarus, is leaving. Please escort him to the front, and alert his chauffeur. Goodbye, Lazarus; I shall call you when I have further news!" The old man levelled a pair of deep set eyes at his hostess, smiled quietly, and rolled his chair forweard, without speaking. He nodded at the manservant as he passed, but did not otherwise acknowledge the woman who sat back in her chair behind the desk, tapping the desk top with a silver pencil.

The lift door closed behind him, as the manservant pressed the operate control, the few seconds travel ended, and the wheelchair rolled forward once more, out through the open door, and stopped beside a large limousine parked a few yards down the drive. The door opened, but instead of having to struggle through the door, and have someone arrange his useless limbs around him, a second door opened, a hydraulic platform slid out and down to ground level, the wheelchair was manoeuvred on, the platform lifted and slid back into the body of the limousine, thus embarking the crippled passenger with minimum fuss and inconvenience. The chauffeur closed the door, slid behind the wheel, and the elegant automobile coasted gently down the drive, and out on the road back to New York. The old mans' hand reached out, tapped out a number on a communication system panel which would have done credit to an F-16 jet fighter. The answering voice, which belonged to Carl, the Detroit based contact man, simply asked, "Who called?"

"Lazarus here, Carl!"

"You have changes in my instructions, sir?"

"Yes, Carl. That small conversation with Madame Elspeth, and especially her comments at the end; they are to be disregarded. If this fool gets himself picked up, he is to be killed, immediately! We cannot afford loose cannons wandering around the stage so near to completion, understood?"

"Totally, Sir! What am I to say to Madame if she calls or enquires again on this subject?"

"Ahhh, Madame Elspeth, yes, she may call, but just tell her that you are following her instructions to the letter. Don't let her bother her little feminine head on matters which do not concern her; she has a small tendency to worry, and we can't have that, can we, Carl?" The laughter which echoed down the miles between the limousine and the Detroit office had a sere, hard, unforgiving edge to it, but it reflected the philosophy which both men had adhered to for ever. The connection was broken, and the old man sat back to plan his next move in the most expensive chess game in modern history.

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He would perhaps have planned a different move if he had known of the existence of Claudia Crickell. Claudia was twenty two years old, black and beautiful, she lived in a smart apartment in Queens, New York, drove a little Volkswagen, and earned a steady, unglamorous salary as a freelance statistician. Claudia might have ended up, as so many of her sisters in skin colour had unfortunately done, in the never ending grind of drugs, illegitimate children and welfare which seemed to be the lot of many of the black population of New York. She had, however, a secret weapon. The weapon's name was Eudora Crickell, mother to Claudia, Henry, Thomas and Estelle. Eudora, widowed at twenty five, had raised all four children in the fear of the Lord, and in the knowledge that no one gave a damn for any 'nigger', so they would have to fend for themselves. She had put youthful gangsters to flight, with a vicious tongue, and an illegal 0.38 calibre revolver, she had sent embryo drug pushers fleeing for their very lives, solid in her knowledge that the way of the Lord did not include heroin, cocaine or armed robbery. Her children had all completed school, and they had not been touched by any of the many who sought to influence the vulnerable, because she had shoved a gun barrel up the nostril of one of the school gang members, and threatened to send him, and any other, to the great patch in the sky, if they so much as blinked at her kids. The local precinct had sat and watched as she had cleaned up her own little neighbourhood, and solemnly wished they had the same freedom of action as Eudora. She drummed into her children that the only way out of the slums, was with a good education, and the will to work and win, and all had exceeded their mother's expectations.

Claudia, after parking her car in the space allocated, walked into the offices of Dawson, French and Peabody, who were listed among the tops in their field, which was sampling, public awareness and verification; in short, pollsters. The company was run by two extremely clever political science majors, who had teamed up with a mathematician and computer freak, combining their talents to produce an alarmingly accurate polling and sampling technique, based on selectivity, and 'pressure' words. They were widely used in the political sphere, but made their bread and greens on day-to-day polling for many and varied causes. Claudia, one of five freelancers used on a regular basis by the group, sat down, grinned at Emily Sweichek, her supervisor, and asked, "What you got, Emily? Please don't let it be another run on soap powders, because I surely detest the very thought of fifteen hundred responses to questions on washing powders, and who likes what."

"We got a little variety in this office, Claudia, so I can say we are being fair in distribution; I got a run on who likes what in cat food, or an car awareness listing for an ad agency. Harry got here about ten minutes before you, so he picked up that survey for the Democrats. Sorry, honey; I know you wanted that one, but it is first one out of the barrel!"

"Damn, Harry always gets the political plums. Hey, Harry; you wanna swop?", calling over to her fellow worker.

Harry, unfortunately, replied, "Iffen you were to offer your body, I would not give up the Democrats, Claudia! Sorry, honey, if you want the cream, you got to get in earlier than me!"

The black girl swung back to Emily, but the older woman shook her head, "Sorry, honey. Cats or Cars; which is it gonna be?"

"Hell, I'll take the cars, at least there is something varied in auto surveys; the consumers in cat food never say anything." So remarking, she picked up the thick wedge of files and responses which sat in a box folder marked 'Continental' walked over to her corner cubicle, kicked on her computer, and started paging through the sheets with which she had been tasked. Fortunately, all the sheets had the multiple answers bar-coded for ease of input, so she was able to swipe the wand over most of the given answers without the boring bit of keying in the answers; having only to key in, without really reading what she was looking at, the few written extra answers. Claudia set up her database, a task which took most of the morning, and then proceeded to transfer all the data into the system. As the figures were transformed into barchart statistics, however, Claudia, who had read the preamble to the file, which identified the survey as a follow-up to the awareness campaign for tthe new Stiletto and Sabre range, realised that the answers, which had not been studied as a whole, by anyone other than her, were dynamite in the making. She re-checked her data, and even went so far as to go into the system to ensure that the wand had been reading correctly. All the inputs having checked out, and also having remembered that the Dawson, French wrap-up listings were still available, she spoke to Emily, got the file listing number from the ledger, and retrieved the discs from the safe.

She set the discs into the drive, opened up the database, and set in the old answers, then compared the two sets of responses. She gazed at the results, which showed a deep distrust of the Continental models, with an acceptance and recognition rating dropping from sixty-nine percent, to thirty-two. Never having seen anything like this before, even in the text books, she realised that something very unusual was up, when, after she had weighted the poll for a country-wide survey, and cranking in the known variables, Claudia established that the Continental offering was being trashed, in the minds of the consumers of America, all over the country.

The Dawson, French operation allowed for the operator who had completed the work on a customer request to present that same file to the owner; so Claudia made the standard call for an appointment to see Allison Klein of Morson, Zeno, and expected to get the usual week delay before completion of task. She was therefore surprised to be asked, as the time was then five-thirty, if she could come down to the Madison offices straight away, to discuss her findings. "You got a spare parking space for little old me?" asked Claudia, who definitely did not wish to use the dangerous and drug-ridden I.R.T. to get her to the agency offices, but also did not wish to leave her little Beetle to the various problems which existed on the streets of New York. On being told there was a parking slot reserved for her, she agreed to the trip, hit the laser printer controls, and output the whole of the problem onto ten sheets of copy paper. Slotting the discs and files into her case and calling "Bye," to her fellow workers, Claudia left the polling company offices, walked around the corner to the lock-up site, redeemed her car, and set off for the pot-hole ridden journey through to Madison Avenue.

Allison stood waiting to greet the girl from the polling company, and greeted her, when Claudia finally appeared, like a long-lost daughter. As it was Claudia's first meeting with Allison, the statistician didn't realise that the welcoming smile was only millimetres different from the smile Allison wore when she demolished the opposition. After the two women got themselves settled, with Allison in the rare position of pouring coffee for a visitor, Claudia spread out her wares, and proceeded to inform the horror-stricken Account Director that the advertising program, funded at a cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars of Continental money, was showing a response that the appetite of America for a Stiletto or a Sabre was just above that of having major surgery. Claudia had also listed the written answers, where the individual questioned had wished to give other than one of the set answers; with the adjective, 'turkey' figuring large in those replies. Claudia and Allison spent the next ninety minutes dissecting the poll results, with a disbelieving advertising executive, convinced, in the end, that what she saw before her was for real.

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In the same building, but one floor below, a figure sat, listening to the conversation which was being held by the two women in Allison's office. As the young black girl finally persuaded her company's client that what she saw spread out on the ten sheets in front of her eyes was genuine, the listener picked up a telephone, and dialled out, heard a recorder start, and simply said, "Bob, New York, urgent," before being answered almost immediately by a voice which said, "Lazarus here, do we have a problem?"

As the answer unfolded from the listener in the agency, the old man concentrated; finally halting the words with an interruption, "Klein we know, and can cover. What about this researcher from the polling company? She has been thinking, which is unfortunate for her. Get her tailed, and organise it tonight, then get our friend to contract Klein, and make her an offer. We cannot allow any realisation of the campaign to emerge, and termination is the only way I know. Can you arrange a clean up at the office?"

"Yes, sir, here, I can set up a duplicate poll results disc which will show the adverts are working well. May take a day, but there will be the usual confusion, so there won't be too much to set us back; but how about Allison?"

"Get Salvatori, he is always a fast worker; let him do the burn, so there shall be no evidence left, nothing at all!"

"Understood. Usual terms for Sal?"

The old man grunted, "Tell him to do the job, and we shall pay double if there is nothing standing in the morning!"

The listener in the agency replaced his phone, and heard the two upstairs , over the mike which had been set into Allison Klein's desk for over three months, trying to dissect the answers contained in the poll.He smiled to himself, dialled an internal number, and spoke to the parking attendant in the underground carpark where Claudia's Beetle stood. "You have a visitor down there. Driven by some young black chick; gimme the number, Les!"

"Sure thing, Bob. I can see it from here, it's 212-NY-10700. O.K., Bob?"

Thanks, Les, be seein ya!" The man named Bob broke the connection, checked a notebook for a listing, dialled out again and waited, until his call was answered.

"D.M.V. computer section, Harris here, we are closed for general enquiries; try again tomorrow morning!"

"John, it's Bob here, Bob Webster, can you give me a hand?"

"Uhh, Bob, Bob, sorry for the spiel, how can I help?"

"I have a registration plate, 212-NY-10700, can you give me a make on it?"

The computer operator at the department, who received a monthly envelope containing twice his city salary, simply keyed in the details, and answered, Claudia Crickell, Apartment five, 2170 Broadway, Queens. Anything else, Bob?"

"Nope, thanks, I got all I needed, seeya!" The listener named Webster made a mental note to pull the radio mike in Allison's desk, which had been so helpful, as any evidence of surveillance might persuade an investigator that there was something more than an unfortunate death to cover, picked up the phone again, dialled out and, when answered, spoke, "Sal, it's Bob, Bob from the office; fancy a drink, say forty-five minutes. Usual spot, bye." and replaced the phone after receiving an affirmative grunt.

He then called out to a number in Harlem, the call being taken by a voice which had to compete with a radio being played at full blast. "Hi, SixThree here, who dat?" said the voice.

"SixThree, its Web here; got a little job for you. Meet me on the corner of seventy nine, and central; in about two hours. Don't be late, SixThree, I get annoyed when people stand me around, O.K.!"

"I be there, Web. No need to get uptight with me, two hours; see ya!"

The meetings being set up, the man named Bob Webster, who had specifically bugged the agency director's office to cover such eventualities, listened while the two women, who had finally agreed to meet the next morning, finished up their meeting, and left the office together. Webster waited until he saw the elevator lights passing the open lobby door, then quickly walked up the service stairs to the next floor, and then entered Allison's office;after making sure that the floor was deserted, to start looking for the results of the polling company's survey. In the disc drive of the desk computer was a single disc, with two more lying next to it on the desktop. He booted up the computer, kicked in the DOS manipulation software, and ran down the 'tree' of directories, before switching over to the 'a' drive, and logged the directory and files on the floppy disc. Once he spotted the title 'Contin 01', he knew he had the copy which the account director would have made, he swopped and checked the other two discs, which held similar named files, reversed into the hard drive, and found the hard copy of all three discs. He 'tagged' the files, hit 'delete' then checked that the disc was clear. As he did not have time to 'wash' the drive, he decided he had removed all outer signs that the files had been in existence, picked up all three floppies, and slipped the lot into his pocket. He then swung himself on to the carpet, edged under the desk, and removed the little radio mike which had run the course of it's usefulness.

Webster ran lightly down the stairs to his own office, picked up his coat, slipped the radio mike into his briefcase, and walked out towards the lift, and the first of his late appointments.

Chapter 9

In the early hours of the morning, a slow cruising Ford Station wagon slid onto the drive of a house in KingsBurgh, which lay about twenty miles north of New York. A figure got out of the passenger seat, and walked quietly towards the rear of the substantial, double-storeyed residence. He checked the presence of two large propane gas bottles, in the standard protective enclosure, before heading for the wide patio sliding doors. Knowing all the basic entry tracks backwards, he slipped two circular suction pads on to the glass, hooked a lifter bar between them, and simply lifted the door right out of it's groove. He forced the latch open with a screwdriver, then eased the window door open while sliding it gently back on the track. Heading, with the aid of a pencil torch clamped to his brow with a strap, he walked slowly towards the kitchen, and once there, aimed for the big gas cooker in the centre of the far wall. Leaning over, he located the gas entry pipe, which terminated in a stop valve, and a hose connection. He closed the isolation valve, removed the hose clip which had kept the reinforced rubber connection hose tight for the past three years, before replacing it with a hose clip which had a very worn  thread, and thus did not hold the hose steadily on to the connector. He then briefly turned the valve on and off, while he  listened for the 'hiss' of the gas escaping, before heading for the central heating boiler, and adjusting the timer control.

Casting the light across the broad lounge, he spotted a bulging briefcase lying by the side of a corner desk, and moved quickly across to open and scan the contents. He pulled out an entire clutch of paper, held together by elastic bands, with a scrawled heading 'Continental Re-run', rolled it up and shoved all the file into his pocket. He then returned to the open window, replaced it onto the track after easing the lock into the open position, turned the gas valve fully open, left the kitchen and exited from the house via the now open patio window, slid it closed, and gently removed the two suction lifter pads. He walked back to the drive, slipped into the big car, and the Ford gently rolled back down on to the road, before turning and slowly heading down about two hundred yards away from the big house, then parking under the branches of an overhanging tree. Both men in the car stretched , lit cigarettes, wound the windows down, and waited patiently in the dark.

The timer control for the hot water was a standard dual time model, with selections for morning and evening operation. The gas now running from the faulty connection had infiltrated most of the ground floor rooms, plus the games room which lay underneath the main block of the house. The micro-contact, driven by the drive motor on the timer, slowly lifted up on the riser cam, as the new timer setting, which ensured that the gas had been running free for nearly thirty minutes, approached the operating position. As the cam clicked over, the contact made the circuit, which would normally have started the boiler heating the water for the morning baths and showers of the resident  family. The presence of the propane, in the immediate vicinity of the minute spark caused by the contact of the cam, was enough to set off an explosion which had the same effect as a high explosive shell. Within seconds, the whole of the ground floor was ablaze, followed within seconds by the first floor, which held the sleeping members of the family; Howard, a college lecturer; Amy, a junior high student; Jack, an eleventh grade student; and Allison, who spent her days as an account director with  Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno. All died in the conflagration which followed the explosion. As the explosion flashed out, and the fire took hold, the waiting Ford was started up, and slowly drove away towards the turnpike.

The fire crew investigator, completing his search during the morning at the request of the police department, tossed the hose clip in the air, after briefly cleaning it with a cloth. He turned to the two detectives, who stood watching him, and simply said, "There she blows, boys. Simple criminal neglect! If the guy had bothered to spend fifty cents at the hardware shop, his family would still be alive. The thread is all worn, so it could not grip the hose. The hose finally worked loose under pressure, the gas comes out and mixes; the timer starts up for the boiler, and 'boom' , no house."

"Accidental death?" grunted the senior of the two policemen.

"Yeah, call it that if you wish. No point in letting the guy be buried under the tarnish of  what he had done. Yeah; accidental death, on all members of the Klein family!"

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At approximately the same time as the surreptitious entry of the Klein family home, a young black man, very tall, about six foot three inches, stopped in a street in Queens, beside the parked orange Volkswagen which was his target. The door was a matter of seconds to open; in the available light from the street lamps, the intruder then popped the trunk cover, which on the VW was at the front, and, with a flat adjustable wrench, loosed the union which connected the fuel tank to the delivery piping. He then wired a flash bulb to the starter circuit, and laid the bulb down upon a bunch of rags which had started to gather moisture from the slowly weeping petrol tank. Stepping back to admire his work, he then closed up the front trunk cover, closed the door, and strolled away towards the corner of the street, waiting upon an old Lincoln which cruised up about a minute later. The tall black climbed in, slapped the dash, and the Lincoln slowly rolled away from the area, before accelerating towards the uptown reaches of New York City.

Leroy 'Homebase' Dougan, a nineteen year old white drop-out had a bad 'crack' habit, which cost him an estimated six hundred dollars a week, all of which had to be stolen, as he had no job. He awoke in his flop, which was an abandoned warehouse, in the western edges of Queens. His craving hit him immediately he came to his fuddled senses, and this urge drove him out to search for a quick score, so as to get him the necessary twenty dollars to buy him the 'rock' he needed for the morning. His supplier had adopted the Manchester Co-operative principles, of keeping a plentiful stock, but allowing no credit whatsoever. Leroy moved along the street, trying car doors, which would give him access to a radio, or a tape player which would earn a quick twenty; he tried the door of the orange Volkswagen, and because 'SixThree' had not pulled the door tight closed, the drop latch had not engaged. He sat in the drivers seat, searching the car for anything he could steal, but as Claudia had realised that anything extra fitted to the little car would make it a target, had not fitted radio, tape, or any other device. The craving for a 'hit' washed over the young junkie, as he determined to steal the car, and make his 'rock' money for the week, all at once. He wrenched the wheel hard over, which smashed the flimsy wheel lock, and took a handful of wiring loom, and pulled the ignition section out of the folds. His hand shaking badly, he separated the wire which would feed the ignition, wrapped it around the switch post, picked the starter wire and struck it against the black wire which led to the starter motor. The current raced along the wire, and spun the starter motor into the engine flywheel, but it also hit the flash bulb which lay in a petrol-sodden cluster of rags. The flash hit the vapourised petrol, ignited the tank, which enveloped the whole car instantaneously in a fireball which effectively ended the suffering of 'Homebase', before he knew what hit him.

Claudia was awoken from a dreamless sleep by a steady knocking on her door. This being New York, her apartment door resembled a war zone defence area, with five heavy duty locks, and two chains. She put her eye to the spy hole, and found she was gazing at the uniformed figures of two of New Yorks' finest. "What's the problem, officer," she called through the door, unwilling to get involved.

"Miss, are you the owner of a Volkswagen auto, we think orange or yellow; parked along the street a while?"

"You'd better wait. Let me get some clothes on, and I'll let you in, officer, O.K.?"

Five minutes later, Claudia unlocked her door, and allowed the two police officers into he apartment. "What's this about my car, officer,"she queried, but the older of the two policemen simply asked again about her car ownership. "Yes, it's mine; registration 212-NY-10700, I have the papers, er, here," scrabbling in a drawer in the side dresser.

Officer Ken Melchek scrutinised the documents, handed them back to her, and asked, "Your insurance all in order?"

"Why yes, officer, I have full cover through a company in New Jersey. Tell me, is there a problem, has my little car been stolen? What gives with the silence?"

"Miss Crickell, someone broke into your vehicle about two hours ago, we believe he may have been a junkie, looking for a quick score. He hot-wired the ignition and somehow the petrol tank exploded, and burnt him alive. Didn't you hear anything, the explosion, the fire department vehicles, the sirens?

"Well, no, Officer, my apartment faces towards the river, I wouldn't hear anything from the street side, and I do tend to sleep rather heavily."

"Well, if you would come down to the precinct in about an hour, you could make and sign your statement, ask for me at the desk, that's Patrolman Melchek; I'll do my best not to detain you any longer than absolutely necessary." The two policemen left, with Melchek silently whistling as he dropped down the staircase towards the street. His buddy nudged him and asked, "Nice girl, huh?"

"Well, I gotta admit that if there were a choice contest between you and Miss Crickell, I don't think you'd hit a single vote; not that you ain't a good partner, but you definitely have not got any of the basic Melchek guideline points for a great relationship; you're male, you are definitely not beautiful, you haven't got a figure that is already starting to give me bad eysight, you are basically not the sort of person that I want to spend a whole lot of time off duty very close to. In other words, Officer Davis, I think I'm in love!"

As his partner regularly fell in love with just about every personable girl which they encountered during their normal days on the street, Davis just grinned and countered, "Reckon you will be just the same as usual, too shy to do anything about it. Admit it, you have chickened out of the last ten times that some broad offered you a date on a plate!

Davis watched as his partner tried to find the right defence, failed and started to blush. "I'm not shy, it is just that the signs haven't been right for a relationship, not with the few young women I may, repeat may; have expressed an interest in!" The young Melchek, who in fact was a very good and brave policeman, had a terrible time getting started with any girl, and became tongue-tied at the slightest hitch in the proceedings, would indeed have to admit, to himself, that he was hopeless with girls; but refuse to admit to the squadroom that he had a problem setting up a relationship.

The two policemen left the main entrance of the block they had just visited, and were just about to enter their marked car when a civilian came up, calling, "Say, are you the two guys who took the first call on the junkie who got fried?" When he received the nods of assent, he continued, "I'm from the Fire Investigation unit, it's routine for us to make a report to your precinct on any fire, as you know. Well, have you traced the owner of the car, the burnt Beetle?"

"Yup, we just dropped down from interviewing the owner, is there a problem?" asked Ken Melchek.

The two policemen started walking back towards the corner where the burnt out car stood gently steaming, with a masked paramedic squad gently removing the mortal remains of 'Homebase' Dougan. "Well, someone wished the owner harm, because our friend died through deliberate action, not an accident. We gotta go through a few more tests when we get the hulk back to our depot, but if you come over here, I'll show you what I'm talking about." Melchek eyed Davis as they came up to the front of the once orange Volkswagen, then shrugged as the investigator paused before pointing to the side of the open trunk, and saying, "That, officers, is the remains of the petrol tank, with, below it, the delivery pipeline heading towards the fuel pump; and carburettor, at the rear of the vehicle, okay?" As he received nods from the two suddenly alert policemen, the fireman continued, "Now put your fingers around the union at the top of the pipe, where it joins on to the tank."

Ken Melchek stepped forward, slid his fingers gingerly past the scorched and blackened metal and touched the union coupling. As he placed his fingers around the metal, it moved. "Jeez, it's loose!"

"Not only is it loose, the explosion was almost certainly accelerated. Look," the fire investigator instructed, "Obviously there ain't much insulation left on the wiring after a fire like this, but let me show you somepun else we found. This wire here," pointing to a multi-strand lying across the back top of the framework, and ending in a small puddle of fused glass, "this wire should not be here, and it definitely should not be attached to this," pointing with a pencil at the glass, "I think this is, or rather was, a flash bulb; it lay on some cloth or rags, see the strands there and there; underneath the leaking tank. Our friend, who only wanted a 'hit', got a little more than he planned for. Someone wanted serious damage done to the owner! We've seen this method maybe five times in the past six months. No clues, no arrests."

The two police officers stood back, after quietly thanking the fire investigator, who promised them a fast report once he got the vehicle back to his workshop. "You know what this means, Brad," asked Melchek of his partner, "it means someone set that car to blow when our Miss Crickell turned that ignition key. Someone wants her dead, and I am going to stop them."

"Ken, we should drop this one firmly in the lap of the Squad commander, and Homicide! You know what O'Leary is like on personal crusades. Let's do it by the book, and report it to the precinct, and give all the details to the Lieutenant; and he can make his mind up, O.K., Ken?"

"At least we gotta go back, and warn that girl that someone is out to get her. If that fire guy is right, the 'bang' was set by a professional, and she has gotta be aware, O.K., Brad? Look, you call in, and tell base that we are just about ready to end shift, and we are wrapping up here; and I'll go back and inform Miss Crickell that we think someone has got her in their sights. Then we can go back to the precinct, and hand it over to the Lieutenant, like you say, O.K.?"

"She has definitely crawled under your skin, Officer Melchek! Okay, you go back, and renew your acquaintance with the lovely lady, and I will sit here and remember all the other times you didn't even make first base, partner!"

Ken Melchek left the car, and headed towards the apartment block with his partner grinning as he got in to call their base. He jogged up the stairs, and along the outside walkway, ending up outside Claudia's front door, knocking on the panel. He heard the girls' voice, "Is there another problem, Officer?" before answering.

"Yes, Miss, there seems to be. May I come in, and speak with you, Miss Crickell." The locks came off, the door swung back, and Claudia stood, gesturing for the policeman to enter. Ken entered the apartment again, and went on through to the kitchen, where Claudia had been setting up some breakfast. "Thank you, Ma'am, and I apologise for disturbing you once again. There's two things that I need to touch base with you, and I hope that everything will be clear. The fire to your little car, well, when we; that's my partner and I, got down to the street after speaking to you, we were informed, that is, someone, er.."

Claudia twinkled a smile at Ken Melchek, which sent his blood pressure up by two points. "You were told, what, Officer?" she prompted.

"The first reports from the fire officers seemed to suggest that the fire was an attempt on your life, Miss Crickell. The Investigator on duty was fairly certain that there was a scenario set up so that, when the ignition key was made, the petrol tank would explode, or at least catch fire very quickly. We think that the guy who got killed, just happened to break into your car, and paid with his life for his efforts." The New York policeman, as he spoke, watched the young woman's eyes widen, and the smile disappear from her lips. "We are gonna have to turn this case over to the Homicide squad at our precinct, but we thought that it may be the better for you to know what we think is happening. There will be two detectives assigned to your case, and they will want to interview you, if you can think of anyone who might wish you harm, that sort of thing. It might turn out to be nothing, with a nutcase doing a random action, but we would rather go into things deep, rather than make a mistake, Miss Crickell!"

The first reaction to the policeman's speech had started to fade a little, as the young black woman started to come to terms with a threat, so she quietly asked, "The second thing you wanted to ask me, Officer Melchek?" Claudia watched as the young policeman coloured to the roots of his hair with embarrasment.

"Well, maybe it ain't the right time to mention it, so I'll leave it be, if you don't mind, Miss Crickell!"

"Well, it must have been important, otherwise you wouldn't have mentioned it," declared the curious Claudia.

"Uhh, I was gonna ask, if you were free, sometime, that is; if you would like to, maybe, er,..."

"You were going to ask me for a date?"asked the girl, half ready to hit him, and half ready to fall on her back laughing. "You carefully inform me that you think someone is maybe trying to kill me, and then you ask me out, is this what you call full police service?"

"As I said, Miss Crickell, I didn't think it was the right time, so I was gonna keep my big trap shut!"

Her eyes softening, Claudia reached over and captured the suddenly nerveless fingers of the young patrolman. "I have received many compliments, and some suggestions that I wish I didn't get, but you are a first! I, well, maybe I would like to see you again, once this mess gets sorted out, Officer Melchek, and thank you for nearly asking." Claudia gently smiled at Ken, while leading Ken Melchek to the door of her apartment. Just as Ken was about to open the door, she leant forward and very lightly, kissed him on the cheek. "That=s for being kind enough to come back and tell me of your worries, Officer. It's nice to have someone like you worried about me!" She smiled at him again, thus sending the patrolman out, along the walkway and down the stairs without recognising where he was going. He got into the police cruiser, and Brad Davis nearly ruptured himself trying not to laugh when he saw the look on his partner's face, as he started the big car moving back to their precinct base.

The statistician closed the door behind the patrolman with a smile on her lips, but the smile did not last very long. She had the television turned on, but the sound off. She hit the remote to bring the volume up again, just as the next item on the morning news programme came up on the screen. It featured the stark burnt timbers of what obviously was a big house, and as the camera panned across the frontage, she heard the voiceover from the reporter identify the names of the owner. "The family who occupied this house all died early this morning, in what has been described as KingsBurgh=s worst disaster in maybe fifteen years. Howard Klein, his two children, and his wife, Allison Klein, were all asleep in the house..." Claudia's mind blotted out the rest of the commentary as she realised that coincidence was not that great. She had been speaking to Allison just the previous evening, Allison and all her family were dead, and someone had just missed sending Claudia Crickell to a fiery ending less that four hours ago. she grabbed the phone, and was just about to ring the precinct number when she paused, changed her mind and dialled her mother instead.

"Eudora Crickell here, who's calling, please?" came the voice of the person Claudia loved and respected more than anyone in the whole world.

"Mom, it's me, Claudia, I gotta talk! I think maybe..."

"Hold on a minute, child. Stop gabbling, slow down, and tell me why you are in such a rush!" As Claudia slowed her delivery down, she explained to her mother what had happened the previous evening, during the night, and early in the morning. Finally, her mother broke in, as Claudia paused to draw breath. "Honey, I don't know what you got caught up in, but someone has put a finger on you, and the first thing you must do is disappear. Now I know that the cops are gonna be a little pissed off at you, but it ain't their necks on the line, so don't hesitate. Grab some clothes, as much as you can carry in one grip, pull as much money out of your bank account as you can, don't use any credit cards, and vanish. Don't even tell me where you are going! Give me the name of this cop you spoke to, and I'll talk with him. Now remember the pay-phone in the drugstore, you used to use it all the time when you were shining that boy from Flatbush? Use that to call me; I'll be there at seven on an evening for ten minutes, every day. Don't ever tell me where you are, all you need to do is tell me that everything is still okay, and I'll try and get you clear. Remember, don't say where you are, and trust only in the Lord, child. Bye, Claudia."

Chapter 10

Detective Lesley Jordan, and her partner, Detective Moses O'Rourke, sat in a plain, unmarked surveillance Cadillac, which was parked at the top of the hilly street in Grosse Point where Joe Kozcinski 's house sat. Moses sat puffing on a cigarette, and every time he exhaled smoke, Lesley ostentatiously waved it out of the open car window. "O.K. Lesley, you made your point, I'll not light up another smoke in the car, okay?" Jordan, a small, calm woman who had an impressive collar rate within the section, glared back at O'Rourke; but simply could not keep a straight face as she gazed at the face next to her in the car. Moses O'Rourke was six foot five tall, weighed two hundred twenty five pounds, and was black as the ace of spades. She had been assigned the change in partners only that morning, and had never met her new colleague before.

"How the hell do you answer to the name O'Rourke? Hell, you even talk like a Mick, and that=s what fooled me when we spoke on the phone. What gives, Moses?"

The big black detective eased himself sideways in the front seat, and grinned at his little partner's face. "It's my real name, Lesley. I was adopted by an Irish family when I was three, and I took their name straight away. They were straight out from Ireland, so accounting for the brogue, blarney and the rest. I learnt that I should never really trust an Englishman, and always go to church on Sunday, just about the same time. My pop was on the force in north-east Detroit, until he had to take retirement; some clown fired a pistol at him, and all pop wanted was to give him a ticket for speeding. I took the exam, sat in uniform for four years, got lucky with a couple of high-profile collars, and when I applied for transfer to detective, I got accepted straight away." Moses sat forward, and waved to Lesley to wind the engine up, as he spotted the dark green Stiletto rolling back down the drive from the big house. "Okay, we're ready, let's go!"

"Now, let's remember what we are here to do, Detective. Let him get going, and then we gotta see if there is a tail on this particular taxpayer. He's gonna vary his speed, and swop lanes regularly, so we should spot any follower in good time."

The surveillance vehicle showed up in Joe's driving mirror, and he registered the unmatched paint of the off side wing of the following vehicle as being the police trail car, and blinked his fog lights twice in acknowledgement, before resuming his drive towards work. The big Cadillac sat back and the two occupants scanned the cars around them as they swung around the turns on the wide freeway which lead into central Detroit. As Joe's Stiletto steadily changed lanes, seemingly to gain an invisible advantage, the two detectives watched for a corresponding change in driving patterns in the cars which accompanied them. A grey Corvette, about three cars back from Joe, as he changed lanes once more, changed simultaneously; and the two police officers saw the move at the same time. "Get that, Corvette, licence number, can you read it, Moses?"

The big detective picked up a microphone, and spelt out the tag plate on the Corvette, then asked for a run-down on the owner. On receipt of the call, the comms officer keyed in the tag number, hit 'enter' and replied that the vehicle was currently registered to a Charles Whitley, at an address in West Detroit. They tucked in behind the Corvette, and followed as the driver conformed to Joe's movements. The off-ramp came up, and Joe peeled off the traffic flow, as he headed towards the Continental head office. The Corvette stayed behind, until Joe's car turned off onto the approach road, when the tail car moved off towards downtown Detroit. Lesley Jordan moved the Cadillac into the centre lane, eased the speed up, and moved alongside the Corvette. The siren came on at the same time as the flasher, and the big detective's arm swung out and motioned the driver to slow and stop in the Emergency lane. The Corvette stopped rolling, and the surveillance car rolled up behind him. The two police officers took up position behind the rear end of the Corvette, drew their service revolvers, then called out, "Out of the car, hands on the bonnet, this is the police!"

The door opened, and out moved a Latino, about five foot three tall, shabbily dressed, with a fixed smile on his face. "How can I help you, officers?"

"Is your name Charles Whitley, because if it ain't, we have reason to believe you are driving a stolen car. Hands on the bonnet, spread 'em!" Lesley clipped the words, ever aware of the need to secure the suspect, before it went pear-shaped. The Corvette driver shrugged, placed his hands on the bonnet of the car, and inched his legs apart.

The black detective swung his head inside the Corvette, then stared in puzzlement at the short wave scanner which was clipped to the dash, beside the steering wheel. He was still gazing at the equipment when Lesley glanced inside after cuffing the driver, and reading him his rights. "What  we have here, Moses, is a scanner, and I think if we drive straight to Continental, we can check if Mr. Kozcinski's car is fitted with a radio bug. That would be why this guy has been following our taxpayer so closely, because most bugs are short range only."

"We can't drive to Continental straight from here, Lesley. We gotta book our friend in to the precinct, and allow him his rights, much as I would like to deprive him of the same. Then we can go visit Mr. Kozcinski, check his car out, and find out what sort of bug he has been carrying." Lesley got in behind the wheel of the Corvette, while Moses placed their prisoner in the back of the big Cadillac, then followed his partner down to their base at Central. They booked him in, leaving his name place blank, as he declined to speak, other than to demand his phone call. He was pointed towards a pay-phone, the coins dropped in, he dialled and spoke, "Carl, I got picked up on the freeway; they got the car, the scanner, and I'm charged with auto theft."

Carl's voice sounded in his ear, "Your attorney will be on the way in fifteen minutes. Say nothing, and we will get you clear within a short time; okay, José!"

The driver named José relaxed, turned to the two arresting detectives, grinned and said, "My attorney is gonna be here soon, my name is Martinez, I ain't saying anything until he gets here, okay?"

Moses reached forward, unlocked the handcuffs, and lead the arrested man forward to place him in the holding cage. The two police officers sat down to a half hour's worth of paperwork, before being able to go back out on the streets.

Meanwhile, the phone rang in the rest room of the garage and service complex which served the Continental executives. A head stuck out, and called, "Rocky, phone call!"

The mechanic named Rocky strolled along to the rest room, picked up the handset, asking, "Rocky speaking, who's calling?"

"Carl here. That clown José has got himself picked up. Clean the pick-ups out of the Kozcinski Stiletto, and do it fast, okay!"

"No sweat, Carl, I got it on the rack right now, so there won't be any delay. Leave it with me! Seeya!" He replaced the receiver, ambled back along the service bays, checked that no-one was taking any notice, and reached inside the dash area, and slipped two magnetized discs into his pocket, moved around to the passenger side, and unclipped a third disc from the base of the seat, and a fourth, slightly larger disc from the underside of the trunk. He returned to his duties, whistling quietly, content at his job.

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Joe's phone rang in his office, after the initial call had been fielded by Mrs. Grady, "Mr. Kozcinski, my name is Lesley Jordan, I am a detective with Central Division. We picked up some guy who seemed to be acting suspiciously, in closely following you this morning on your way to work. We got him on a stolen car sheet right now, and I just thought I'd let you know that your suspicions may have been confirmed. We would like your permission to check your car, if that is okay with you?"

"Sure thing, detective. If you drop around to the parking lot at the front of the Continental block, I'll leave word with the desk to let you have the keys. Thanks for the prompt action, Detective Jordan." Joe swung his chair around, able to put, as he thought, one problem to rest, while he concentrated on the pile of others looming on the horizon.

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The looks of the tall, elegant woman, carrying a deep red-shaded document case, who approached the duty sergeant in the Central division office were enough to gather all eyes upon her. "I believe you have a client of mine, held on a stolen auto rap; a José Martinez?"

"Certainly, lady. Your name, please? Just for our Blotter, you understand?"

"Alicia Devon. I am with LaCroix, Unity and Sender, in the Corporation Building."

"Thank you, lady. I'll just wheel your client out into the interview room, and you can see him in privacy." so saying, the Sergeant called one of the duty patrolmen, called "Martinez, room three," before escorting the attorney to the bare interview room. She sat, hand on knee, until her client arrived. The conversation between client and suspect was brief, with José asking when he would be able to get out on bond, and the attorney replying that his release was being sought at that moment. The woman called Devon opened her case, removed a printed sheet, and asked Martinez to sign, "It's just acceptance that you retain our services. I have to show this to the Sergeant before he will hear of a bond being talked about." She retrieved the sheet, slipped it into her case, but as she closed it, the base seemed to slip, and the side of the case bounced into Jose's shoulder. "Sorry, everything okay? Don't worry, José. We'll have you out of here in next to no time! A charge like auto theft, our defence is simple, you were trying the vehicle out for a day, the used car lot bought it in good faith; you walk!"

"What about the scanner, the scanner in the car?"

"It's your hobby, listening to short wave broadcasts. José, don't worry, we have thought of everything!"

As the suspected auto thief was returned to the holding cage area, Alicia Devon walked up to the Sergeant once more; "I have to clear this guy with the bondsman before we make a request for release. There won't be any problem with release if I get a bond together?"

"Well, the officers who requested this guy be checked would like to consult with your client on his movements, and reasons for those movements, but I see no reason not to expect that your client, could be arraigned before a judge, and bound over to appear, by, er, this afternoon; O.K. Miss Devon?

"It's Ms. Devon, actually. Thank you for your co-operation, sergeant!" The tall female attorney walked slowly out of the Central Precinct office, and disappeared into the traffic on the sidewalk. Later in the morning, near midday, one of the other men in the holding cage shouted out, "Hey, this guy's in trouble!"

A patrolman retorted "You are all in trouble, that's why you are in there in the first place," but then looked around, and found the prisoner Martinez slumped over, clutching the left side of his chest. "Shit, we got a dropper. Harry, call an ambulance, alert the hospital, it looks as though he is having a heart attack!"

The ambulance rushed the man named Martinez into the main entrance of the Memorial hospital, and he was immediately transferred to an awaiting bed in the Emergency ward, with every treatment immediately available. He was pronounced dead, however, of a massive heart attack, thirty minutes after he arrived in the hospital. Due to the amount of emergency procedures which had been attempted, no one was alert to the small puncture, surrounded by a bruise, on the dead man's shoulder, as it was assumed it was another needle mark from the team as they fought to save his life. No one thought to order an autopsy, as the cause of death was so straightforward. As his body was not claimed, his mortal remains were forwarded to the Medical School, so young students may learn from anatomy dissection and tissue observation.

The phone rang at the desk sergeants' elbow, about three in the afternoon. "good afternoon, segeant, my name is  Alicia Devon, I am representing a suspect named Martinez, Jose Martinez. I had hoped to be back earlier, but it  proved remarkably difficult to persuade a Bondsman to raise a bond on Mr. Martinez. Seems he jumped bail twice before, and there was a forfeiture of seventy-five thousand dollars. However, I managed, and if the Judge agrees, I can bring the bond down to allow my client to be released."

"Er, Ms. Devon, I don't think your services are needed by your client any longer. While waiting further questioning, he had a massive heart attack, and died in hospital. Sorry, counsellor, but he won't need a bond, just a burial." The sergeant might have been more than puzzled if he had seen the face of the woman who went by the name of Alicia Devon, as she grinned in triumph at the news of her client's death.

Joseph Kozcinski paused on the ramp down from the Continental block, and waited until the big black man eased himself out from his car. "Sorry, sir, I'm Detective Moses O'Rourke, we hoped to be finished checking your auto earlier, but we ain't located any thing at all! Your car is clean. Our friend in the Corvette is still in custody, but his attorney is claiming that he was simply trying out the car for the day, and the car lot's story is that they bought the car in good faith. If we don't find anything else, he may walk!"

"But why was he following me? I know I didn't imagine it! Are you able to question him?"

"Only in the presence of his attorney, and she had to go check on some detail at her office. we should be talking to him this afternoon, before he is arraigned before a judge!"

"Thank you both, for your help. I hope he spills the beans." joked Joe, as he prepared to get into his car, and waved to the two detectives as he drove past, on his way home.

Chapter 11

In the Grand Rapids pension fund offices, which took up three floors of the administration building, few were working overtime. The ones who remained were spread over a wide physical area, and the man who sat in front of a computer terminal constantly glanced up, just to ensure that no-one was approaching his desk. He keyed in his passwords, set a further password in to the system, then typed in his terminal identity. A second passed, then a spreadsheet jumped into position on the big screen, this being the same view that Joe had seen when he inadvertently broke into the outer skin of the spreadsheet. Ben Newcomb's hands were calm as he keyed in his search requirements, and the checking began with the speed of light, as the electronic impulses raced between memory, instruction, and search pattern. The screen jumped, and a wider grid was displayed, showing ten names, ages, addresses, with other personal details such as health, savings, pension rights and whether the life insurance had been accepted, and if next-of-kin existed, also listed. Ben's eyes raced over the details, saw they were all within the prescribed limits, and keyed the printer into service. The ten individual sheets were placed in pre-printed and stamped envelopes, all ten were dropped into his briefcase, then Ben logged off the computer, put his jacket on, and switched off his desk light, as he went out the office, and then home.

When he arrived at his home, which was in an older suburb of Detroit, the pension administrator did the usual things a family man was expected to do on a weekday evening, including sitting for thirty minutes while trying to instill some enthusiasm for schoolwork into his eldest daughter. Finishing up the dishes after the family had completed dinner, he kissed his wife amid the soap suds, said casually that he had to go post some letters, picked the batch of ten letters from his case, and walked off down the street. He duly dropped them in a mail box, then strolled across the road to an empty pay phone booth. Dropping coins in to the slot, he dialled a local number, and waited until the receiver was lifted. then simply said, "Ben here. Ten fresh ones are in the race. The search included, as you requested, the presence of any senior personnel in the immediate family. No one on the list has that problem. O.K.?"

"Thats fine; the money's in the new bank account, as usual. See you, Ben!"

The administrator walked slowly home, not unduly worried by the fact he had just posted ten death sentences within the envelopes now under the protection of the U.S. Postal Service, but in fact counting up his extra bonus for the month, which would allow him to have a holiday in Bermuda, rather than the tacky tour he had endured the previous year.

-------------  '---------------

Joseph Kozcinski  rolled his car slowly into his drive, slotted the selector into 'park', then switched off and left the car. He saw his wife's car already parked inside the garage, so she was already back from the Mall. Behind his wife's auto was parked a car he didn't recognise. Before entering the house, he called out, "Honey, Alex, it's me! Where are you? Speak, my love, and I shall rush to your side," but ceased his call as Alex came through into the lounge, then out on to the front drive, followed by a small, dapper man, dressed in what would normally be described as 'Banker blue'. Alex spoke before he could say a word, "This is Harold F. Sutton, Joe. Mr. Sutton is an attorney, and has called to advise us of our need to attend, uhh, what was it, Mr. Sutton, a disbursement!"

A disbursement of what, Mr. Sutton?" asked Joe, whose only real wish was to get a beer, and relax.

"It concerns your late father-in-laws' estate, Mr. Kozcinski." stated the attorney.

"I didn't even know he had an estate, "snorted Alex, "and I ought to know. He sold the old house, paid off the mortgage, moved in with us and bought himself a new car. We gave the car to my brother Sigismund. That is what Pop wanted. Pop didn't have a bean other than that. He earned a wage down at the plant, when he retired his pension started, but as my Mom had already died, when he was killed, the pension money ceased."

"Well, strictly speaking, he didn't; have any money that is. We refer to a disbursement as a general term whenever there is to be anything given to relatives from the estate of a deceased person. There are a set of files, which your late father, " he bowed slightly in Alex' direction, "has directed that we give to you. There is no other property, and as you rightly surmised, no money. Can I expect you down at our offices, in order to hand over the documentation direct?"

"Is there any reason why you came out here in person, Mr. Sutton?" asked a curious Joe.

A clearly uncomfortable attorney replied, "Mr. Bor's instruction were very clear on that point, Mr. Kozcinski; in his deposition, left with us when he deposited the documents, he expressly stated that contact was to be made in person, no contact to be made by telephone or letter, and certainly no mention of anything in his files to anyone else besides yourself, and your wife."

Joe stared at his wife, who simply shrugged, and asked, "what time is convenient for us to be at your offices, Mr. Sutton?"

"Any time after ten, Mr. Kozcinski, and I would repeat, your late relative's express instructions should be adhered to, in all respects. I am not aware of what is held in the files in our strongroom, but feel that you should treat them as being important. Good evening, Mrs. Kozcinski, Mr. Kozcinski." The couple watched as the attorney sat in his car, the engine swung over, and he reversed out of the driveway, before heading back into Detroit.

Alex snuggled up against Joe's broad shoulder, and slid her arm around his waist, "Joe, what do you think Pop has hidden in these files? Is it just an old Polish joke, or is there something that we should worry about?"

The couple started to wander back into the house, but Joe suddenly spun around, and walked away from the front entrance, his wife by his side. "Before we go back in, honey, can you remember if our friend Sutton mentioned anything about your fathers' business in our house?"

"Well, no, he actually walked me out on to the garden terrace before mentioning anything about his business. What is going on, Joe?"

"Honey, couple of days ago, I went to the police, and told them that I thought I was being followed. They put a trail car on me, and they picked up some guy who they thought was close-tailing me. He had a shortwave scanner in his car, but when the cops went over my car, it was clean. We had the ad crew in from Morson, Zeno, and I ran that detector gadget over the demonstration theatre before we started. I picked up a 'bug' sitting in the lecture stand, so I moved the whole thing next door; only trouble was that by the time I went back to see if I could find the damn thing, someone had forced the door, and the 'bug' had disappeared. I don't know what the hell is going on, but if they bugged an office, and followed my car, there is a faint possibility that your Pop was right; and we have mikes inside our house. We go to Sutton's office tomorrow, and find out what your Daddy has to give us, until then when we're in the house, just general talk, nothing specific about anything; unless we have the television sound up. It may sound paranoid, but there have been a couple of signals, and we shouldn't ignore them, O.K., honey?" Soundlessly Alex squeezed her husbands hand, with a troubled smile on her face, as they walked into the house, to have a quiet and uneasy evening, both wanting to speak; but feeling constrained by the feeling of being overheard.

In the morning, after a restless night, Alex stood cleaning her teeth in the bathroom, when Joe walked in, kissed her softly on the neck, turned on the shower, and held her tightly in his arms. She kissed him, then held her head back, smiled gently and asked, "You're using this secrecy routine as an excuse, Joseph Kozcinski, or is there some deeper motive?"

Joe's hands moved down her back, and pressed her flanks against his own. She felt his passion harden as his mouth sort hers, and slid her own hands down to caress and hold his sex. She felt his hand stroking her breast as she gently traced her fingertips along his balls, then felt him release the top fastening of her nightdress. Clinging together, they slowly moved until they felt the deep carpet underneath their feet, then Joe lifted her with both arms and laid her on the bed. He stripped off his shorts, and lay down beside her, but she quickly raised her shoulders, bent down and took him in her mouth, gently teasing the tip with her tongue, while Joe gently stroked her cleft as she moved her mouth more rhythmically over his sex. Joe moaned softly, as Alex swung back, eased herself above him and, with him guiding her, she sank  down, impaled by his hardened sex. She started moving her hips, nearly withdrawing then sinking down once again as Joe felt his passion rise further. Alex felt his hips respond in total rhythm with her own, and felt his big hands roving over her breasts, as he stroked her body in adoration. She moved faster and faster, feeling the onset of her own orgasm, but trying to time it with that of her lover, finally feeling the waves of emotion roll over her, just as Joe spurted into her in a series of violent shaking heaves, as his face relaxed, and she sank down upon his body, and gently kissed him, their tongues lazily stroking each others', in a languorous end to an act which was always new.

Reluctantly, they separated, Joe kissing her lips in love and longing, but Alex shaking her head as she pointed at her watch, before rising and heading once more for the bathroom. Joe followed, capturing her breast as he spoke, "We'll get ready as normal, then I'll follow you to the Garden Mall, the girls have their own keys, so you just park, and we'll head in together to the attorneys' to see what Pop has left for us; okay, honey?"

Her smile lifting him, he watched as she stepped into the shower, her body firm and beautiful, before unearthing his shaving gear and preparing for the new day. Alex finished her shower, and, as she passed behind Joe, gently slid her hands around, to capture his sex once again, which nearly caused her husband to slice a portion out of his upper lip. Giggling, she dashed away before he could clear his face of foam and retaliate, and so the couple made ready for their day, to present the image which they cultivated to the outside world, that of a young, professional couple, who were regarded as slightly dull, and formal; with never a thought that they were more passionately in love than most of their contemporaries.

Locking the house as normal, the two left the drive in their separate cars, and Joe followed Alex towards the Mall, idling while Alex parked in a isolated slot, before walking over to Joe's Stiletto, sliding in and buckling the belt. Joe sent the big car forward, as the traffic steadily increased on their way in towards the business district of Detroit. Joe was aiming for an elevated multi-storey parking lot about a block from the attorney's office, and he just managed to grab a space before the 'Full' notice blinked on. Alex and her husband walked back down the ramp, and ambled along in the morning sunshine, then dropped in to a sidewalk drugstore, to kill the few minutes with a coffee. Joe sipped the brew, and relaxed back against the seat, grinning at his wife, who was still a little worried about their mission. "Sweetheart, there is absolutely no point in getting worried, because we have no idea what your Pop has hidden away. He might have anything in that office, so lets just concentrate on the coffee, and let me remember who it was that seduced who, this morning!"

"Kozcinski, you swine, just because you are a sex maniac, doesn't mean that everyone shares your proclivities. You took me against my will," she claimed, her mouth one big smile, "and with your superior strength, I didn't stand a chance!"

"Yes, I noticed how you struggled to escape, and the damage which you inflicted upon my person in the attempt to escape. I am looking at the sex maniac, that's who I married!"

The banter continued as they left the seats, paid their bill, and walked along the busy street, then forward into the office which bore the title 'Sutton, Frey and Delancey, Attorneys-at-Law'. they were welcomed by Harold Sutton, who asked for, and then carefully checked, the identification which they had been requested to provide. That formality over, Sutton went over to a large, solid cabinet, and withdrew a sealed boxfile. Sutton said, "Your late father, Mrs. Kozcinski, gave instructions to deliver this into your hands, or those of your husband. In the event of your deaths before the file could be so transmitted, his wishes were that the file should be transmitted to the head of the F.B.I.. Those instruction have now been fulfilled. I shall leave you to study the documents in privacy." so saying, the attorney rose and left the office, while Joe slit the seal open with a letter knife from the desk, and lifted out the small stack of paper within. He lifted up the top page, and read it with his wife reading the page over his shoulder.

"Alexis, Joseph; if you are reading this in Harold's office, it means that I am dead, and cannot explain my thoughts. I had hoped to finish my task, and try and make sense out of what I think I have discovered, but obviously I have not been able to do so. Before you look any further, let an old Polish man state that no man could have a finer daughter than you, Alexis, the light of my life, and no better man to be her husband than Joseph Kozcinski, despite your many failings." Joe grinned, as he read the firm script from his dead father-in-law, "but simply to say that I hope all will go well with you is not enough, because I have uncovered a strange series of events, and have so far been unable to work out exactly what has been hidden away, for cover-up is what I am claiming. Please do not dismiss what I have written as the ramblings of an old fool, because I think you know me better than that. Read the documents, and lists, and try and draw some conclusion from them, because I am convinced that these happenings are not random, not unfortunate, and certainly not the will of any God; but are directed by men with evil motives. Goodbye, my children, may you always have each other."

Joe glance at his wife, who's eyes were filled with tears at the last farewell from her father, and the wishes therein. She nodded and helped Joe separate the small stack of paper, some separate sheets, some pages torn from a ruled notebook, and some lists from both the Auto Workers of America, and the Detroit branch of the American Legion. The scope of the paper was considerable, and after paging through some of the lists, Alex simply said, "Look, Joe, there is too much for us to sort through this lot, and make some sort of sense of Pop's work, while sitting here in Sutton's office. Let's pack it all up, close the file, and maybe go up to the cabin for the week-end. We are hardly ever there, so there is no chance of anybody listening to our talk, and we can check things out with your little gadget, just to make sure that all is safe; and we can also make out a little, whaddya say, honey?"

"Okay, sweetheart, your desire for my fair body shall be rewarded, and we shall indeed go to the ball, Cinders." The pair packed the file away into Joe's case, then opened the door, and after thanking the attorney, left the office building. Joe and Alex walked across the pavements, and into the parking lot entrance, paid the toll on the ticket, and went up to their car, shortly afterwards reappearing on the city street, and heading for Alex' office in the Garden Mall. Dropping her near the entrance to the shopping complex, he waited while his wife came around the car and brushed his lips with her own, then watched her walk the few steps into the Mall. He reversed out, and sent his car along the roads which led to the Continental office complex, and finally parked the big car in it's usual place. The car jockey stepped forward, hand out for the keys, but Joe simply said, "No, Lenny, I might be going out again shortly, so I don't want it taken around the back, okay?"

The jockey stepped back, and Joe jogged quickly up the steps, and into the familiar surrounds of the complex. His late entry had caused the usual pile of return messages, so Joe spent the first hour of his day in getting all his queries sorted out, leaving the message from Virginia Horrigan to the last. Finally, he hit the keys which called the Finance Department Vice President, and heard her voice through the loudspeaker, "Horrigan. Finance!" before answering, "Virginia, it's Joe, Joe Kozcinski, you left a message."

"Ahh, Joseph. Can you drop over, and have a cosy chat, we need to talk a little!"

"Sure thing, Virginia. Five minutes?"

"See you then, Joe," replied the accountant. However, as Joe was preparing to leave, his secretary popped her head around the door, asking, "will you have a quick word with Harry Lassitter, Mr. Kozcinski?"

Joe picked up the phone, and Harry's voice echoed into his ear; "Joe, you won't have heard the news, Allison Klein, the account director from Morson, Zeno; she's dead!"

"Dead, how? What happened?"

"Seems there was some sort of a gas leak at her house, out in KingsBurgh north of New York, the central heating clicked on early in the morning, and everyone died in the explosion. They've only just got around to telling us! Jeez, what a way to go!"

"I know it might sound rather ghoulish, but did she get around to getting any result from the survey she promised us; the re-check on attitude towards the new ranges?"

"It seems she did. The polling organisation delivered the results to the Morson offices, and I am getting them to fax a copy through from the print-outs. Seems that it ain't the ads, at least from the preliminary  copy which I was told about. It seems the paperwork went home with Allison, and got burnt, but the disc copies stayed at the computer, fella called Webster has been given the job, and he called me with the news about Allison, and also with the results of the survey. Seems as though we gotta look elsewhere for our problem."

Glumly, Joe replied, "Thanks for the call, Harry. Would you drop a copy of the survey through in the internal mail, and I'll have a look later. Thanks, Harry!"

Deciding he would stroll down to Virginia's hideaway, he told Mrs. Grady where he was heading, but not to forward any calls, then started down the block-long walk to the lair of the Finance whizzkids. Joe had, in his office, an old lithograph of the first Continental plant, and tacked on at the rear, almost as an afterthought, was a small block where the administration of the company was carried out. Joe compared the small beginnings, in his mind, with the bloated bureaucracy which existed at present, with departments hiving off from one another with the only efficiency shown in the whole office complex. He paused, gazing out of the window, formulating a new strategy which may help make his company stronger, before strolling on towards Virginia's own little empire.

He was welcomed in by one of Virginia's two secretaries, settled down with a coffee, and waited while the Finance VP finished a phone call. "Joe, thanks for dropping by; I wanted to ask if you had given any further thought to our proposals. We need to start casting our net wide, and soon, if we want to hold the damage down to a minimum, and I would like to know what you have recommended to Nick Cavalieri; if it is not a state secret, that is?"

The Sales VP sat back in his chair, and gazed at the woman before him, and gathered his thoughts together before beginning, "Ginny, you submitted a proposal to the committee, and I put a precis of your comments and costings in the minutes, a copy of which you have received. I also submitted a review of our progress to the CEO, and in this review I said that, in my view, we should adopt your path and proposals, only as a last resort. Now you will disagree with both me and Nick on this issue, but it would, in our view, be commercial suicide to scrap the new lines, push the selling of the existing lines, and start easing forward models which are only a quarter designed as of now."he held his hand up as Virginia started to speak, "please let me finish. We have conducted an Advertising review, that would have been told you at the next meeting, and the results of an extra awareness poll apparently, from what I have been told, state what we would expect, that the ads are working! I expect that you want to push your proposals, but I don't think you have a runner, Virginia!"

"We gotta do something, Joe. You must understand that, every time a Stiletto rolls out of the plant, the interest charges on the money that it has cost to make the goddam car starts clicking up; and the bankers are starting to get twitchy. I don't know why, but suddenly, over the past three days, we have received a bundle of calls from virtually all our funding organisations; all of which were concerned with our apparent lack of success in the Stiletto and Sabre sales range. If I didn't know these people, and how they never, ever, talk to one another, I would say that someone is ganging up on us. Our roll-overs, you know, Joe, the automatic credit renewals which we exist on, suddenly we are getting hassle. No one has come out yet and said that we are a bad bet, but I have a contact with D&B, and there has been a whisper that they are looking to downgrade our rating!"

Joseph looked across at the Finance boss with a new interest. "has someone floated a rumour, or do you think it's organised. Are we coming into play?"

"Our shares are down, there is no doubt about that! The news in the trade papers and the finance columns is having an effect on our price, and there is  some selling pressure, steadily down by more than a hundred points, but we still seem to be a popular buy; there are always buyers for Continental stock, and, before you ask, there is no one buyer. Hell, they're all over the place. We keep a sharp eye on stock sales, and no-one has a big position, so there is no real worry there. The pension fund guy, Drew Garnett, was in to see me three, four days ago wondering if a Continental share sale by our pension fund would give the wrong message, but I said their duties were to the fund, and whatever they decided would be the best for the people who derived their income from that fund was fine by the regulators. He seemed to be happy with the way the fund was going these days, even after the revised benefits package went through."

"Which revision was that, Virginia?"

"It had something to do with the Enhanced Benefits thing. It was talked about a while back, don't know the whole story, because pensions are a world apart, but someone apparently got it right. I know I'm on the Pension Fund Trustee Board, but even I ain't got the full story"

"Funny, I mailed a memo through to Drew at Grand Rapids just the other day, thanking them for the fine efforts they put out for the father of a friend of ours. Seems good that people get something right."

The two executives talked for another five minutes, before Joe said his goodbyes, and walked back to his office, where the first thing he noticed, on his desk, were the copies of the results from the survey from Morson, Zeno. Before settling down to study, he buzzed his secretary, and asked her to organise a wreath from Continental, to be sent to the funeral of the family of Allison Klein; then sat back and scanned the graphs and replies which formed the last poll which Allison Klein had commissioned.

Chapter  12

Eudora Crickell waited patiently on the hard bench which was fitted in the receiving area of the 95th precinct. She had delayed for three days, until she had received the first reassuring phone message from her daughter; then had walked the six blocks to the police precinct building. The building, and the office, exhibited all the signs of a City administration which had little interest in making the work environment of the police any brighter. The windows had been cleaned, but only about a year back, the standard issue brown paint on the walls had not been cleaned, or renewed, for five years, and the furniture bore the same signs of neglect. She sat, a tall, forbidding woman, neatly dressed, with a black coat over a black dress, polished shoes, and a black raffia hat, held firmly into place with the biggest hat pin money could buy. Her eldest son, Henry, often swore that his mother had never really needed the services of the .38 revolver she had illegally acquired, because if she had to defend herself, all she really needed was to draw the hat pin, and the offender would run a mile.  The desk sergeant beckoned her over, just as a young patrolman came up into the Precinct house.

"Mrs. Crickell, this is the officer you wished to speak to. Officer Melchek, you can use Interview Room one, this lady wants to talk with you."

Once she was installed in the Interview Room, the eyes of Eudora Crickell bored into those of Ken Melchek, trying to see what the man was really like, underneath the uniform and the skin. She saw a six foot tall, good looking white policeman, with a frank, open face and an encouraging smile, but hesitated, for the outer sheath often hid darker sides. "Officer Melchek, persuade me that you are doing everything to protect my daughter Claudia."

"Mrs. Crickell, as I explained to your daughter when we talked, the case is now being handled by the Homicide Squad, here at the 95th. The guy who died, a loser by the name of Dougan, literally died by mistake. Your daughter was the target, but we have nothing more to go on, since Miss Crickell did her disappearing act. Unless we have Claudia's co-operation, there ain't a whole lot more the guys can do!"

"Claudia went on the sling because I told her to, Officer, and she ain't gonna emerge until you catch the people who wished her ill." The black lady's eyes drilled into Ken Melchek like a laser, as her voice continued, "you know as well as I do that she wouldn't be offered any special protection, and a patrol car driveby once every hour ain't gonna deter the low lifes who wanted my daughter dead. Now this is what I want you to do, Officer Melchek, and heaven help you if anything gets left out. You have to get your friends in Homicide to call their opposite numbers in KingsBurgh and ask for details of the explosion and deaths which occurred the same morning as my Claudia's car was burnt. Then get them to investigate the scene once again, because that poor family was killed, just as sure as I am sitting here talking to you!"

Ken Melchek, who had realised that this was no ordinary person seated opposite, was taking notes of Eudora's instructions as fast as he could write. "Could I maybe talk to Claudia, Mrs. Crickell, we really need to get some firm details...", his voice tailed off as the woman opposite raised her hand to command silence.

"I have means of communication with Claudia, but it is always from Claudia. I don't know where the poor child is, and that is the way it is gonna stay. You will pardon the statement, but there are too many cops getting two envelopes, for me to even think of telling you where she is staying. However, for some reason, she seems to trust you. The next thing you do, " she said, pointing at Ken's notebook, "is to find out what was so goddam important about some ad campaign that Claudia's company did a run-down on; because that is the thread connecting Allison Klein, the poor lady who got killed in KingsBurgh and my little girl. But," she paused, gripping the young policeman by the hand with a strong fist, "this you don't tell just anyone. There is something very wrong with this survey, Claudia was sure that it was carried out correctly; but the answers were somehow all wrong, according to Mrs. Klein, when Claudia went over to see her. According to Claudia, the poor woman just did not believe the results which my girl had worked out, on the base from the answers given by this survey. Now I don't know diddly about surveys, computers, and all that stuff, but I do know when my daughter is telling the truth, Officer, and I expect you, and someone you can trust if you need to spread the word; to help find out what is going on. Any questions, Officer Melchek?"

Ken's pencil ceased scrawling and he stared back at the lined, worried face before him. "Mrs. Crickell, we will investigate any possible link, and your daughter will be safe, please accept my word on this!"

The face opposite softened slightly, and Eudora Crickell's voice also softened, "Claudia also says, Officer Melchek, that she will keep her promise, and maybe go on a date. You made a good impression on my daughter, Mr. Melchek, and I can see why she said she maybe liked you. Look after my daughter, Policeman, and you shall be welcome in my home on 75th street!" The tall figure rose, shook him by the hand, and left the precinct, leaving Ken in a state of elation; the girl who had gently kissed him actually wanted to see him once more!

Ken Melchek had come through the normal selection process to become a policeman, and as it was all he had ever wanted to be, he was elated to actually be a cop, with all the chances and dangers there were. He had ruefully acknowledged his visitor's remark about cops having two envelopes, as small corruption was rife in all parts of the city, and some policemen went much further, in return for a plain envelope stuffed with greenbacks. He was therefore wondering which way to approach the tricky question of persuading his precinct Homicide squad to widen their investigation, based on the surmises of a vanished witness, when his name was called as he walked into the squadroom.

"Melchek, my office!" As the voice belonged to his Lieutenant, Francis Patrick O'Leary, he swerved and speedily presented himself at the door of his Commander. "Melchek, the case you want to hand over to Homicide, the junkie who got fried. Well, my good friend Sam Johnson, homicide Lieutenant, is having kittens on the hour, as half his team is tied up on this serial rape-murder, and the Mayor is making noises, so that takes priority. Sam has asked that a patrolman or a team be assigned from our squad, to take this case forward, as he ain't got the staff to give it any priority, which our Homicide friends agree it deserves. Can you and Brad Davis handle this, in addition to maybe three-quarters of a normal shift on the street?"

"I feel I can speak for Officer Davis, as well as myself, if I say we will be happy to take this case forward, Lieutenant!"

As he had been expecting the usual moan about double duties playing havoc with lives outside the force, the Commander was pleasantly surprised. "Good thinking, Melchek. I'll have Homicide send down all the reports on the case, and see what you can dig up. Thank you, Officer Melchek, dismissed!"

Ken Melchek sat at a spare desk in the squadroom, explaining his reasons for accepting the split duties, to an annoyed partner. "Brad, you gotta understand, we can maybe work this case off, and not even bite into spare time. We get the Homicide boys in KingsBurgh to gently re-run the burn of the Klein home, and see what they pry out of the woodwork, and we can drop down to the polling company and the Ad agency on Madison. Hell, we can even work that one in as part of our tour, we drive down and drop in as we do our normal cruise. I've already spoken to the squad commander on the 21st Precinct, and he has no objection to us coming on to his turf for an investigation; mainly because his guys are overstretched as well. What say, Brad?"

His partner, shook his head slowly, as he replied, "Ken, ever since you and I became partners, I've always told you; 'never volunteer for anything, and look what you've done'. I just know I'm gonna regret this, but, despite being tee'd off because I hate split duties, you're my partner, and I suppose someone has to hold your goddam hand!"

Ken's face split into a wide grin, as he slapped his partner on the back, and opened up the file which had been sent down from the Homicide section. Leaving Brad to contact the supervisor at the polling company, and ask if they would maybe open their files for a police investigation; as well as the ad agency, he called the Homicide detectives in KingsBurgh and politely asked if they were truly happy with the 'accidental death' verdict announced by the primary investigation. The KingsBurgh detective, Mario Guareschi, queried the call, as he had seen the fire investigators' report. "Officer Melchek, are you sure that you are checking the correct fire? The guy from the fire depot caught the bad clip within ten minutes of starting his search, one of the two uniformed guys who attended the fire even saw the worn thread on the clip himself."

"Detective Guareschi, I certainly am not in the business of doubting anyone's competency, but would it be possible to ascertain if any one ran a make on this guy Klein, to see what sort of a guy he was, whether he was sloppy, did he fix his own car; that sort of thing? What I am asking is for a fast run-over on this guy. If it comes up as it should, with him being sloppy, please drop the whole thing. But if our friend ran a taut ship, with safety for his family top priority, maybe, just maybe, we ought to know about it.!"

"Officer Melchek, you made your point. We will run the family through the routine checks, and go over the remains of the house once more. All in the interests of harmony with our big city brothers.  Satisfied?"

"Thanks for the co-operation, Detective Guareschi; we appreciate the favour!"

The young policeman finished his call, in time to hear his partner firm up a visit to  the offices of Dawson, French and Peabody, the polling company who had employed Claudia Crickell. The two officers finished their coffee, made sure they had all their equipment along, then went out to their cruiser, started up, and rolled south. After a trip with only one stop, to give a caution to a driver who had just parked badly, they arrived at the Dawson offices, to be greeted by Emily Sweichek, the day supervisor. "Well, Officers, I don't know if I can be of much help. Claudia was a damn good stats worker, she knew how to interpret the streams, the loading techniques; that's how we spread a poll which asked maybe a thousand people to represent how folks all over the States would re-act to the same questions. Yup, she was good, and, like most of the people we use, she did her own thing, and never asked unless she was uncertain. I know that she did a double-check against the previous survey that we did for Morson, Zeno on the same account, that's Continental, maybe because the results were maybe a little out of line, but she went down to see the account director at Morson's, so I presume she completed the run. We don't have any thing on file at all, Officer, because she took it all with her; and she ain't been back since."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs Sweichek," replied Ken, "You say she went down to Madison Avenue late?"

"Yes, I heard her arranging a parking spot before she left, so she didn't have to leave her car out in the open."

The two cops were silent as they rolled south once more, heading for the office block which contained the headquarters of Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno. Rising up swiftly in the elevator, Ken and Brad stepped out on to a thick carpet and a hushed atmosphere, all carefully generated to let visitors know that important decisions were taken every minute, at one of the top agencies on the Avenue. The receptionist, unused to seeing uniformed policemen in her area, straightened , and asked, "Can we help, Officers?"

"Yes, Miss, we would like to see the person who is now running the Continental Account, after Mrs. Klein's unfortunate accident."

"Ahh, well Bob, Bob Webster, he has been given that account, but unfortunately he is not available. He's called in sick today. Sorry! Will his second team man do?"

"And who might that be, Miss?"

"Tynan, John Tynan. He worked very closely with Allison on the Continental account before she, er,  well,.."

"That's okay, Miss; if we could maybe have a word with this Mr. Tynan?"

Waiting in the reception area while John Tynan was unearthed, the two policemen finally were hailed by an Australian accent, "G'dday, Officers; how can I help you? "

"We were wondering if you could shed some light on a small problem which we have, up in the 95th Precinct, sir. Would you be able to dig out, from your files, the results of the survey completed by Dawson, French and Peabody, on the Continental account. There seems to be a small discrepancy, and we need this information to close our investigation."

"May I ask what connection there can possibly be between a poll for an auto company, and a criminal investigation?"

"You may definitely ask, Mr. Tynan, but we don't release that sort of information to the public. Will you produce this information, or do we have to get a court order?"

"Hell, Officer, er, Melchek, no need to wheel out the artillery, I only wonder if I can find the item in question. With Allison gone, things are a little chaotic around here, and Bob Webster is not known for being the tidiest of guys, but we shall try. Come with me, gentlemen!" The statistician moved through the busy office, followed by the two uniformed officers, ending up in a corner office, where the gilded paint still announced, 'Allison Klein' to all. He walked in, and started flipping through the stack of computer discs which were piled around the desk computer. He finally sorted two out, then a third, switched the machine on and checked out the discs, one by one, for the directory and file names. He nodded, and said, these are the ones, officers. Would you like to see what they say?" At the two nods, he racked in a database set-up, loaded in the three discs, one by one, then accessed them into the main database, then started to explain the graphs and charts that were displayed, as he played with the keys.

As he ran through the information on the display, Ken finally asked, "You are saying that, according to your computer, the levels of acceptance, is that the right term, for the Continental range are a bit lower than you would expect, but well within normal tolerances. You base this on your own knowledge of how people react to your adverts?"

"Exactly right, Officer Melchek. We have a copybook set of answers, which is what we have sent to Continental Autos; er, yes, thats noted here, on Bob's diary, with a small drift down from what I would normally expect. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Something like that, Mr. Tynan. May we have copies of the discs? Strictly in confidence?"

"How do you mean, Officer? asked the ad worker.

"Well, it's like this, Mr. Tynan. What we are asking is, can you get us a set of copies, and not say anything to anybody; in other words, keep our request entirely confidential?"

Shrugging, John Tynan came out of the database, kicked in the DOS manipulation pack, and produced three disc copies for the two policemen in five minutes, told them what package they would need to access the information, and escorted them to the door. As the two patrolmen moved their cruiser away, and after Brad had logged back on to patrol duty, Ken said, "I gotta persuade Claudia that we should talk!", then instantly regretted it as his partner broke into a broad grin. "Leave me be, Brad, it's not that at all. Did you hear what that Tynan guy said, 'A copy book set of answers. That definitely ain't what Claudia said to her Momma about Allison Klein before she did her disappearing act. She said, if I remember Mrs. Crickell's exact words, 'the poor woman just did not believe the survey results.' Now Allison Klein was supposed to be one of the best in her game, and if she didn't believe the survey, and John Tynan says everything is great, we got ourselves a little anomaly!"

Still grinning, Brad asked, "This anomaly, do we stuff it, mount it or wear it?"

"Asshole!" grunted Ken, his mind whirring, "You gotta admit, Brad, when one expert looks at a survey, which has cost two hundred grand, and says 'great', and another looks at the same data, and starts seeing big problems, there is somepun real fishy around the pond!"

Chapter 13

The Sunshine Home for Seniors, a retirement complex on the edge of St. Petersburg, in Florida, had its' own medical area, part of the package which encouraged retiring couples to invest their savings and pensions in, as the brochure claimed, 'the best-equipped, safest and friendliest home in the Retirement capital of America'. The planners had indeed spared no expense, as there was a resident medical teamon call, as well as  daytime nursing care and regular medical check-ups for all of the people who could afford the fees which helped the complex run, and paid the dividends of the investors. A middle-aged blonde nurse, on her scheduled evening check in the clinic section, paused and briefly checked if there was anyone awake around her, then opened up her purse and lifted out an glass ampoule, labelled>SleepEze=, a well-known proprietary sedative compound. After loading a syringe with the contents of the ampoule, she approached the bedside of the only occupant of the clinic that night, ensuring that she did not disturb the sleeping occupant, and gently inserted the syringe needle into a feed point directly below the nearly empty drip sac, which was held above the arm of the sleeping patient. A slow pressure deposited all the contents into the drip line, and from there, by simple gravity feed, into the arterial system of James Leary, a man who had only joined the Sunshine Home a matter of weeks ago. His pension was paid, into his checking account, every month on the dot from Grand Rapids, but of course would cease on his death. He would be missed, mainly because he was a real nice guy. The nurse, who had previously ensured that Leary would be in the clinic by slipping a selected stimulant into his afternoon coffee, and therefore giving him the classic early symptoms of a heart attack, placed the empty ampoule and the syringe back into her shoulder purse, patted the man gently on the shoulder, and faded back towards the medical rest room.

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Quintana Cruce was a fourth year student at the Detroit Memorial medical school, where she was hoping to specialise in cardiovascular problems. She, and two others, were supposed to be checking the chemistry of a blood specimen, taken from a corpse, so that they would learn how to check for abnormalities in the systems of future patients, on the basis of check a normal specimen first, then determine which contaminant had been introduced by their fiendishly clever instructor. The only trouble was that Quintana was doing the work alone, as the other two had decided that a session of horizontal callisthenics was more inviting than working in a boring laboratory. She therefore had no-one to consult with when the read -out stated the presence of two chemicals which should not be present in an ordinary human body. One seemed to be a form of co-agulant, which would mask the presence of the second from the blood in which it was carried. The second chemical was the one which defied most of the detection and analysis software in the computerised system she was using, and was the one which would have given the symptoms of a heart attack, but she just did not have the knowledge to isolate and identify the compound.

Her mentor, Professor Jardine H. Simms, had been awarded the title 'Asshole of the Year' very shortly after he had taken tenure as senior Cardiovascular Professor at Memorial, and it was widely rumoured that he had fought off severe competition to keep his title for the next four years running. The young student, who was indeed very lovely, approached his desk with some trepidation, and knocked cautiously on the cabinet near the entrance to his lair. Jardine Simms, who in reality was the nearest thing in the whole University to a raging closet sex maniac, glanced up at her figure and face, mentally howled at the sky, and snarled, "What the hell you want?" He was surrounded all day long by gorgeous women, some of whom were so ripe he could almost smell them,  had of course taken the only view possible, as a man with a very alert wife, of keeping 'never screw around at work' as his bible the day he started at Memorial, and was therefore the most obnoxious when around any of the fairer sex, which was usually all the time.

Quintana moved back a full pace, then gathered her courage, and simply stated that she could not identify the compound which the Professor had introduced into the blood sample. "What the hell are you squawking about?" snarled the professor, as his thoughts raced around her breasts and body, "I haven't given you the contaminant samples yet. Your blood sample is clean. Goddam students; can't even work a machine that is foolproof! Give me strength!" He rose, and strode out, determined to get rid of this ultra disturbing young female, and stopped at the computerised blood analysis apparatus, asking, "where are the others?"

Blushing, Quintana replied that the two team members had not come back from lunch, so she had decided to start without them. The Professor glared at her, realising that the other two were probably screwing each other at that very moment, which made things worse for himself.  He took the remains of the sample, marked 'José Martinez' and started up the process, determined to get rid of this malign influence on his day as quickly as possible, but came up against the same stumbling block as Quintana. Knowing a great deal more about the workings of the analyzer, he kicked in the add-on software pack, which he had been persuaded to buy by a bright salesman, and fed in the contaminant, then waited for a result. When the answer was displayed on the screen, he stared at the name for maybe twenty seconds without moving, slowly turned to Quintana, and for the first time in his sojourn at the University, smiled into her startled eyes. "Miss Cruce, please accept my apologies, you are right, there is a contaminant in the blood, in fact there are two; but you knew that. The first is a polymer, a derivative of glucose, and this was introduced to mask and delay the effects of the second item, identified by the package as 'fugu' poison. It is distilled from the Japanese Blowfish, and is uniformly deadly to the human nervous system. If anyone gets a whack of this, the symptoms are remarkably similar to a massive heart attack, but unless the paralysis, which is part of the problem, is treated, the patient shall die. His heart is perfectly normal, his brain just gets the wrong signals. This man was murdered! Where did we get the corpse from?"

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Detective Moses O'Rourke sat waiting for his partner to finish her coffee before heading out on a routine call, when his phone rang, " Detective O'Rourke here" he stated, and was duly surprised to find himself speaking to the Professor of CardioVascular Medicine at the Memorial University Medical  school. "Yes sir, what can I do for you?"

The professor was blunt, "Detective, when we receive a corpse for dissection, we do not expect to find that the cause of death was murder, murder by poison to be specific!"

"Corpse, Professor, whose corpse was that, if I might ask?"

"The tags and history here reads the man was named José Martinez, died four days ago, diagnosis heart attack. But this guy died from an Oriental poison, delayed by chemical means. What the sonsabitches did, officer, was to give this guy an injection, or something, which would only act about four hours after he was first hit. His brain then seized up, everyone thought he had a massive heart attack, he died and his remains came to us. We shall send over the report, and all the details. Sorry to tell you this, Detective, but someone nearly committed the perfect murder!"

After the medical man had finished giving him all the details over the phone, the big black man sat at his desk, tapping the file which he had pulled from the cabinet, then dialled out the number for the firm of Attorneys listed on the page. When the standard announcement came through the line," LaCroix, Unity and Sender, Attorneys. How can I help?"

"I'd like to speak with one of your attorneys, a Ms. Alicia Devon. I am with the Detroit police, and she was representing a suspect here at the Central division."

"I'm sorry, Detective; are you sure you have the right firm of attorneys? We have no Alicia Devon working here, as an attorney, or anything else for that matter. Are you positive she said  LaCroix, Unity and Sender?"

"Thank you for your help, miss, it seems as though there has been a mistake!" said the big detective, waiting for his partner, before going in to confess to the Precinct Commander that there had been a murder committed right in the middle of the division building, and no-one had caught on until a young student started doing a routine test on the dead man's blood.

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As it was Friday, Joe had a backlog of work to plough through before he could get away to start his weekend at the little cabin where his father used to tell tales about fishing. He was engrossed in his piles of paper when he glanced at the next memo on the list, and stopped short. The memo concerned computer and data protection, and was a request that all senior staff personally change their access codes, in conjunction with the senior systems analyst, as the date for change was due. The whole company had been in a turmoil about four years back, with  unauthorised access to confidential files being commonplace. There had been an upheaval, mainly because some information had in fact been sold to a competitor; and all staff had regular code changes, with double checks on the more confidential files. Joseph reached for his phone, keyed out, and was speaking to the systems specialist in seconds. "Buddy, its Joe, Joe Kozcinski here, can I make an appointment to change my passwords early next week?"

"Sure," came the reply, "wish everyone was like you, and called up early. They wouldn't find themselves locked out of the network. Monday morning suit you, Joe?"

"That's fine by me, Buddy; see you then!"

He moved on, determined to clear the pile in front of his eyes, but he also knew that Alex was leaving her work early, so only completed a small lump before shovelling the remainder of the paper pile into a tray.  Lifting the portable computer which normally rested on his back table, Joe closed his case, called farewell to his secretary, and walked away from his desk, and down to his car. As he had not allowed the jockey to take his car for service and cleaning, it was slightly grubby from normal road grime, but he was reasonably certain that no-one had any opportunity to place any devices on his car, as he had not been convinced by the negative search of his auto by the Detroit police. The Marketing V.P. wheeled his Stiletto out from the carpark, and within five minutes had joined the early Friday traffic outward bound from the city. He wheeled in to his drive thirty minutes later, and was met by Alex, laden with two grips full of weekend supplies. He kissed his wife, stacked the luggage in the car, went in to the house to quickly dress in casual clothing, then, after checking the house was all locked and closing the garage door on Alex' car, dropped into his big car where Alex was already waiting, and slowly drove away, keeping a wary eye on possible trailing traffic.

Three hours later, the headlights of the big Stiletto illuminated the gateway leading up to the cabin, and Joe carefully manoeuvred the big car up the narrow track, along the last mile before they reached their goal. Alex, who had fallen asleep for the last hour of the drive, sat knuckling her eyes as Joe parked the car beside the cabin wall, and switched off the engine. Forty minutes later, the two had a fire blazing in the hearth, a stew going on the oven top, and were relaxing with a beer apiece. " We just don't do this often enough, Joseph Kozcinski, and I wish we did!" murmured Alex over the top of her glass, "I keep dashing out to hopefully sell a house to some family, and you seem to have an umbilical to the plant and the office. Hell, Joe, is it all worth it?"

Legs stretched out towards the fire, leaning back against the big sofa base, Joe reached out his hand to his wife, and gently squeezed her fingers, "Sweet, we sort of fell into this way of life, more than having planned it. When I met you, I was halfway up the ladder at Continental, and with the promotion I guess we just went with the flow. Your daddy was with us, and the plant always has exerted a fascination for me. You got the notion of starting up the real estate agency, and it took off. You want to change, my love?"

"Not really change, but more time for us, if we can manage it. I'd hate to be like Jessica and Norm, because that would be the pits as far as I am concerned!" As the two who Alex had named were the worst workaholics that Detroit had spawned in thirty years, Joe felt reassured that his wife didn't feel he had reached those depths as yet.

Silence reigned for a minute, then Alex spoke again, but softer this time, "there is one thing that I would like to add to our lives, Joseph Kozcinski; I think I would like you to give me a baby!" Joe's eyes swung around towards his wife, who gently smiled at him. "I think that the proud family line of Kozcinski ought to be preserved, and indeed added to; what say you, my darling Joe?"

Joe captured her fingers, and gently brushed her fingertips with  his lips, "Sure, honey?"

Alex leant over, and snuggled into his arms, "I'd want you to want one too, my love, but I think we would be, well, more complete with a baby. What is more, it could well be fun ensuring the survival of the line!"

Joe grinned as he reached for her, but Alex wriggled free, calling, "Now, Joe, eat first; make love and babies afterwards; modified American plan!" They served up the stew together, gently touching each other as they passed back and forward, then ate the whole heap. Smiling across the table at her husband, Alex asked, "Do you want to go to bed now, or shall we have a look at what Pop has left for us as an appetizer?"

Joe wrinkled his nose at his wife, then reluctantly reached across to the briefcase which held the last Testament of Tadeusz Bor; and together with Alex, began studying the documents which lay together on the table. His father-in-law had marked up sections of listings from his Union, and pencilled in dates next to names. There were pages with statistics from the Bureau of the Census, with sections highlighted with a marker, and hand-written lists marked up as membership of the American Legion. The old man had obviously spent quite some time gathering all his information together, but there was no pattern visible to the experienced eye of his daughter's husband. He had written comments all around the margins of one of the pages from the Census Bureau, and that was where Joe got his first inkling about where Tad had been heading. He had the listings which gave life spans for various types of employment, and had been working out the characteristics for a whole bunch of people who had been working at the Continental plants, both in Detroit and at Grand Rapids. Joe asked Alex to sort out the pages which gave the listings from the Union, and then from the American Legion, while he pulled out the notebook computer, booted up and went in to a spreadsheet. He input the listings, and established a norm for lifespans within the auto industry, then keyed in the results which Alex had separated from the untidy pile on the table. He then output a graph showing the standard curves, and that for the Continental workers, and sat back in disbelief at the result.

"Jeez, Alex," he said in a hushed voice, "your pop was on to something. What this graph is showing is proof that Continental auto guys are dying faster than the average. Shit, they must be exposed to something at the plant, and they are dropping faster than the rest. What we got here, is dynamite, on wheels. If this ever gets out, before we can find out what they are inhaling, or touching, we will be in court for ever. Tad must have noticed the trend, with him being near to a heap of the guys on the shop floor, and decided that he had found the handle that he could finally use to show the 'bosses' were in fact driving the working stiffs into the ground. Look; this row here," scrabbling across for the sheet, "he found that the Continental guys were retiring, then dying an average of ten years earlier than anyone would expect them to. We are gonna have to do a full check, both Grand Rapids, and Detroit, for whatever is killing these guys." Joe reluctantly shook his head, while his wife stared at him; "Dunno what triggered it, but your Pop was right!"

He saved the spreadsheet, then switched off and tidied up all the paper into a bundle. He was about to suggest that they return to Grosse Point, ready for an early start on the Saturday morning, but remembered what his Alex had been talking about, and how misty her bright eyes had been, and decided that the whole process could just as well be started up on the Monday morning. He leant over, caught her by the shoulders, and simply asked, "Shall we start trying tonight?"

"Well, we can get into practice, but we shouldn't hurry, we have the whole weekend." Alex met his lips with hers, and they moved slowly into the bedroom, and then to the deep, welcoming double bed which awaited them.

Chapter 14

Joe was virtually first into the office on the Monday morning, keyed in the disc he had worked upon over part of the weekend, and after pulling up the graphs, plotted the whole thing onto the printer. He then waited impatiently until he saw the customised Stiletto, which had been given to Nick Cavalieri, gliding into it's favoured position, right by the main entrance. He gave his boss five minutes to get sorted, then rang through, and asked if he could come over. Nick assenting, Joe picked up the sheets, and walked along the corridors towards Cavalieri's office. His secretaries were just entering as he came through the door, but he waved and announced he was expected. Tapping on the door, he opened it, and found his boss seated, coffee already in hand, gazing up at him. "Nick, I've found something out, worked it out from documents that old Tad had been shovelling around. We have big problems. There is something in the plants, both here and Grand Rapids, which is shortening the life spans of a broad section of the workforce. It may be something in the paint, or the oil, I just don't know where to start, but if you check the graphs, you will see that my old man was right. He suspected something was wrong, and started making notes. The only thing Tad didn't have was a computer, and I worked this out in an hour. Look, the guys are dying ten years ahead of the norm, and there is something in the plant which is responsible. Nick, this could cripple us!"

The C.E.O. took the small sheaf of paper from Joe, and laid them all down on the desktop. He looked long and hard at the graph lines, at the population norms listed in the Census curve, and then at the selection from the Continental workforce. "How do you know these dates are genuine, Joe? Have you done any cross-checking?"

"No, Nick. I mean, Pop would have the dates right, and the lists from the Union register and the American Legion are straight copies, other than that, I haven't had time. I think it's a genuine problem, Nick, but its gonna be a godawful thing to trace, and then stop. We'll have Class Actions going on for the next ten years. Jeez, Nick, where are we to start?"

"Say nothing, and let me do a little digging. We will have to bring it up at the Board Meeting, but say nothing to anyone until I give you the word, Joe. O.K.?"

As his Marketing V.P. left the office, Nick Cavalieri had to restrain himself from hurling the coffee cup across the office in despair. He opened up a side closet, slid out a telephone which was fitted with a non-standard red button on the side of the case, hit the keys and waited for a reply. "Watcher here, Scramble?" was the words he first heard.

The auto executive pressed the button, and began talking to the urbane man in the office which overlooked Battery Park in downtown New York. "You guys got it wrong," Cavalieri began, "old man Kozcinski had paperwork, papers about his goddam notion that something was happening to the Continental guys who retired. Joe, his son-in-law now has those papers, and access to a computer. He ran the figures and came up with the idea that the early deaths are due to them being infected around the plants! I told you to look harder before bumping the old guy off. Hell, you Pistol Pete's are all the same! What the hell are you gonna do now, Guido?"

The man in New York, whose lips had grown thin as the Detroit-based voice had issued the old insult, paused for five seconds to calm himself down before replying. "There ain't no need to start throwing names around, Mr. C. We have gone far away from the old Pete image, and I would ask you not to repeat such slogans. The reports from Detroit, about the late Mr. Bor, and his snooping around, were queried intensely before we decided that there were no files, or papers. We organised the 'hit' on Tadeusz Bor after consultation with you, if you remember? As for young Joseph, he is now firmly on the wrong track, and you can put him in charge of a taskforce looking for a non-existent contaminant. We can put our Selection file process on 'hold' for a month or two, and then when he gives the plant a clean bill of health, we can resume once again; calling the rise in early deaths a, what is the term, statistical anomaly?"

"Joe Kozcinski is no patsy, Guido! He may have started from the wrong angle, but there ain't a great deal of space between an industrial accident, and deliberate action!"

"Do you then wish us to arrange a termination of young Mr. Kozcinski ?" the urbane mobster asked. "He has friends, and it would not be the easiest of tasks. We would have to ensure that the papers which he possesses are retrieved, and presumably his lovely wife as well should be included in the contract. His father was relatively easy, an elderly man who went for an early morning run every day; we simply imported a 'soldier' from California, fitted him out with a vehicle which was scrap metal less than two hours after the old man was dead, and then flew him out again the same afternoon. Hell, the 'soldier' didn't even know who he was to 'hit'."

"For hell's sake hold off on any plan to wipe Joe and Alex Kozcinski, Guido. We can always agree to do something terminal, like an accident within the plant; when I find out how many people he has told. What I can't have is a wholesale massacre of senior Continental staff, so just chew your oats on that one. I don't agree that the Selection process be put on hold, until we make our minds up one way or another. There's simply too much money at stake. If you wish, you can get your boys to do a run-down on Joe's habits, in readiness for action if we agree there is no alternative. Slap a tail on him, and make sure that all strings are tied; okay, Guido?"

"Okay, Mr. C., we will hold off on the Kozcinski burn, but tail him and his wife in readiness. The Selection process will continue for now, but may be put on hold. Goodbye, Mr. Cavalieri, and have a nice day!" The view from the window seemed to engross the wavy-haired man, as he stood in deep contemplation, before making his mind up, and calling his associate on the outside line, "Ray. We may have a change of plan. Empire State, in thirty minutes. See you on top!"

As the taxi rumbled through the potholed canyons of New York, Guido Soncini added a third action to the two he had prepared while gazing through his window, overlooking the harbour. His taxi driver, who seemed to have come from an obscure part of Ethiopia, and therefore spoke absolutely no English whatsoever; had obviously learnt to drive in Demolition Derbies, and it was a slightly shaken Italian-American who was deposited on the cross-street along which ran the famous building. As no car, from the constant following stream had checked, or pulled in to deposit passengers, he reckoned he was once more surveillance free, and walked confidently forward to meet his young friend, on the balcony at the very summit of what was once the tallest building in the world.

"Tell me, Guido, why do you always choose the windiest, crap-ridden spots for us to meet? It's either the goddam ferry, some skyscraper, or a cemetery!"

"Ray, I have survived for nearly sixty years, and no-one has ever put a tape, or a wire device, anywhere near me. Not getting thin blood, are you?"

"It's just that I'm cold. I drive in, in an air-conditioned car, work in an air-conditioned office, and I ain't dressed for this goddam wind! Howsomever, you called?"

"Yes, our Friend in Detroit, on the Selection File, has a young associate who thinks he has uncovered an environmental hazard at the Continental Plants, which is taking the retired auto workers away from their well deserved retirement, and killing them ahead of their time in the sun. Unfortunately, we organised an very early retirement for Mr. Bor, the man who thought he had something sniffed out, and the young associate is Joseph Kozcinski, the late Mr. Bor's son-in-law! Our Friend is positive that there is documentary evidence, and he is understandably pissed!"

"You mean we are looking sloppy, by not finding the papers. Hell, Guido, the old man lived with his daughter and her husband. He was always dropping in and out of the house, and there was just no way we could organise a thorough scan of the home without alarming someone, besides which there is a fair population of nosy kids around, and they would spot a stranger a short mile away. From what our guys found out by listening, he just had this idea that there was something wrong at the plant, he never came out and said anything specific; so everyone he knew just put it down to the fact that he was an angry old asshole, and let it go at that! Which way do you want us to go?"

"First, call Vince Lombardi in Detroit, and get him ready to call out and hold off on any further Selection action, but don't put the brakes on just yet. Then get Harry Mettaliou to organise a good tail, plus intelligence, on the Kozcinski 's, both Joseph and his wife, just so we know their movements, in case we decide to go for a 'hit'. Then I want you to take a short holiday from your New York job at the commercial analysts, and when you come back, I want a firm run-down on whether a good clean termination is possible on Nick Cavalieri!"

"Jeez, Guido; but he's a.."

"A Friend. I know, and I ask this with reluctance, but things just may start to unravel, and we need to cover all exits; okay Ray?"

The smartly-dressed young man soberly nodded his head in assent, gripped his leader by the hand, and quickly left the balcony of the building, while Guido Soncini breathed deeply of the air of the City he loved, and had corrupted, for over thirty years.

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The Police Forensic Department of the Town of KingsBurgh was as fully equipped as could be, under an administration which queried the spending of every dollar. The extra-powerful microscope which was being gently manipulated in the Forensic Laboratory, had been the subject of intense argument before it's purchase had been approved; but it had been responsible for the detection and conviction of four criminals who otherwise may have been allowed free, and was therefore deemed to be 'cost-effective'. The manipulator, a thirty-five year old forensic scientist who daily thanked his stars to be working and living outside of New York, slowly wound the cross-travel of the 15000x magnification system as he traversed the short length of charred rubber tubing. He drove the table back and forward at least four times before raising his head from the eye-piece, and making a note on the pad beside him. The phone bleeped briefly, and he reached over and answered, "Forensic, Haskins here." before listening to the voice at the other end, waited until it finished, and gazed at the ceiling in despair, before answering, "I've just started checking that item, and I will not be rushed. Now drop it and I'll call you when I am through!"

He worked on for another hour before he was satisfied that his conclusions were sound, and would stand up in court if necessary, before hitting the phone keys which connected him to his earlier persecutor. "Mario, it's Lenny Haskins. You want to come down and talk about the Klein killing,"he paused, "yes, I did say the killing! See you in five minutes."

Mario Guareschi dropped quickly down the staircase which lead to the laboratory complex, mentally composing the short report he would have to send to that cop in New York. The call from Ken Melchek had intrigued him, and he had indeed run the family Klein through the mill, and found out lots of good things about Howard Klein, one of the best being the constant visits he made to the local hardware store, as he conscientiously kept abreast of the repairs on his house and contents; of the inspections he had arranged from the local electrician, who remembered saying that the Klein home was the safest he had worked in, and the further comments from the garage where the Klein automobiles were regularly serviced. He went through the forensics door, perched on a bench stool, and simply asked, "Killing, Lenny?"

The scientist simply pointed to the microscope, and guided the detective through the items he was inspecting under an intense light and heavy magnification. "This is a similar sample of the reinforced rubber pipe, standard for KingsBurgh installations for Propane-fuelled Gas systems and Stoves, okay? This rubber, as it has been treated and reinforced with nylon, doesn't have the same 'memory' as ordinary rubber. In other terms, Mario, if you compress this rubber tube, it doesn't bounce back like ordinary rubber does. Now I have had a hose-clip tightened on that section," pointing with a fine pencil tip, "to simulate the Kleins' hose connection from the valve. See the indentation? Now turn the table forward so we come to the charred tube section, recovered from the fire department evidence bag, together with the hose-clip which was attached to it, and the valve connection. Okay?"

Guareschi, who had glued his eye to the viewpiece, simply grunted, "Uhhuh!"

Haskins began once more, "Now take the table along until you see the change in diameter of the rubber, see, there! Now I have measured that diameter, and completed tests on the hose-clip, and I can positively say that the hose-clip which was recovered from the fire scene was definitely not the same clip which made that indentation in the rubber hose. It starts slipping through the threads of the worm more than a eighth of an inch before getting down to the diameter which would be needed to make the indentation on the burnt hose. So, the clip was replaced for the original, and everything made to look like an accident. Secondly, we got the guys to trawl around the scene, just as you asked, and we found lever marks on the frame of the patio door, where the lock may have been forced, after the whole window had been lifted out of the track. the char marks disguised the outer scrapes, but when we lifted the door away, we found the main set of marks. "

The forensic man raised his hand, just as Guareschi was about to speak, "The third thing is a little less certain, more of a hunch! We got the Electric Utility guys to check the central heating timer, the one that actually blew the gas, and they reported something very strange. The foreman said that there was no way that the time switch for the water would be set so far forward, because everyone he knows has the timeswitch cam set for somewhere around six in the morning, which gives the heating plenty of time to heat the water up for showers, and definitely not two in the morning! This was a hit, Mario, and from someone who knew exactly what they were doing. After all, they nearly got away with it!"

After slapping the scientist on the shoulder, and asking him for a fast report for his file, the detective went back up the stairs to his office, and called through to the 95th precinct in New York, asking for Patrolman Melchek. He was asked to leave his name, as the officer in question was out on patrol, but would be paged to return his call. The senior detective on the KingsBurgh force next called the Coroner, and asked him to re-open the inquest, as new evidence had emerged regarding the deaths of the Kleins, with a view to changing the verdict to read, 'Murder, by person or persons unknown'. As he sat back to ponder his next move, his phone rang, with Ken Melchek on the other end of the line.

"Detective Guareschi, what can I do for you?" asked Ken.

"It's more about what I can do for you, Officer Melchek. Your tip on the Klein fire panned out, we can prove that the explosion and fire was set up deliberately, and all four people were murdered. What caused you to doubt the investigator's verdict of 'Accidental death'?

"Well, we got a lead which tied in with one member of the Klein family, namely Allison, Howards wife. Seemed to be too much of a co-incidence to a citizen down in our precinct, who nearly got blown up in her car by a rigged gas tank; except that a junkie took the fall for her! She had had some business dealings with the lady in question, and when she heard the news, took it on the lam and disappeared, and got her Mom to contact me. When we get any further with this can of worms, would you like me to copy you with what we find?"

"I surely will, Officer. I will also be sending a letter, for entry into your personnel docket, saying you helped expose a multiple murder, and you should be commended for that action?"

"That is more than kind, Detective. Would you also mention Officer Davis, he is my partner on the case?"

"It will surely be my pleasure," said the detective, as he replaced the phone.

Ken Melchek sat back in the swing chair in his little apartment, and indulged himself in his one secret vice, listening to classical music. No-one knew of his passion, mainly because he may well have been regarded as something close to a deviate. New York cops were supposed to be hard men, and hard men listened to 'rock', or maybe 'country and western', but Sibelius was somehow out of bounds. So he kept his listening pleasure to himself, and wondered how much the others were missing, if they did not know of the wonders which existed in a good symphony. He was therefore lost in the sounds of an orchestra, when his phone rang. Answering, "Melchek here, who's calling?"

"Eudora Crickell here, Officer Melchek. You left a message on my machine?"

"Mrs. Crickell, I gotta get in touch with Claudia, one of our leads came up, and she was right in calling the Klein deaths suspicious. We just got word back from the force up in KingsBurgh they went over the whole scene, and they found plenty. Enough to make it a murder enquiry, is all! But I really need to speak to Claudia, or better still have her come to the Precinct house. Can you get word to her, please Mrs. Crickell?"

"I ain't saying yes, nor no, Policeman. Where you live, whats your address, maybe she will risk a visit to your home? I don't think she wants to go anywhere near a police station!"

Ken dictated his address, saying that he needed to check something on the computer discs, and asked if Claudia had a portable computer, then urged Claudia's mother once more, to pass on the need to talk, before she rang off.

-------------  '---------------

Bob Webster sat at his desk in the agency, checking over the latest scripts for the new Boeing jet commercials. He looked at the creative team seated opposite, gently shook his head, and simply asked if this was the best that they had come up with. "Allison came up with the idea of always pushing the testing and safety of the 777, I fully agree with her path, and what do you give me? A load of incomprehensible technical crap! This is going to go over the airwaves to the flying equivalent of Joe six-pack, not a convention of aerospace engineers. Now take all that bullshit away, and next time you come down here, bring something relevant to the party, okay?" He dismissed the team with a wave of his hand, swung his seat around and stared out of the window. He had been a willing recruit to the conspiracy which surrounded the Continental Auto Corporation, with the promise of wealth only part of the lure; he was hooked on the idea of negative advertising, and how to achieve that seemingly impossible task. He grinned contentedly, they had done it, and more so. He may never receive the acclaim of his profession for doing what he had done, but in his heart he knew he was the best; the only one who could truly say that he had made a significant section of a nation do exactly what he had asked! He had received the word from Lazarus that the second message was due to go out from that evening, and wondered if he should call another poll to find out how the change was shaping, then realised that he could not really expect to hide the cost of another poll, so soon after the one which resulted in the death of his predecessor.

-------------  '---------------

The desk at which John Xavier Murphy passed his working days was almost a legend in the Detroit Police, for it was rumoured that there was no real desk there, but paper from floor upwards. He ran his section with humour and an efficiency which enabled him to keep his desk pretty much as he liked, and was allowed a great deal of leeway by his superior officers. He fielded the call from Costello at Narcotics, knowing he was going to get pressured once more, but much to his surprise, he was wrong. "John, I just called up to thank you for that favour you did for the folks from Grosse Point!"

"Ahh, if it isn't the man himself. Well now Patrick, I have to admit we had a wee spot or stain or two after the man the team arrested got himself killed right here in our own Central house, but no-one is perfect, is that not right?" He heard a chuckle down the line. "Now you wouldn't be even thinking of being sarcastic, or anything nasty like that, would you now, Costello?"

"No, John, I was just wondering if you had kept the surveillance tail on our friend Kozcinski; a scene that results in a 'soldier' getting blotted seems to me to be a little heavier than hot air, if you catch my drift?"

"I will admit I put the two who were on Kozcinski back on their normal duties, but seeing as you put it that way, you might just have a point. If some clown is worth killing just to keep him from maybe talking, what is there to hide?"

"Thanks, John, and thanks on behalf of the two Kozcinski 's as well. 'Bye Sergeant Murphy!"

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The man named Lazarus, who had adopted the first name of the Israeli agent whom he had murdered, long before he slipped illegally into the United States, sat in his wheelchair, which stood on the ground floor of a house in a suburb of New York, which held his own communications network. Three operators sat before video consoles and multi-level keyboards, each dedicated to different tasks, but all were monitoring one thing in total, the share position, dealings and proposed sales of Continental stock. He leant forward to receive a printout from one of the printers, passed to him by the operator, and scanned it like an American Football fan studies the lineouts for the Superbowl. He nodded in acceptance of the news it contained, simply twirled one finger in the air, which was taken by all three that they were to continue exactly as before, then swivelled his chair around, and moved forward to pick up a phone which lay ready to hand. Punching in a number, he waited to be connected, and heard the voice announcing, "Seeton Harland Communications, how can we help?"

"I wish to speak with Mr. Harland, my name is Lazarus."

"Certainly, Mr. Lazarus, connecting you now."

"Harland here, Mr. Lazarus, what can I do for you, sir?"

"Just confirmation that the revised commercials, the three sequential clips for Continental, are being broadcast as from this evening."

"No worries there, Mr. Lazarus. We received our booking lists from the airtime buying section of Morson, Zeno; and as the slots were already booked for the previous clips, we were able to change over to the new ones nationwide, except for the stations around Atlanta. The parcel delivery service aircraft had to abort a take-off, and there will be a delay of one day, compared to the rest of America, but they will get the message."

Harland listened intently as a strange noise came over the phone, a wheezing and snuffling, and at first thought his caller was having at least a heart attack, then relaxed as he realised that, for the first time, he had heard Mr. Lazarus laughing.

-------------  '---------------

As Mrs. Grady had reminded him that the next meeting of the Marketing meeting was at three in the afternoon, Joe checked his diary to make sure that everything else he had promised to do on Monday was listed, then remembered his call to Buddy Charles in the Computer Section. He gulped down the coffee which his secretary had placed before him, mumbled , "password," when Mrs. G. asked where he was heading, and disappeared down the corridors towards the basement where the big VAX set lay, along with all the sub-systems and back up equipment. He approached the glassed door, and pressed the buzzer, waiting while a security man, inside the suite, looked him over, and scanned his company identity pass. The guards' voice came through the speaker, "Can you key in your third level password, Mr. Kozcinski, please?"

Joe reached forward, tapped out his password on the keyboard, and the door promptly unlocked, and swung open to allow him to pass through into the suite. Buddy Charles, a small, balding man who was the computer security analyst, shook him by the hand, thanking him for remembering, and sat down with him before a remote keyboard and VDU. "Right, Joe, can you access the system, using your present passwords?"

Joseph played his fingers across the keyboard, and the system jumped into the screen asking , 'section file, please?'. The analyst reached across, then keyed another password into the system and the words 'Password file activated. Unauthorised access will result in instant dismissal. Name please?' Joe keyed in his name, and the screen asked 'Do you wish all level passwords to be altered?'. As Buddy nodded, Joe answered 'yes', the screen flashed up three broad lines, each titled 'Level One, Two, Three. Buddy moved the cursor to the first line, and asked Joe if he had the new words ready. Joe keyed in the new words, which he had written down on a card.

As the screen signified acceptance of the new passwords, which Buddy assured him would not need to be renewed for at least four months, Joe suddenly remembered the strange spreadsheet he had accessed from his home. "Buddy, you are supposed to know everything that goes on inside the main brain," waving at the big VAX as it hummed and clicked, "Is it possible to hide another level, accessed only by a fourth level password, and specific terminals, within our system?"

The analyst glanced across at the Marketing VP, turned to the keyboard and accessed the main frame hard drive listings. As the directories and sub-files scrolled up across the screen, he watched as the entire computerised memory was listed out for scrutiny, with pass levels and listings recorded. "There is only one fourth level password allowed, Joe, and that is the one we have just been in to. Let me show you." Joe watched as the analyst keyed in the request for the disc tree to be shown, and the result with access levels showed the same as the first display. "Got an itch?"

Joe related the story of his misskey at home, and the resultant spreadsheet which had jumped on to the screen, together with the statement about the terminal, and the disciplinary action. Buddy looked at him, shrugged and asked "Have you ever seen the spreadsheet since?"

"Nope, I had forgotten all about it until right now, when we were shoving in the new passwords!"

"You say the sheet was big?"

"I've seen bigger, but never encrypted the way this one was," answered the Marketing man.

"Okay, Joe. Leave this with me, and I'll ask around, and see if I can't find it. I am supposed to know all about the damn thing, so it should be a nice little maze puzzle. Thanks for dropping by, Joe!"

Chapter 15

Ken Melchek paused before the wall mirror for the seventh time, anxiously checking his appearance, even though he had not moved outside his apartment in nearly two hours. He checked his watch, and anxiously wondered if the black statistician was going to show, then continued pacing back and forward. He had considered laying on something for Claudia to eat, but had decided that she would maybe prefer strictly business, so he had contented himself with giving his apartment a thorough polishing, and then laying out the makings for coffee, with a few cookies on the side table. He had received a call from Claudia's mother, confirming that her daughter would try and make the trip into New York to his apartment, if Ken thought it necessary; and that she was bringing a notebook computer and some discs. Ken, who hadn't deposited the copy discs from Morson, Zeno into the evidence locker at the precinct, agreed, and just slipped them from his desk into his pocket, before logging off at the end of his shift. He had told Brad Davis that he was hoping to interview the girl that they both had seen after the auto fire, and Brad had simply warned that, after the knowledge that Allison Klein had been murdered, Ken should be wary of even bringing the girl into the city. "No one knows but her mother, and now you, so I think we can take that chance," Ken had replied, as he clattered down the stairs towards his car, and home.

However, the time was approaching nine in the evening, before he heard a light knock on his door, which he rapidly opened to find Claudia huddled against the rain, as it lashed down. "Come inside. Miss Crickell, damn, you are soaked! Look, you must get out of those clothes, and get dry, otherwise you will get pneumonia!" He hustled the protesting girl through into his bathroom, found a bulky dressing gown from his wardrobe, and thrust it into her hands, saying, "Get changed, and I'll see if my neighbour can let me have something for you to wear." He slung a jacket over his head, and ran the few yards to his neighbours front door, upon which he knocked very loudly. Lee Johns, a mechanic with a mid-town garage, looked out at Ken, then pulled him inside the shelter of his door.

"Ken, what's the problem?"

"Is Mary around, I need to borrow some, er, clothes. My visitor got caught in the rain, and her clothes are like dishwipes." Lee's wife came through from the lounge, heard Ken's call, and disappeared into her bedroom, coming back with a pair of slacks, two blouses, a scarf and a small packet which she thrust into Ken's hand. "Some undies for the poor girl. She must be half-drowned. Now remember, Ken, you behave yourself!"

Grinning at the reputation he was building for himself, the young policeman returned to his apartment to find a composed Claudia, who was almost able to wrap the big gown around herself twice, sitting by the heater, gazing up at him with dark eyes. "I got some stuff, slacks and a blouse, if you want to change later. Mary is somewhere around your, er build, and, well, if you want, they're there." Claudia nodded, "You want coffee, Miss Crickell?"

"Yes please, and make it Claudia; I am sitting here with no clothes on, so we may as well get a little less formal."

Ken started to blush, then relaxed as he saw her smile, and felt his whole inside turn turtle as he realised that this girl had him bewitched. "Claudia, I'll get the coffee." So saying, he walked through into his tiny kitchen, pulled the percolator off the heater, and brought it, and the cups and cream, through to the girl in his lounge. He poured, and the pair sipped the brew while looking at each other through the steam from the coffee. Laying his cup down, Ken asked, "Did you bring the computer, Claudia?" Nodding, the statistician stretched over and pulled a neat black case towards her side. Opening up, she hauled out a smart notebook computer, and quickly switched it on after placing it on her knees. Claudia pulled in the database programme which she had used during the initial layout and record of the answers to the poll for Continental, and pulled in the data which had been input as a result. "Now you say, Officer Melchek, do those graph lines look anything like the ones you saw at the agency on Madison?"

Ken glanced through the curves, and simply replied, "Nope, but we can check for certain, because I have disc copies here," as he handed the floppies over to Claudia, who slotted them in to the drive, one by one, and then switched over to a comparison between the two sets of results.

"The first set, the ones I showed Allison, were these, showing a very poor response, and an even lower acceptance of the autos from Continental. Now if I overlay the first set with the second, we get this," said Claudia, striking keys rapidly, as the screen showed the changes from the first set of discs to the new set. "See; according to the information now resident in the agency computer, and I suppose also in the hands of a top guy at Continental, they think that the t.v. advert clips are doing a fair, but not brilliant job. They had a wash-up meeting on the Morson, Zeno ads, at Detroit, and the survey was commissioned to make sure the message had got across. This when we have just seen the real results, which shows that the ads are disastrous, and they may as well throw five or six million dollars down the sewer, for all the use they are in influencing people to buy their cars. In fact," the lovely face paused, as Ken gazed at her lips, "it's almost as though they were doing that on purpose!"

"Claudia, come on! What agency would deliberately turn people off their sponsored products. It would be plain crazy! Hell, I know nothing about advertising, or surveys, but thats impossible! Apart from anything else, the commercials are viewed by everyone, including the sponsors, so anything negative would be screened out. No, we have found something, but we haven't discovered what it is!"

"Yeah, Ken, but why would the agency send incorrect information to their clients? We know that, from the original survey, the auto commercials stink, but the client will have seen the commercials before approving them; and some Continental team player is not going to let crap get past him, because he is gonna holler 'foul' at the top of his voice. But the agency has sent the wrong signals to the auto company. They are saying that everyone  in the appropriate groups, around the U.S.A., while not drooling over a new Stiletto, is maybe thinking about buying one; but the word that I remember most of all, from the written responses, was 'Turkey'.

"Another coffee, Claudia, or are you happy?"

"Another coffee, and a cookie if you have one. I'm starving; living in motels just ain't much good for my digestive tract."

The police officer came back five minutes later, with a fresh brew, and a plate full of cookies, and watched as his guest demolished five, while inelegantly slurping down a full cup of coffee. He poured himself a cup, after re-filling her's, and then relaxed back, seated on the floor next to the feet of the beautiful black statistician, and leaning on the side of the armchair on which she sat. The pair fell quiet, and Ken suddenly felt Claudia's fingers running slowly through his hair, as he sat still. She continued to stroke his head, and slowly he turned around to face her, as she gazed, smiling slightly, into his eyes.

Claudia leant forward, the dressing gown gaping open, and pulling Ken's head forward, kissed him softly and then more urgently, as his hands sought her breasts. But then he pulled away, while she softly asked , "Why stop, Ken?"

"I want to be able to come to your mother's house, look her in the eye, and say that I have kept you safe, as she trusted me to do so when we met down at the precinct house. If we have our date, or anything else which may come from our meeting, I am tarn certain that your mother would know if anything had happened between us, so I think we'd better stop."

Claudia gently took his face between her fingers, and gently kissed him on the lips, "Ken, that is the sweetest thing I've ever heard anyone say!"

Ken grinned as he held her closely, "And just about the hardest to do. Lord, Claudia, you're beautiful, and you must know what effect you have on any susceptible male; and a more susceptible male than me just ain't around!"

"I'd better put some clothes on, if you're going to be a gentleman," smiled Claudia, rising from his arms, "can I use the bedroom?"

"Sure, Claudia. The stuff I got from Mary should just about fit, and it's just so you can travel back, " Ken paused, "why travel? Why not stop here, let me go and pick up your things, and no-one will know you are anywhere in New York? You are safer with me, than anywhere else!" He watched her face as Claudia considered his proposal, and inwardly waited in anguished hope, for he did not want to be parted from the girl whose face had lodged within his heart.

Finally, Claudia smiled, and leaning forward, held him close once again, "I feel kinda safe right now, and I don't want to change that situation. If I stop, where will I sleep?"

"The bedroom, er, I'll drop the couch down for myself, it sorta turns into a bed, and it's not so bad. I have a shift off tomorrow, and I can go back wherever you are hidden, pick up your things, and bring them back here, Okay honey?"

Claudia moved towards the bedroom door, as she simply said, "In that case, I am not gonna bother getting dressed again. It's late, and I am tired. Coffee at seven, Oh slave of the lamp?"

Ken simply nodded as his guest disappeared into his bedroom, the borrowed dressing gown trailing behind her, and slowly closed the door, after turning and blowing a kiss towards him; he then pulled out the base of the couch, turning it into a bed, which was in truth distinctly inferior to the bed in the other room, but he wasn't going to complain.

Chapter 16

It was about ten-thirty in the morning before the first signs of the change began to appear on the screens and boards of the New York Stock Exchange, but there grew a steady selling pressure on the Common Stock offerings of the Continental Auto Corporation, as the price was marked down in jumps of ten, twenty and thirty points. The S.E.C. watch operation, specifically designated to note sudden changes in the complex structure of the exchange, and decide if any pressure broke the rules, swung its full operation into action, and the results were negative. "The selling is coming from all over the shop, J.G." reported one analyst to his boss, J.G. Wexley; "there ain't no way this is out of any organised firm, the selling spread is too big. Unless we step in, or get Continental to suspend voluntarily, the push just might slop over onto the rest of the board, and we are vulnerable right now, what with the jitters about interest rates, and Japan!"

The dealers meanwhile, who had at all times to ensure that the best interests of their clients were taken into consideration, marked the offerings down further, as more and more of the Continental Stock was unloaded on to the market, and no buyers were found to take the shares off the hands of the dealers. The price clicked down, passing one hundred & seven dollars a share, on the way towards one hundred & six ninety, when Wexley received a call from Nick Cavalieri. "Mr. Wexley, I'm informed you head the Watch at the N.Y.S.E., is that correct?"

J.G. Wexley, warned by a hastily scribbled note from the man who took the call, adopted his 'unconcerned approach' with his caller, "Yes, Mr. Cavalieri, I presume your call concerns the market pricing of your Stock offering?"

"You are damn right it is! This is some sort of a rig, and you gotta put a stop to it quick. We are a profitable corporation, with good figures and great production plants, and I demand that you stop the bunch of thieves who are trying to mark my company down into the dirt!"

"I'm sorry if you feel that we are somewhat short of action, here in the Exchange, Mr. Cavalieri, but nothing could be further from the truth. It is now two in the afternoon, the action started at ten-thirty this morning; and we have been able to categorically rule out concerted action from a predator, who wants to burn your share price down, and make it cheap. The selling pressure is too widespread for that, the offers to sell are coming from small and large stockholders, with no visible pattern that we, or any computer analysis, can unearth! Do you want us to suspend the shares from the board?"

"Godamm; thats' the last thing we should do! When the stock is re-listed it will probably drop like a stone, and whoever is planning this will pick up Continental at fire-sale prices. No, Mr. Wexley, I am convening an emergency Board meeting, and if your committee gives it's approval, I will be setting up a buy back operation, to wipe up all shares as and when they come on to the market!"

"Don't know if we could allow that, Mr. Cavalieri, the repurchase, by the issuer, of Common stock is in breach of the S.E.C. rules governing the conduct of companies listed on the Big Board. You might be accused of doing the same thing as whoever you are accusing right now. However, if you can prove conspiracy, the share sales and consequent repurchase can be declared null and void!"

"Yeah, I know that, but that could take years, and by that time, the company could be taken over for good, plus proving conspiracy, in this land where the law is subservient to the lawyers, is like trying to grip molasses. Mr. Wexley, you gotta help me!"

"Sorry, we are bound by the rules. Do you wish us to suspend your stock?"

"No, leave it for today, there is only another two hours, and then the market is closed. We'll have our meeting, and we will contact you, to say if we want the Stock suspended. Thanks, Mr. Wexley, speak to you soon!"

J.G.Wexley replaced the phone, and gazed around the room, tapping the glass in front of him, until all his analysts ceased work and looked back at him. "Do another search, based on everything you can think of, to try and find where this bear market on Continental has come from. I need answers, and I need them fast. There are a great many people out there, with a whole roomfull of money, who would just love to do the same to a whole raft of shares, as these guys are doing to Continental."

-------------'---------------

Bob Webster, whose interest in the value of Continental shares was at least the equal of Nick Cavalieri, was seated in his office, with his computer latched on to the commercial Stockwatch share price advisory service; watching the price click down on the Continental price with horror. His phone rang, and a well-known voice rasped, "Bob, what the hell is happening? You promised me a gradual pressure on the price, a slight acceleration on our previous message; and what have we got? A goddam stampede! What the hell went wrong? Can you put it right, and reverse the trend?"

"Mr. Lazarus, I think the sets somehow got mixed up in the time between final implant, copying and issue to the Seeton Harland Communications people, for delivery to the T.V.Stations nationwide, The second segment should have been as we already agreed, a stronger message against the Stiletto and Sabre lines, and a line saying perhaps the watcher should maybe consider unloading, nothing stronger than that. The last clips, which said that Continental was maybe on the skids, was supposed to go out in two weeks time, and only be shown for three nights. I can't reverse the damn things overnight, Mr. Lazarus, it took me two months just to get the first implant right, and the only thing we can do is to get the clips recalled, nationwide, for review. We can run the other clips, the first ones, but until I get a chance to check, not show any other of the series."

"Send out the word now, nationwide, get those ads pulled and replaced; then tell me when you have completed the job, you useless heap of dogshit! If there is an investigation, they might unearth our previous buying, even if it is concealed behind six hundred or six thousand nominee buyers. We have decided to go into the market openly tomorrow morning, and pick up as much as we can at the lower price, because the Continental stock is going to bounce back, without the reinforcement of the message. Use any excuse you can dredge up, quality of picture, worries about the health of Mother Theresa, anything; but stop those commercials, you hear!"

-------------  '---------------

Joe Kozcinski  was working late, as were many of his compatriots at Continental, as the Board had just broken up after it's emergency session, with the news in on the screens showing the relentless pressure against the share price had subsided a little, before the Exchanges closed, but with the price down by almost a dollar seventy-five. The whole head office complex, having the news beamed straight onto their desks, knew that someone had put them into play, but the trouble was, there had been virtually no buyers, so the classic 'bear' play of picking up the parcels as they came free had not been followed through. Nick Cavalieri had been almost incandescent, and Joe, for one, hadn't blamed him in the slightest. He finished his own work, delayed as it had been by the scramble to get any information on the market plunge of the share price, closed up his briefcase, and headed for his car. The car jockey had become accustomed to his services being spurned, but it meant that Joe was going to have to go to a commercial car-wash, for his Stiletto was truly dirty, and there had already been some comments. He swung out on to the road towards the freeway, and spotted the big Cadillac with the odd-coloured wing as it moved into position two cars behind him, telling him that the police were once more giving him a spin. He sat back, and gently manoeuvred the Stiletto from lane to lane, giving the impression of a driver trying to gain a non-existent advantage.

The two detectives, who had picked up the Continental executive as he passed onto the freeway, sat back and studied the surrounding traffic, as the whole stream rolled steadily along the way towards the many homes of the drivers. Lesley Jordan, who this time was sitting back in the passenger seat, suddenly sat forward, and pointed, "That Lincoln, the rusty one, he's giving our taxpayer a close tail; look, he's changed again, right up close. See, he's one car behind him!"

The big black detective, gripped the wheel firmly, and murmured, "Freeze out, I think!" before accelerating  forward in the outside lane to come level with the Lincoln, then gently making space for himself to come up by the tailing car. Lesley then slapped the blue flasher on to the roof of the big Cadillac, and the siren sounded at the same time, with Lesley waving the driver to slow down and stop in the 'Emergency' lane. The trouble with that series of manoeuvres was that it expects the recipient to respond by slowing and stopping. As the Lincoln driver, who had been following the big Stiletto without being aware that he too was being tailed, panicked, he sliced down the inside, passed Joe as though he was parked and raced forward through holes in the traffic, with the police Cadillac in pursuit. The siren blatting out, Lesley grabbed the microphone, and informed the deskman at Central that they were in pursuit, and asked for back-up cars to try and block exits.

The Lincoln driver however, threw  the car into the outside lane, then simply fishtailed round , over the separating divider kerb, swung wide and tried to go in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, an eighteen wheeler semi-articulated truck, loaded with a full base of scrap, made a move into the centre lane at the same time, picked the Lincoln up as though it was plywood, and scraped it all down the road, shedding parts and sparks as it slowed. The big truck tore itself free, and stopped about thirty yards away from the wreck, and the driver ran back to the Lincoln, but the Lincoln driver had taken the steering wheel full in the chest, and he died as the horrified trucker stood watching. The two detectives, having succeeded  in reversing their own car, stood together as the long line of traffic slowly started sorting itself out. Detective O'Rourke shook his head in disbelief; "That's twice someone has run fast after we picked them up for being on this guy's tail. Some doll waltzes in to the Precinct, and ices our friend Martinez; and this guy does something lunatic to escape from us. What does this guy Kozcinski have, or know, that is so important?

"Murphy spoke to Costello, at Narcotics, he being the one who asked for the checks on  Kozcinski in the first place, and he reckons Kozcinski knows diddly.  According to Costello, he's just a taxpayer!"

"I reckon, with two guys dead, one definitely a 'hit', and the other plain unlucky, but equally unwilling to talk, maybe our Mr. Kozcinski knows somepun, trouble being he don't know he knows it!"

Joe, who had seen the start of the pursuit, but not the finish, eased his car on to his driveway, and realised that Alex' car was not already parked. He picked up his mobile, and keyed in her carphone number. The ring tone sounded, then Alex's voice cut in, as she talked into the remote microphone, "Alex Kozcinski here, who's calling?"

"Alex, it's Joe, you got a problem?"

"No, honey, I've just been showing a house to a couple from Cincinatti; I think they're gonna buy, but..."

Joe cut her off, "Honey, I got followed again this afternoon, on my way back from Continental. The cops picked him up, and he ran, but I didn't see what happened afterwards. Are you okay, honey?"

"No signs of anyone regular behind, but I'll keep to the main roads, and I'm heading for home right now."

"If you spot anyone trailing you, Alex; just don't hesitate, call that number the police listed, and anyone who is bothering you will think they were hit with a bazooka! Take care, my love!"

Joe Kozcinski opened up the  front door, and started making preparations for the evening, but he didn't get very far before the big Cadillac with the unmatched wing rolled up the drive, and parked behind his Stiletto. Joe went out the front to greet the two detetctives, who brought him up to speed on the happenings on the freeway, and the death of the man who had tailed him.

"Mr. Kozcinski , we left the Highway boys to deal with the dead man because we needed to talk; we think you were followed before, and again possibly because you either know something, or someone is worried that you might figure something out, and they are getting ready to maybe waste you!"

Joe stared at the big detective, whose face was stern and solemn, "That's ridiculous, Detective O'Rourke, I am a senior VP and exec. at Continental; sure I know lotsa of things about the auto industry, but nothing worth killing me for!"

"As I say, maybe it is because you may figure something out.  We found a scanner on the car of the guy that we peeled off your tail last week, but there was no sign of a pick-up or transmitter on your car. Have you had your home checked for bugs or surveillance mikes? Haven't you been having some share price trouble today?,"

"I bought one of these 'Bug Detector' gadgets, and it did pick up what I thought was a transmitter in one of the offices, but I checked around the office, and here; found nothing at all!"

"Would you let us have a quick look at your home, Mr. Kozcinski , I promise we won't disturb anything, or intrude, but those detector things will only pick up radio transmitters; they don't pick up direct mikes, or tape machines. Someone wants to keep tabs on you, they are gonna do it properly!"

Joe stood aside, and the two detectives walked silently into the big living room of the Kozcinski house, and proceeded to the telephones, one in the kitchen on a wall, the other on a desk in the corner of the big room. Each opened the body of the phone, and checked inside, then unscrewed the mouthpiece of the phone itself. Nodding silently, they replaced the covers, while simultaneously raising their thumbs in salute, before going along to the bedrooms. Lesley Jordan checked the phone by Joe's bedside, and her signal was the same as the other two. Signalling the other two to follow, the detective walked through, and out onto the garden terrace, before speaking, "All your phones are bugged, Mr. Kozcinski , and it has been done by professionals. The mikes bypass the cut-off, and transmit directly to a junction point, probably somewhere on your roof, from which there is probably a radio link which could be focussed anywhere. Do you want us to locate and pull the plug, or shall we wait and see what happens? You see, if we just disable the transmitter, maybe we can get someone to come looking, and try and fix it"

Joe nodding in agreement, the two police officers walked slowly around the perimeter of the big house, finally pausing and gazing at a small plastic box, screwed on to the eaves, next to the incoming telephone connection point. Pulling a garden seat over, O'Rourke lifted himself level with the box, and gently lifted the cover off, nodding to himself as a small collection of electronics, together with a battery, was uncovered. He smoothed back the connecting wiring, then unclipped the battery from the pack. Jordan asked, "You gonna leave it like that, Moses?"

"If you approve, Mr. Kozcinski , we can get our boys in this evening to set up a little calling card for whoever placed this device. What we will put in is a little device which will warn of anyone tring to re-connect the system. We shall make it look like the battery has slipped loose, and all they need do is push it home, but they will be warning us that they have been, and we can then do all sorts of nice things to find out who the bad guys are, if you say the word!"

Joe hesitated, then shrugged. "I'll tell my wife what is happening, and I know she will understand, but I just can't get over the feeling that someone had been listening to us, in our home! God, it makes my skin crawl!"

"Mr. Kozcinski , this is small potatoes compared to what some of the real low lifes get up to. You leave this with us, and we guarantee that your lives will not be interrupted. what we would like to have you do is try and figure out why your home is bugged! We can check your office as well, if you agree, sort of clean around?"

Joe nodded once again, as he went out to greet his wife, who must now be told that their bedroom had been bugged, and their lives spied upon.

-------------  '---------------

Buddy Charles, the Continental computer expert, had an disconcerting habit of concentrating upon one problem only, to the total exclusion of everything else. This sometimes led to calamity, as he had left pans to boil, cigarettes to burn, and visitors waiting for hours, as he pursued the relevant itch until it was cleared. He had made a few mental notes of Joe Kozcinski's talk with him about the phantom spread sheet, and had finally come to the conclusion that it was not the spreadsheet file he should be pursuing, but the listed terminals which automatically gained entry to the hidden system. He set up a scan program, aimed at the mainframe, which gave an overview of the connected terminals, how they were all configured, and any departures from the norm. Buddy was none too confident that this scan would work, but decided to give it the old college try. He set the program up to run, and kicked it in, then sat back and waited for any deviations to be reported on the screen. When the report came back, there were three terminals listed. One selection was a Ben Newcomb, an junior administrator in the pensions department at Grand Rapids, the other was a senior pensions man, also at Grand Rapids. The third terminal was in the head office complex, but the computer was unable to give its number, or location.

Buddy played around with various combinations of entry techniques, simulating the terminal at Grand Rapids, but failed to break into the system. As he lived alone, and therefore had nothing calling him away from work, he decided to drive the seventeen miles to the Rapids plant, and find out what was hidden in the listed terminal. He left without logging out from the system, went out to his car, and settled himself for the drive to the Grand Rapids plant, through the light evening traffic. He waved his ID at the gate, and worked his way, after parking the car, through the office until he came to Ben Newcomb's desk, and terminal. He sat down, logged in, and started searching through the electronic maze, trying to break the pattern. He knew human behaviour, however, and decided to try a hunch. He entered the third level, then typed in the letters 'NEWCOMB',  and a query flashed on to the screen 'Terminal number please?' Buddy gave the terminal number, and the screen filled with the spreadsheet which Joe had seen on his own terminal. The first column was still encrypted, and unintelligible, but Buddy knew that there was no authorised sheet like this in the whole Continental network. He tried to break into the encrypted area, but still had no joy.

The computer file which Buddy had accessed had an alarm fitted, which warned the file server of access, even by the correct password, and the senior pensions administrator stood in the gloom of his office, gazing out at Buddy's back as he sat, keying in at the terminal. He picked up his phone and dialled out, waited for an answer, and simply said, "We have a break in on the file. Vince, I think it's the security expert from Detroit office. He's got wind of the file, and how we only access from selected terminals. He still hasn't worked out how to break the encryption, but I know this guy! He is one stubborn sonofabitch, and he ain't gonna go away. Can you take care?"

The cold voice answered him, "Can you give me his address?"

Fingers raced over the keyboard, and the answer was given in a minute.

"Okay, he's meat. We'll clean him up tonight, if you want to leave it to us? Do you think he's left anything behind?"

"No, he's driven over from Detroit, and I can check any thing he leaves on the terminal. I'll use Jerry Touche for the job, and I'll have to clear the terminal at head office as well, I'll give her a call. Thanks for the help!"

The phone was replaced, then raised once again, and a call made, answered by a female voice, "Hello, who's calling?"

"Hi, it's me! We got a problem. I've had to put Vince onto Buddy Charles. He's got a little too close to the Selection file, and we're gonna wipe him tonight. He may have left some traces on his terminal, a scan or something. Can you deal?"

"I'll drop back right now, and see if there is anything on his terminal. Thanks!"

Forty minutes later, the woman walked through the Continental main entrance, then angled off towards the Computer Suite. She keyed her password in, nodding at the gate guard, as the security guard was only being present during normal working hours, and made her way through the glassed gate, and into the computer area, with the big VAX running accounting files, and humming away. She walked to the terminal used by Buddy Charles, and saw the scan search, and the resultant giveaway answers on the screen. Lips tightened, she sent the cursor up to select the whole package, then hit delete, and the screen cleared, the program having been destroyed. She briefly searched the desk, stuffing any papers into the shredder, then walked swiftly back the way she had come, passing the gate guard who called, "Goodnight, Miss Horrigan!"

-------------  '---------------

The Detroit police department, in common with many large American cities, had it's fair share of informers, paid and unpaid; and in truth without their services, would not have such a good clear-up record as they enjoy. Such a stool pigeon was Elmer 'Legs' Diamond, who had inherited the nickname, but not the fearsome criminal reputation, of the original. Elmer sat, seemingly semi-comatose, in the bar of the Green Candle, which was a favourite haunt of many of the low lifes who inhabited the records section of the Police Department. He raised enough energy to wave a hand at the barman, who brought over another double bourbon on the rocks. His movement was noted by a group of three men, one white, and two black, who sat and grinned at the drunk, in the next booth down from Elmer. What none of the customers in the bar, and especially the three men next to Elmer, realised that the glass which was slapped down in front of the seeming drunk was in fact ginger ale, from a special bottle. The arrangement that gave the informant a perfect cover derived from a small amount of blackmail which 'Legs' held over the Green Candle's owner.

Thus it was a stone-sober Elmer who slumped back against the seat, and heard the taller of the black men give clear instructions to the other two, concerning the proposed murder of a man named Buddy Charles, who lived on Riverview, which had to be carried out that night. Elmer's head rolled around, and he slipped down in the seat, while straining to get the address of the intended victim, but only got the road. He heard the contract price agreed, and the white man simply ask, "Half now, half on the burn, okay?"

"Sure, you do the burn, and I'll get you the rest of the money tomorrow night. Same place, okay?"

The three rose together, walking towards the door, and Elmer then recognised the short black man as the pistol man for a group of travellers; guys who actually moved large amounts of heroin and cocaine, for a price, into the city, for the local drug barons. He remained perfectly still as the white man slowed as he passed the bar, then spoke to the barman, dropping a bill on the counter as he did, "Give our friend at the booth another, I feel good, and he ain't got the strength to lift his hand," and all three left the bar. Elmer, however, nearly ruined everything by jumping up and shouting that he didn't need charity from any lowlife who passed, but wisely kept his cover. A good half-hour passed before the informer eased to his feet, and slowly left the bar, in a drunken stagger which nearly drove the bar owner to applaud in admiration, before easing his way down the side of the bar wall to where his car was parked, well away from the front of the building. He slotted his keys into the door, got behind the wheel, stated the engine and rolled away from the Green Candle, searching for the first payphone on his route.

The call to Inspector Costello woke him from a deep dreamless sleep, sprawled on the couch of his home in the west of Detroit. "Inspector Costello, is that you?"

"Who the hell wants to know? Don't you know what the goddam time is? Shit, if this is some joker, I'll find you and tear your balls off!"

"inspector, it's 'Legs' here, 'Legs Diamond'. I gotta hot tip, I know it's only partly to do with the Narcotics, but you are the only one I'll deal with!"

Sitting straight, rubbing his eyes to help clear his head, Costello mumbled, "Okay, Legs, what you hear that is so important that it can't wait until a decent hour of the day?"

"Inspector, they are gonna blow him away! I heard most of the contract laid out, the only thing I didn't get was the road number. There is a real mean black guy, he's the main man; he is paying Jerry Touche, he's the pistol man, and some other white guy, to burn this guy called Charles, and they are gonna do it tonight, or early tomorrow morning. He lives at an address on Riverview, and the word from this black guy was simple, this Charles man had to be burnt, no wounds, no hospital, he had to go!"

"Okay, okay, Legs, I get the picture, there is a contract, and the client wanted confirmation. Did he say why?"

"He said it was a favour for a Friend!"

The policeman paused, "Does the Friend have a capital F?" queried Costello."

"Yup!"

"Jeez, what's a Family getting involved in some taxpayer in Detroit for?"

"No idea, nothing was said."

"Okay, thanks, Legs, if this pans out, we can go as high as a grand; suit you?"

"That would be just fine, Inspector. Bye"

The Inspector paused as his wife came down the stairs from the bedroom, concern mirrored on her face, "Don't worry, it was just a tip-off about work, honey. Go back to bed, I gotta go into the office!" as he struggled to put his shoes back on. He kissed his long suffering wife, and sent his car racing towards the Central Precinct, while alerting the force on his radio. He arrived, after speeding over nearly deserted roads, in the Central office, and saw the reinforcements he had radioed ahead for, already gearing themselves up for a possible shootout. Sergeant John Murphy, together with the Duty Lieutenant, stood waiting in the entrance. and nodded their heads as he laid out the scenario which he had been given by his informant. "I think it is genuine, and we must act now," said Costello, "I know that it is only partly drug related, but we have been looking to take Jerry Touche down for a long time, and I think that they are gonna try and wipe this Charles guy, tonight, and we should be there to stop them. Has anybody located the address yet?"

"Yes,"answered the Sergeant, "He lives at 463, Riverview, and we have already got an unmarked mobile there, just in case they beat us to the draw! Don't worry, Patrick, we'll take good care of the lad!"

The Lieutenant gave his final dispersals, and the convoy moved off, no sirens or extra lights, for the run towards the address on Riverview. They made contact with the mobile already in position, and spread their vehicles around the darkened street, while Costello, Murphy and a patrolman went to the rear of the house, which showed a single light in the kitchen. They gently knocked on the window, and pressed shields up against the glass to identify themselves. Buddy opened the door, and in whispers, the policemen introduced themselves, explained their mission, and requested that they be allowed to enter. Buddy removed himself to the safety of an armour-plated cruiser, while the force made ready to welcome the visitors. Dispositions achieved, the police sat back, either in cars, or around the house, and waited. An hour passed, before a call came from a mobile parked at the top of the grade, "Big car, maybe Lincoln or Caddy, slow, turning into Riverview; no lights!"

The warning received, the police simply made their guns ready, and became just that hairtrigger more alert. Inside the house, the Sergeant, who had view of the road from a lounge window, simply called, "There's one behind the wheel, and one in the back, " as the car slowly rolled past. No one moved, as the intruder drove about a hundred yards up the road, turned in a driveway, and came rolling back towards the house where the ambush was laid, stopping at the kerbside. Both figures emerged, one carrying a big pistol, and a carrygrip, the other going to the trunk and emerging with what looked like an big shotgun. "The muted radio buzzed, "Let them come forward, and try getting in; remember, we want them alive!" The pistol-carrying hood walked quickly towards the back of the house, where there were five policemen armed with enough firepower to take out a tank, slowed and leant against the rear door, and tapped the glass until it splintered. His buddy came up behind him, and raised a hand. The first intruder nodded, then slid his hand through the break in the glass to unlock the door. This was the signal for the guns to come up to aim, the lights to flash on, and a loudhailer call, "Raise your hands, do not attempt to move, you are under arrest!"

The man with the shotgun swung around, searching for a target, but was himself the target for an aimed blast from a shotgun, which cut his leg from underneath him. He went down cursing, but his buddy swung towards the fence, his pistol out before him. It was the last thing he did, as he was hit by four bullets simultaneously, and dropped dying to the ground, where his body twitched for maybe ten seconds before the reflex action finished.

The noise of the guns, and the lights, together with the sudden movement of cars, was enough to rouse the neighbourhood, but they were far away from the kitchen, where the surviving Jerry Touche lay groaning about his leg. The two lieutenants and the long-serving Sergeant stood around, all other officers having been detailed outside the house. "now, Jerry, I've been wanting a talk with you for a long time, but I'll contain my questioning to one item, who put the contract on Buddy  Charles?"

"I ain't saying nothing. you gotta give me my rights, under the law!" gasped Touche.

"Ah well, you haven't been arrested yet, Jerry, so the rights bit doesn't apply. Now if I was to suggest to the Sergeant here that maybe we could adjust your bandages, just so you get a little more ease, I don't suppose you would object, would you now, Jerry?"

The drugrunner gazed back at the three policemen, and instinctively knew he would get nothing from any one of them but pain and agony, if he did not speak, but tried anyway. "I've got to speak to an attorney, that's the law!"

"Funny thing, Jerry," said the Sergeant, "I know that right now, your leg could be saved, but if one of us was to lean just there," tapping the bloody leg with a pistol muzzle, "you would never walk again!"

The gunman flinched at the delicate touch of the steel, then broke, "What about a deal?"

The three policemen gazed at each other, gathered closer and, as one, said, "Deal?"

"I'll give you the man, plus what I know on the snow on the streets, but you gotta give me immunity on this job, and take me into your, whassname, protected witness thing!"

The Central lieutenant smiled at his partner from Narcotics, who already had a wide grin on his face, "I think we can do something along those lines, Jerry!"

-------------'---------------

Unfortunately, the man who had agreed the murder with Vince Lombardi always believed in belt and braces, and had come as a back-up to Touche and his now dead companion. He had followed Touche so far, but had parked about four hundred yards away from the house, in a drive which placed the vehicle at right angles to the road. The lights and commotion warned him that things had gone sour, but he knew  that Buddy should not speak, and he took his work  very seriously indeed. He held a pair of night glasses steady on the scene, with the butt of a Sako Hornet match rifle lying across his thighs, ready for action. He dropped the glasses, and raised the rifle, and staring through the scope saw the uniformed Sergeant lean inside a cruiser, and help out another man, whom the watcher recognised as the computer security man from Continental . The two were joined by two more, both seemingly plain clothes detectives. The rifle was already pushed through the open window of the car, and the assassin slid the safety forward, while holding the target in the view of the big scope on the rifle. The four turned back towards the now fully lit house, silhouetting Buddy against the lighting from the lounge window. The killer's finger gently squeezed the trigger, the rifle rocking back and up with the recoil, and the bullet, travelling at twice the speed of sound, impacted on the base of the skull of the computer expert, ensuring his immediate death. The sound of the rifle shot sent everyone diving for cover, which gave the killer, as he had seen his target drop, the extra few seconds he needed to send his unlit car the few yards to an intersection, and then down a small hill, and away, before the police could even find out what was happening. By the time a cordon was organised, the sniper was driving, well within the speed limit, towards the freeway, and safety.

The ambulance which had been called for Jerry Touche came screaming up the road, and fishtailed to a stop, with the attendants jumping out, but they were waved into cover by the still wary police. After a minute, they were allowed forward, to pick up the wounded man from the kitchen table. The Narcotics Lieutenant saw his prisoner waving at him, as he lay on the stretcher and scrambled over. "Is that guy dead, Inspector?" Costello nodded. "Sorry, Lieutenant, I changed my mind, no deal. I think I'll take my chances in court. There ain't no way they would allow me to speak! I know what you might promise, but when they send a back-up team to make certain some guy gets hit, then it is Family business, and I ain't saying nuttin! Okay?"

Costello started to object, and to try and tell the wounded gunman that he would be protected; and he should at least say why Buddy Charles had been targeted, then simply gave up, patted the prisoner on the shoulder, and allowed the team to load him into the ambulance.

-------------'---------------

Vince Lombardi sat at a table in the small hotel where he had made his base, chewing his breakfast while scrutinising the morning paper. His mobile phone buzzed briefly, he keyed in and held the receiver to his ear, "Yeah?"

"The target was burnt, Touche is in hospital, but silent, and the other guy was killed by the cops!"

"Good work. You reckon Jerry will remain silent?"

"He knows what is good for him. He'll get a good lawyer, and you know that he can plead down to maybe two years on a gun charge, you can also message him that he will get a good bonus if he does his time without making waves. Agree?"

"Fine by me, the boss is very happy with your idea to back up our friend Jerry. Any ideas on how the cops knew about the 'hit'?

"There may have been a leak, but since I don't have any police record, they won't have much to go by. There was a drunk who sat close, when we set the 'burn', and I may wipe him just to be on the safe side, but I might let it ride, he may be just a drunk!"

"Your choice! Thanks for the call!"

His companion, Harry Mettaliou, the same man who had accompanied him when Joe Kozcinskihad met with Nick Cavalieri, sat opposite him at the table. "Successful?" he asked.

"Yeah, it nearly went sour, but Drew Garnett, the senior man from the Pensions office, went back-up on the 'hit' team, and put our nosy friend Buddy Charles down with a long rifle. I like this guy, he gets involved, and he ain't scared to get his hands dirty!"

The two men, whose common factor in life was a certain coldness around the eyes, relaxed and concentrated on their breakfast, confident that all leaks had been plugged, and they were back on course.

Chapter 17

Joe Kozcinski was in his office, after leaving the board meeting which had been going on since seven in the morning, which had decided to suspend trading on the shares, to continue working on the reduced forecasts for the Stiletto sales, when his phone rang. Answering, he heard the multiple clicks of a long-distance connection, then a voice which asked, "Is that the Joseph Kozcinski who is in charge of Marketing at Continental?"

"Sure is. Who's calling please?"

"My name is Melchek, Ken Melchek. I am with the New York police force, and I am investigating the attempted murder of a young woman named Claudia Crickell. She was in contact with a Mrs. Allison Klein, who I believe you met while she was on a trip to Detroit before she was murdered in her home in KingsBurgh."

"Hold it, Officer Melchek, did you say murdered? I thought the Coroner's verdict was 'accidental death'?"

"Well, sir, we asked the upstate force to rerun the investigation, after certain allegations were made, and it turns out the Klein family were all murdered.  Now the investigation which we are looking at has turned up a fact which needs resolving, hopefully by yourself, Mr. Kozcinski. I have Miss Crickell staying with me right now, and I think we may both benefit from a meeting."

Joe, while unsure about which way to go, detected a certainty about his caller which finally decided him, "Okay, I'll be over! Where and when?" As Joe listened to the policeman giving his address, and details of how to get there, and then made a promise to arrive in New York on the following Thursday morning, a man stretched as he lifted off a set of earphones, wrote an address down on a pad, and made a call to the communications house in New York where he hoped to, and did, catch Mr. Lazarus.

"Mr. Lazarus, I thought you might want to hear this first thing. It's Carl from Detroit, I have news from the tap on Joe Kozcinski's phones. We've lost the broadcast from the house, something wrong with the transmitter, and I got our guy in the garage to pull the gear from the car before the cops ran all over it, so all we have left is the line into his office in the Continental  block. I just been listening to a talk between him and some cop in New York. , who is claiming to have some broad who has proof that there is something twisted in the commercials!"

"Carl, now I want you to be very certain, did Kozcinski swallow any of this story from the cop?" asked Lazarus.

"He swallowed it enough to arrange to fly to New York on Thursday, and meet up with this cop, and the girl; he's got her staying with him in his apartment! " the man in Detroit reeled off the address, while the wheelchair-bound man taped everything which was said.

"Thanks for the quick call, Carl. Don't do anything about the tap on the Kozcinski's home, it may just be a trap to suck you in. You get ready to clear the area, and leave no trace. Get ready to pull the tap on the office telephone, but keep listening until you think it may be better to pull out. Call me when you get anything further, okay?"

Lazarus returned his stare to the Stockwatch screen, which was showing the state of shares at the close of trading on the day before. The drop in the value of the Continental price was highlit in yellow, and showed a drop in price of over three dollars over the day. He had alerted his army of nominee buyers to be ready to push in the 'buy' orders immediately after the resumption of trading, and was now counting down the minutes to the bells ringing on the 'Floor'. But his elation was cut short by a flashing message along the base of the screen, which simply announced, "Continental trading is suspended". His strategy now in ruins, Lazarus called his fellow investors on a conference call, and sounded them all on further possible purchases, or staying with what they had already bought, and attempting a take-over with a minority holding less than they had planned.

The Boston tones of Elspeth Hardesty sounded over the speaker, "What exactly went wrong with the commercials, Lazarus?"

"The fools at the distribution agency, they switched the messages, and the television showed one evening of the third message ahead of time. That is what happened. I called the agency, pulled the clips, and had them replaced with the original message.!"

"I think the damage is done, we should stop any further action, allow the price to resume, and save our money," called Elspeth, "we have invested tens of millions, and we may well be left with a fatally damaged company, instead of one which we can manipulate further!"

"No, no; don't take any hasty action before I can remedy the position. We still may be able to control the company, and by buying at a still lower price. We can relocate the last commercial, which we now know works only too well, until just before the shares are to resume trading on the floor, then run the main commercial; all further confidence is destroyed, and we step in, and pick up the bargain we always planned to ."

There was a hiatus in the rumble of words, as the daring plan was diagnosed and mentally tested. Elspeth Hardesty spoke out first, "You think it will work a second time?"

"Positive! Just remember what two runs of the third message did to the share price! It was decimated. The stock dropped from just under one hundred & ten to less than one hundred & seven dollars over a five hour period. The first message created unease about the vehicles, without mentioning the shares, the third simply told people that Continental was going down, and they should get out now! It worked like a dream. Do I have your support?" The rumble of assent from the voices, all of which were tinged with greed, made Lazarus sit straighter in the wheelchair. "There is always an announcement of re-listing, at least two days before trading recommences, and on the evening of the second day, we run the third message, and the next day, Continental shall be ours. Good day, lady, gentlemen, you shall be hearing from me shortly!"

-------------  '---------------

The senior Detroit surgeon stood, pulling the gloves off his hands, and throwing them to the ground in frustration. "I just can't understand it! That guy should be alive, right now; instead of which he's a passenger on a gurney doing the run down to the morgue!" He referred to the man who had just died, after the surgeon had operated for a routine colon resection. The word had just been given to the surgeon by one of his team, the anaesthetics specialist; "What the hell happened?"

The anaesthesiologist replied, "Apparently he was doing fine, then just took a turn for the worse while still in the recovery room, and never came back up again. We called the 'crash wagon' but it was too late. You were still in the theatre when he died."

"Hell, I gave him the run-down myself, he was in pretty good shape; hell, he only had just started taking his pension. Shit, what a way to go, he works his ass off at Continental for near on thirty-five years, takes retirement, comes to us for a routine operation on his guts, and dies. Hell, that makes me really feel useless. I persuaded the old man to have the operation, told him it would be a home run! I think I'll get a check done in pathology, just to make sure I didn't miss anything!"

The anaesthesiologist nodded sympathetically, sure that the surgeon would find nothing wrong in his procedures, and equally sure that the drug he had given the patient would not show up on any scan, as it metabolized very quicky, even after death had taken place. He mentally checked his second bank account, and then added another three thousand dollars to the total.

-------------  '---------------

The gathering had been arranged, as usual, on the spur of the moment, with the only advance planning being done by the three bulky men, who had scanned the back room at the small restaurant in Jersey City for taps and wires. Having pronounced the area clear, the visitors arrived, each walking from a separate limousine to the entrance, each protected by at least one armed back-up man. The last to arrive was the occupant of the Battery Park office, who had called the meeting, in order to update his partners on what was being done in their name. Don Guido Soncini had, in his rise to power, been responsible for seven deaths, all of either opposing Families or, in one case, his own Family.

He tapped the water glass before him, and the talk died away. "You are all aware of our involvement in the Detroit auto company, and the scheme we introduced; we called it the Selection file. We all agreed that the risk was worth the try, because if we could get inside a Fund such as Continentals', we would be able to use it as our own laundry. The man who approached us, together with two associates, had taken over forty million dollars, from the fund, for a 'buy' on the Market, and hoped to repay within two months. That did not happen, and the leader, who is, as you know, related, came to me for help." The speaker paused, his eyes going around the table.

"The scheme we came up with was to physically remove a good proportion of the pensioners, after insuring them, through a third party, under their own names, for half-a-million at a time. We chose the five hundred grand as a figure that all Life Companies would just pay out on, without enquiring into the deaths too much; after all, they would only find the old guy died in a accident, or an operating theatre. The money, less our fee, would be siphoned back into the fund, which would then help offset the loss of the stolen money. The Fund managers use a ratio to help determine how the damn thing is doing, and if the ratio remains unchanged, and the fiscal records remain as they were altered to reflect a loss on investments, there would be nothing to expose. We have been paid a considerable sum of money for our services, and after the File activities were complete, we would have access to a very large Pension fund, whose officers would be indebted to us. I have however, had news which may well terminate our relations with our Friend, and I think it would be best to terminate him as well; keeps things at a distance." The eyes and faces around the table never altered, as one by one, the men nodded in agreement.

-------------'---------------

Claudia Crickell sat gazing out of the apartment window, looking at the darkening New York skyline, but seeing nothing. She was trying to figure what the reasons were to try and fool the giant auto company, with a set of phony results, when all that had to be done to overturn the scenario was to check back with the polling company. As Ken had told her, the Marketing Exec. was flying in , but he was not aware of the reason for his visit, which was to view the real graphs and results,  but Claudia could not understand why he had said that he had seen the advert clips. "Hell," she mused, "I haven't seen them," not being much of a television fan at best, considering her time much more valuable than to be wasted on Game Shows and stupid Football games. She snapped on the television, and prepared herself for an evening's torture, by watching the most popular of the channels, which really meant wall-to-wall garbage. She watched for maybe an hour before the first of the Stiletto commercials came on screen, and watching, thought that they were the usual competent offering, but somehow started thinking that maybe buying a big Stiletto was not such a good idea. She saw another two clips before Ken got back from his shift, and as he opened the door, he saw her gazing at the screen, shaking her beautiful head in disbelief.

"What's wrong, Claudia?" he called as he dropped the bag of groceries he had picked up off the K-Mart shelves before heading home.

"There is definitely something wrong with either that big car, or that damn commercial! I've watched three clips for Stiletto auto's in the past two hours, and all I can remember is the one word when the name Stiletto is mentioned, and that word is 'Turkey'. Hell, I ain't even driven in one, and I just don't trust them, period!"

The tall policeman dropped down onto the couch beside the girl, and squeezed her hand in greeting, "Does this mean that you don't want to buy a Stiletto?" he grinned, ""We'll buy a Chevy when we get settled."

"What's this 'we', buster," returned the black girl, "We ain't had our first official date yet, and you are making plans, policeman!"

The response from the big man was to scoop her up, and swing her across his knees, and cuddle her close, "Let's call this our 'getting to know you time'" as he gently nibbled her ear.

She snuggled close, winding her arms tight around his neck, as she whispered, "Stop trying to have your evil way with me, you nasty man. If you don't stop immediately, I'll call a policeman!"

They kissed, but both Ken and Claudia kept to their self-imposed rules, and thus parted about five minutes later, both hazy and warm from love, and breathless from unrequited passion."You gonna make something to eat, honey; mainly because I'm beat?"

"If you want, we could go out and grab a bite, Ken. I been stuck here all day, and now all you want is to make me work! "

So it was that the pair were making ready to leave the apartment when a knock came at the front door, and Ken made his way towards it. Unaware of the ferocity of the people that he and Claudia were ranged against, he opened the door, to find himself staring at the wrong end of a silencer, fitted to a pistol. The gunman simply pulled the trigger twice, dropping Ken where he stood, before moving into the apartment to hunt the girl he had been given as his primary target. Claudia tried to run, but the killer simply waited until he had a clear shot, then sent one bullet , followed by another, clean into her chest , and the black girl fell at his feet. The gunman commenced a search of the apartment, before finding the computer, and all the discs, in Claudia's briefcase. He simply closed the case up, and took all the evidence with him, pushing the policeman's legs aside so he could fully close the door.

The next morning, Brad Davis stood in front of the elderly black woman, who's face was crumpled and racked with grief. "Why, Officer Davis," she asked? AYour Officer said he would protect my girl, and she is nearly dead!@

"That officer is lying in hospital on a life-support machine, in the same intensive care ward as your daughter, Mrs. Crickell! We don't know whether he is gonna make it! The only thing that saved both their lives is that the gunman used a 'twenty-two' calibre pistol, which was too small to kill them straight away. I don't know exactly why this happened, but I promise you one thing, we will get the people who did this, and make them pay!"

-------------'---------------

The three who had masterminded the Selection File met in a smart roadhouse to the north of Detroit proper. The meal was consumed, and coffee ordered before any business was discussed, as was usual in any meeting which included Nick Cavalieri. "Can you update us on progress with the File activities, Drew?"

The sharply dressed black man leant forward and spoke to the others, "We have so far, this month, terminated fifteen, out of a planned File total of ninety; three having died from natural causes before our teams could come to them. The only extra activity resulted from my involvement in the unfortunate demise of our late friend Buddy Charles, from the Computer Section. He became a little too nosy, after talking to our other friend Kozcinski, presumably about the spreadsheet that Kozcinski inadvertently broke into. I talked to Vince, and he gave me the name of a usually reliable hood in Detroit, but somehow the cops were warned, and it fell to me to put our friend Buddy down with a rifle. The cops had killed one of the two we sent, and also used a shotgun on Jerry Touche, that's the guy I contacted. They would have got a sniff from this Charles guy, I'm sure; so I dropped him!"

"Will Touche remain silent?" asked Virginia Horrigan, sipping her coffee calmly.

"He had been contemplating being unwise, but after the target got a shell in his head, he suddenly took a vow of silence," remarked Garnett, smiling broadly, "we also got him an attorney, and after he got word that there would be a plea bargain down to maybe 'carrying an unlicensed weapon', plus word that the Family would be looking out for him, he is maintaining his lack of verbal endeavour."

"Great," remarked Nick, "are we any further forward in stemming our problems in the fund itself?" he asked of Virginia.

" Because the other clunks on the committee are not up to scratch, they don't know which questions to ask, and after all, who ever heard of a huge pension fund like Continental ever having problems. But the lousy results and performance of the portfolio, which left us exposed to losses, is still a problem. The loans, which we three had from the pool, and which went bad so spectacularly, have not been detected, as we are in control of the fund listings, and since the records are in our hands, and the ratio of investment savings to pensioners is fast coming back into line, that doesn't seem to be a problem. The payments from our friends are fast coming up to the halfway mark, and we can always put it down, in the minutes, to an unfortunate investment by the last set of Investment Managers.  No-one reads the damn things anyway! Our payments to our friends in New York, are covered by the resultant savings by a factor of fifteen, so we are still getting extremely good value for money from our efforts to stabilise the fund's resources!"

Drew Garnett leant forward, "Is Joe Kozcinski gonna be able to get any further forward with his little ideas about computer searches?"

"Nope," replied the Finance VP, "I went into the file server, and put a simple information block on the search for terminals, and any query about fourth level files will simply result in a null answer!"

"Excellent! Thank you both very much, Virginia, Drew; a most successful meeting!"

Chapter 18

In a dark Harlem bar, SixThree, the firebomber who originally hit Claudia's car was negotiating the price for another job. Word had spread about his undoubted talents at making all the evidence burn up, and he was in demand, which of course had encouraged him to raise his prices. His ear glued to the payphone, he was screwing an extra two hundred out of his contact, who needed to produce results. The intended victim, who had run up big debts with an uptown bookmaker, had then decided that gambling debts were not enforceable in law, telling the bookie to go jump. This New York bookmaker, who's commercial existence depend on customers being aware of what may happen if someone welshes on a bet; had simply called a friend, who agreed a price and laid a straight contract on the victim. The result was 'SixThree', agreeing a price of a thousand dollars to kill the man in his car, in the way he had perfected and used eight previous times.

The tall black youth, who had graduated to murder, by way of Juvenile Hall and petty crime before heading for the big time, had not done the same as many of his contemporaries had done, which was to blow all his money on a big show. Instead, he had taken a lease on a good apartment in the better part of his district, bought a better but not new car, and decided that he would wear the best that he could afford, instead of the 'street-cred' gear which all his friends were wearing. This new affluence had been noticed by a sharp-eyed detective, who was used to seeing the loudest possible threads on 'SixThree', and wondered where he had got the money; because the black youth had no job, and did not have access to legitimate funds. The detective, Harry Gorsen by name, suffered from sore feet, bad breath and was overweight, but had that rare gift, so useful for a policeman, the ability to merge with the environment; and thus follow people who did not wish to be followed.

SixThree, having a target for his services, went uptown to a bar where the target hung out, located his car, and thence the victim, and parked a little down the street, and then readied himself for a long wait. The detective's car, further back, saw his target taking particular notice of one vehicle, called in the number tag plate, and identified it's owner as a long term gambler and loser, Eddie Mulroney. Taking a chance that his target, SixTree would not attempt anything on a busy city street, the detective decided to have a back-up unit sit on the bar, and travel to the home of the gambler Mulroney. His precinct agreeing, the back-up unmarked car rolled up less than fifteen minutes later, and Detective Gorsen moved off to the home address of Mulroney, and once again parked and waited. Two hours later, a bored policeman finally keyed his microphone, and called out to the dispatcher that Gorsen should be warned that both primary and secondary targets were on the move. Acknowledging, the detective reached back, grasping a flask of coffee, and pouring a cup, settled back once more for a long wait. He saw Mulroney park his car on the street, and walk up to his home, and then the detective spotted 'SixThree' cruising along, marking the position of Mulroney's car, before slowly rolling away, to park further down the street.

Gorsen called in, and advised his duty Lieutenant that his opinion was that a hit was being planned, and requested further back-up support. This being promised, the detective once more settled back for a boring evening's observation, when he could be at home. His partner, Lou Johnson, had been brought out and dropped around the corner, and he came walking slowly along, and eased himself into Harry Gorsen's car, bringing a bag of burgers and cokes along with him. The two detectives sat on, waiting patiently, as Gorsen had a great arrest record, and if a hunch was all the detective had to go on, they would wait it out together. They knew that SixThree was still around because he lit a new smoke every ten minutes, and the flare alone lit the car. Finally, the black man's car door slowly opened, also alerting the police as the courtesy light clicked on, and SixThree headed along the pavement towards Mulroney's car. He popped the door, as well as the bonnet, before setting to work on the  wiring. The two policemen watched as he loosed the petrol pipe union, and set a small bundle of rags underneath, together with his favourite toy, a flash bulb.

Having waited long enough, the two cops quietly exited their vehicle, walked up behind the arsonist, and grabbed him as he still leant inside the engine compartment. Five minutes later, with a wide-eyed gambler viewing the car which would have burnt him alive, and a struggling SixThree in the back of another squad car, the two detectives leant back against the railings, lit cigarettes, and gloried in a good collar. They waited for the photographer to appear, and asked for a full set of prints, before wheeling their car back to the Precinct house, together with their prisoner.

SixThree knew that he had no choice, because he had literally been caught on the job, and thus did not have a great deal to bargain with, but decided to give it a try. The crime details had been fed into the computer, and similarities to seven or eight other murders were hauled out, and one by one were put to the young black hoodlum, with his demeanour sinking further with every name read out. He asked for a private word with Detective Gorsen, and asked what he could get in the way of a deal. The fat detective's face never changed, but simply asked in return what was on offer. "I'll give you the names of the callers, not just the agents. The ones who set things up, but I gotta get immunity!"

"Come on, SixThree, you gotta be kidding! Immunity! We caught you dead set, trying to fry that nice Mr. Mulroney. You are gonna get straight Life in Rykers Island! Deal, what could you offer us that would set you on the Immunity track?"

"I could give you names, lots of names, and proof. Yeah, proof that they called me and set things up?"

"What you got hidden in that nasty mind of yours, SixThree? How could you get proof, everything is done at arms length?"

"Everything I done, every call, is all taped. Every time I go on a meet, I carry a tape machine! I got it all! I reckoned the day when I took a fall, they might come in handy. What you say, policeman?"

"I'll have to see." The detective wandered out into the main office, a bemused smile on his face. His partner asked what was wrong, and Gerson simply whispered, "He got 'em all on tape!"

-------------  '---------------

The Marketing VP sat back, after getting the message that the visit to New York had to be postponed, as the Officer concerned was in hospital. He idly wondered what the visit would have uncovered, but as Joe associated police work with danger, he didn't think to associate the cancellation with his business. He then received the call from reception that two police officers were on their way up to see him, and welcomed O'Rourke and Larson into his office when they arrived. Before they could say anything to warn him, he said, "Are you gonna check the phones?", then realised what he had done. The cops unscrewed the phones in his office, together with those of his secretary, finding each time the same wiring changes and mods as they had found in his home. Detective Larson motioned Joe away from the area, and said, "You may well have blown it, Mr. Kozcinski , but we'll go through the motions. Whoever did this has probably got a line tied in to an outside position, with a voice-activated tape recorder, but it may well be monitored during the day."

Their worst fears were realised when a telephone engineer gave them to an address about five blocks from the office complex, but all that was found was a phone, complete with patch equipment, and a chair behind a desk. The room was clean, no fingerprints, no food, nothing! the two cops looked at one another, and, after accepting that their lead had been blown by an loose word, wrapped up their enquiries, and went back to the station house.

-------------  '---------------

Joe and Alex had decided that a late dinner at the Club would end their day quite nicely, and were sitting, enjoying their coffee after their meal, when Larry Burnett waved and walked over. The three sat swapping auto gossip, mixed with real estate stories, for ten minutes, until Larry mentioned that he had heard, from a broker friend, that Nick Cavalieri had taken a bath on the Stock Market. "Who, Nick? Well, I suppose he can afford it!" said Alexis.

"Dunno about afford it, Alex, but he was down to the tune of over fifteen million in less than two months; happened about six months ago, and that is no small amount of bread to cast upon the waters! My buddy said he was surprised that three senior people from Continental went down together."

"Who were the others?" asked Joe, not really concentrating on the talk.

"Garnett, Drew Garnett, the senior guy from Pensions at Grand Rapids, and Virginia Horrigan. The word was that they were down nearly as much as Nick. They plunged with that big electronics conglomerate that was supposed to be the greatest; and then lost when the company went belly up. They were all trading under nominee terms, but the bank accounts are in their real names, so thats how my guy knew who was who!"

"Forty-five Million dollars! Nick could possibly have borrowing power to that sort of money, but Garnett, no way! He's on the same scale as me, and I can't afford to buy Alex a meal here more than once a week."

"That is the word, my friend. If you want to fly, borrow real big, and then the banks have to be your friend."

After a few more comments, Larry said his farewells, and Alex and Joe were left alone at their table. "Do you think it is for real?" asked Alex, " the bit about all that money on the Stock Market, how could they afford it? Virginia is below you on the pay level, and she has been with Continental for over ten years, and there is no way that someone on her pay scale could afford that sort of loss, not without inherited money behind her! She lives on her own, I think she came out of the divorce with the house, and a shade of alimony, but because she was a senior kicker with Continental, not a lot."

Her husband leant back against his seat back, "I think it's all a bit of Burnett horseshit, that's what I think! Drew, Virginia and Nick, they haven't got anything in common! Nick is CEO, Drew is in Pensions and Virginia is head honcho in finance. Drew was always hard up, because he has to pay two sets of alimony, Nick has more than enough, what with his earnings; I know for a fact that he took the last three years stock options, and Virginia, as you say, just doesn't have that sort of borrowing clout!"

Alex leant forward, her brow furrowed in concentration, "Not so fast, husband mine! They do have something in common, read your Company profile if you want to check, but aren't all three the Company heads on the Pension Fund trust Committee?"

Her reward was a silence from Joe, as he tried to follow Alex' reasoning. "So what, the leeway for any action is strictly limited by the Fund rules. There is just no way the management would sanction any money going out into private hands. Why, there is a continuous audit watch on the Fund, by an outside accountancy firm!" Joe tried dismissing his wife's reasoning, but, like an itch which had to be scratched, he could not get rid of the thought that she had implanted.

Joe decided to be careful in his approach to the nagging doubt about the three Pension fund seniors, so, the next morning, dug into his files in his office for the last review of the Pension fund, and read it from cover to cover. It was full of the usual self-serving plaudits, how much they were doing for the retired of the many divisions of Continental, and how noble the people were who served on the overview committee for no reward whatsoever. Joe searched the small print and, eventually found what he was looking for, the banks and managers which Continental used to stash all the loot, and the names, and company, who provided the independent audit services which helped the Fund comply with State and Federal law.

Remembering that his telephones had only been cleared of surveillance a couple of days previous, Joe decided to keep his enquiries quiet from the firm, and used a payphone in one of the many coffee areas to contact a very old friend, who now ran the Trustee section at the Chicago branch of AmeriBank. Howard Elstein was surprised to hear from his old college friend, after a period of over five years, but happily agreed to do a run down on the present state of the main Continental Pension fund, for old times' sake. Joe asked him to give his evaluation of the running of the fund, if the managers were doing a good job, and if the returns were to the industry average. He promised to call Joe back at work, but was even more surprised to hear Joe asking him to call him at home, after work, and to tell no one else that he was making enquiries. "Thanks, Howard, I wouldn't normally ask an old buddy to act like this," Joe said in farewell, " but there is something I gotta clear up in my head, and you have all the contacts! Thanks, Howard. Bye.!"

-------------  '---------------

Alex Kozcinski usually drove straight from the Kozcinski home in Grosse Point to her office in the Garden Mall, a distance of about five miles, but had to take a round-about route that day as she was acting as bus driver for a friends' children. Adrienne had called her as she was leaving for work, asking if she could drop her kids at school, as her own car wouldn't start. Alex therefore had four children in the car with her, and was just that bit more aware of her surrounds, as she normally drove on automatic pilot to work. She therefore spotted a big Ford as it drove along in her wake, letting other drivers constantly overtake as she drove towards the school. Pulling up at the entrance, she started to unload all the children, who all waved as they trooped towards the Entrance, then saw the Ford parked about fifty yards back, motor still running. As there had been a scare a year back, with a pervert who watched all the kids as they entered school, there was a mounted police patrol in the vicinity of the school, just to deter the crazies. Alex called the eldest of Adrienne's children back to the car, scribbled a note describing the tail, and asked the girl if she would pass the note to the policeman on the big horse. She saw the child pass the note to the cop, and then saw the big Ford saw its' way into the opposite direction, and hightail away at speed. The mounted patrolman walked his horse over, while Alex got out of her car and went to greet him. She described what had happened, and also told him of the Central division's help with the tail on her husbands' car, and what had happened to the second tailing car. As the tag plate on the Ford had been obscured, there was no chance it would be picked up, but a mobile cruiser, arriving quickly on the scene, gave Alex a convoy protection to her office, and said that they would report to the Lieutenant at Central.

-------------  '---------------

In the analysts' sector of the Securities office, located just off Wall Street proper, the tall, smiling man who picked the phone up was never really sure, until the caller announced themselves, which side of his life was going to answer. The call this morning, however, was definitely part of the shady side of his life. He gave his caller a coded reply, which gave his caller the payphone number to call in five minutes; as all calls in and out of his office were recorded as a matter of course. He walked down the street, and waited until the phone was freed, then placed one hand over the receiver, and picked up immediately the ring began. "yes, Walt, why call now?"

"Boss, my tail on Mrs Kozcinski was spotted. She called the cops, and I just got out in time. I think it's gonna do no good tailing these people, they have somehow got wind that we were tailing them. Big Lou got crunched when he tried to run from a police car, after he sat on the husbands car; they had him tagged straight away, and she spotted me almost straight off, and I have been doing this routine for years, boss. It's no good trying to establish any sort of a pattern with this pair, if we're gonna hit either one, it'll have to be an impulse shot, or a driveby!"

"O.K., Walt, leave it with me. I'll be in Detroit in a day's time myself, so meet me at the airport, I'm on the ten-thirty arrival, and we'll talk further, okay?"

"Okay, boss, seeya tomorrow!"

-------------  '---------------

Howard Elstein, Joe's college friend, was a man who planned his work, and indeed his life, so as to allow for as few surprises as possible. Apart from a few medical emergencies, which he grudgingly accepted as due to the frailty of humankind, and had insured against, he had been successful in avoiding surprises, mainly due to diligent work, and not leaving anything to chance. The simple fact that his wife, who indeed loved him dearly, was regularly driven berserk by his methodical, pedantic approach to all life, did not worry him in the least, as he put this down to feminine frailty. He was therefore astounded to receive a curt summons to appear at the Chicago offices of the S.E.C., to meet one Herbert Agnew, the Senior commissioner.

He slung his jacket over his shoulders, and walked the three blocks to the downtown office, and after a very short wait, was ushered into Agnews' office, where he was offered a seat, and asked, by the commissioner, what his business was, in enquiring about the working policies of a Detroit based Pension fund. His mouth open, he started to explain that he was simply doing a favour for a friend, when he was cut short by Agnew.

"I must ask you to refrain from any further investigative calls, no further contact should be made to any of the Management firms, or the Audit companies which are related to this fund!"

"But all I did was make three calls which were to help an old college buddy of mine clear a small problem of his mind!" retorted Howard, "is Joe under investigation, because he should be so informed, in terms of your own legislation!"

"Mr. Elstein, can I not persuade you that it would indeed be in Mr. Kozcinski 's best interests if you were to remain dormant in this affair? We have an ongoing investigation, which relates, in part, to the Continental Fund, and we cannot allow any of the main participants to be warned that we are even looking any where near them, otherwise all the evidence may well disappear in a shredding machine. Certain irregularities have surfaced, and we are only just starting to poke into the fire. All we wish you to do is to call your old college friend, and say that to the best of your knowledge, everything in the Continental Pension garden is lovely!"

"You want me to lie to an old buddy?"

"No, Mr. Elstein, since you do not know different, you would not be telling a lie, just not all the truth!"

All the way back to his own offices, Elstein grappled with the thorny problem which had been dropped in his arms. "If," he mused, "I tell Joe everything is great, and it ain't, he will never forgive me. If I say there is an investigation going on, it may endanger the whole match; shit, which way should I shoot?"

-------------  '---------------

Unfortunately for Commissioner Agnew, his own organisation was less than watertight, and a payphone was used to contact the man who sat, like a spider at the centre of a web, in his office on Battery Park in New York. "Mr. Soncini, can we both talk, Dominic here, it's sorta urgent?"

"Give me your number, and I'll call you back!"

The number been given, Guido Soncini rose, put his jacket on and walked towards the elevator bank, heading towards a block of payphones about a hundred yards away, when he suddenly realised he was being predictable, and walked straight past the booths, and further away towards a set of phones he had never used before. Dropping in the coins for the Chicago toll call, he dialled out, and heard his second cousin's son say "Guido, is that you?"

"Dominic, it is me. Now why haul me out of the office, what have you got which is so vital?"

"Guido, listen, I only picked it up in passing; seems they have been starting a very quiet operation to look inside the Fund at Continental, and some Chicago sidekick of that Detroit Marketing guy got hauled down to the office here, and told to lay off any enquiries that he was making, because he might scare people off before the inquiry had gotten anywhere. I was listening to Agnew's secretary, and she was telling her buddy that Agnew nearly went off like an Atlas ICBM when he heard that this guy, er, Elstein, was making enquiries about the audit, and how it wasn't right that another company should be doing the audit, if the first one was still listed as the operating auditors!"

"Okay, Dominic, you were right to call me, and even more to think that this is important! Now I want you to do absolutely nothing; you hear, nothing. Concentrate on your job, never mind the overview that you were there for, ignore anything you might want to pass along. Just pull your head in, and keep a very low profile; you are far too vital to the Family to risk any further action, you hear!"

"As you wish, Don Guido!"

Chapter 19

Ray Salvatori walked off the aircraft at the Detroit terminal, refreshed after a good, relaxed flight in first class, as he abhorred the cramped conditions in the economy section. He spotted Vince Lombardi waiting outside the Arrivals gate, and went straight over, as he had no luggage. "Morning, Vince, how's life?"

"Hi, Ray, got a message from the boss, wants you to call him immediately you landed; says it's important!"

Shrugging, the executive assassin walked over to a bank of payphones, swiped his card through the slide, and dialled out to the office on Battery Park. "Guido, you wanna talk, or do you wanna wait?"

"I'll call you back in five, give me your number!"

The two mob men waited in silence, until the phone buzzed, and Salvatori answered, "Yes, Guido, is there a problem?"

"Ray, you know the errand you went out to survey? Well, it has achieved a sudden urgency, together with the female of the three. The black guy I want alive, but he is in some danger, so he needs to be given the option of joining us. He has shown initiative, and I respect that! There is a danger of our activities being unearthed, there is an ongoing S.E.C. investigation that I have just got wind of, and we should immediately disengage from the Selection File and all outside personnel should be eliminated. Will this produce any problems?"

"No, Don Guido, the whole job should take about five days to set up, and clear. The authorities will concentrate on the illegal loans, and not be aware of the efforts to achieve the correct ratio in the investment area. Leave it to us, Vince can give me a hand, and Harry can call off all the outside contractors in the hospitals and Nursing homes."

"Thank you, Ray, hope you have a pleasant stay in Detroit!"

-------------'---------------

The monitor which was fed by a series of probes both stuck on, and inserted into, Ken Melchek's body, had given a unchanging set of signals for almost four days. Still in intensive care, the young policeman lay, with an oxygen line into his nose, and two drips into his arms, like a statue. The operation to relieve the pressure on his spine, where one bullet had lodged, had been successful, but the other shell remained, close in to the heart, where it had come to rest after passing through the left lung and ricocheting off a rib. The surgeons had already indicated to the senior policemen that he was reluctant to attempt a second operation until Ken was more responsive to stimuli after the first operation. Brad Davis sat beside Ken's bed, with the grim paraphernalia of medical intervention all around. He had been a constant visitor, after the fortunate discovery of the double shooting by Ken's neighbour, Lee, who had come over to ask if Ken and his girl would like to go bowling, and had peered through the window after receiving no reply to his calls. The patrolman glanced at the monitor screen, and watched the slow progress of the signals, as the electronics measured respiration, blood pressure, temperature, and heartbeats in steps of one second samples. He gazed back at his partners' face, unmoving on the pillow, and made a silent oath to get the gunman, and his backers.

Brad got to his feet, and saw, in the next cubicle, the equally still form of Claudia Crickell, with the constant presence of her mother, next to her bedside. He nodded, with the elderly black mother returning his silent greeting. He turned, and was about to walk out of the Unit, when he saw the monitor lines, on the screen above Ken's bed, change, with an increase in breathing rate, pulse and blood pressure signalled. The alarms having sounded in the I.C.U. nursing bay, the staff came on the run, but Brad was there before any. He watched as Ken's eyes flickered open, and focussed on his partners face. "Buddy, can you hear me?" Davis asked in a whisper. His wounded partner nodded. "Do you know who did this?" A negative shake was the response. "Why?"

Ken Melchek gathered his thoughts, and whispered, "Claudia?"

"She's in the next cubicle, still alive, but unconscious!"

"The answer lies in the computer, Brad. The stuff which that Tynan guy copied for us from the discs, they were wrong," Ken whispered, "Claudia ran the discs, and matched them with hers; they were all over the place, they weren't the same! Were the discs and computer recovered from my apartment?"

"No, everything was gone, just you two lying on the floor, bleeding!" Brad felt one of the medical team pulling at his sleeve, and angrily brushed it away as Ken continued; "There's something wrong with the adverts for Continental, Claudia was convinced, and it's got something to do with this guy,,,"

"Who, Tynan?"

"No, it's his boss, Webster, the one who took over from the Klein  woman, he must have put his own spin onto the poll results which were sent to Continental! Speak to Kozcinski, but be careful, Brad, I let my guard down, and here I ended up. Keep your gun handy, partner!" Brad watched as his partner slowly closed his eyes, but it was a natural sleep he attained, and the medical team slowly relaxed as the monitor showed the improved signs on the screen, for all to see.

-------------  '---------------

Drew Garnett sat at the Squash Club bar, breathing heavily, having just barely beaten his partner over an hour long session, and starting to pull the beer down his throat, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, to find a tall, dark-haired white man, who he had never met before, sliding onto the seat next to his. "Hi, Drew, I think we ought to talk, er, mainly about Selection techniques, I think! My name's Salvatori, Ray Salvatori. I'm an associate of Nick's Friend in New York"

"That's Friend with a capital F?"

"Correct, Mr. Garnett," smiled the assassin, "Shall we take our drinks over there?" he pointed to a table which stood separate from the rest, with Vince Lombardi already in possession.

"Sure thing, er, Ray!"

The two walked across to the table, Lombardi nodding at Ray, then shifting his legs so Drew could slide in beside the wall. Once the three had settled themselves, Salvatori spoke again, "There is a distinct possibility that our little efforts are going to be blown wide open, and we feel that it would be unfair not to warn you, and perhaps offer you an alternative!"

"Damn, it must have been that goddam Kozcinski , nosing around. We should have hit him as well as Buddy Charles!"

Salvatori smiled, raising a cautioning hand, "It was Kozcinski , but only indirectly. It seems someone heard a rumour about the activities which you and your friends were running with the Fund, and how much you lost. Kozcinski got to hear about the possible loss on the Stock Market, and arranged to have a friend quietly ask around how the Fund was doing, and more importantly how the Auditors were doing! Our early warning systems, which were put in place for something entirely different, picked up that the S.E.C. in Chicago were preparing a very quiet scan of the Continental Fund, and here we are. We are going to close down the File, and we want you to join us, as you have impressed our, er, organisation with your eye for final detail." A cold smile played around Salvatori's lips as he made the final comment, watching as the black man worked out what was on offer.

"You'd have to die, of course," said Lombardi, in his first contribution to the conversation, with a mirthless grin on his lips.

"What Vince means, " Ray spoke quickly as the black man's eyes swivelled towards him, "what he means is that we have to arrange a body, which will be identified as you, so you would be written out of any future search! We simply find a bum, about your size, and colour of course, place him in your car, and make sure it all burns up, and then you disappear, simple!"

Garnett's shoulders relaxed, as he realised the offer was genuine, and had previously been worked out. If the mobsters across the table from him had wanted to, they could simply have him blown away, and no-one would have been the wiser, so he became more confident. Drew Garnett's hand  was put straight towards Salvatori, "I'd be honoured indeed to be associated with you, and your Organisation, Ray."

"We gotta say 'Farewell' to your two friends first, and your little buddy in the Pensions Office; because if you get hit, they are gonna get scared, and run, and we can't have that! Can you clean the computer?"

"No problems, since our friend Charles was taken ill, the security has been looked after by a kid, and he don't know diddly-squat; I can get it all cleaned out in a half-hour. When should I clean house?"

"How about this evening, because we need to clear your friend Newcomb out of the way first? He's due to have an accident tomorrow morning, while he's driving to work!"

"No problem. I can drop back in at any time, and clean the file. When do you want me ready to leave?"

-------------'---------------

Alex had just finished dumping all the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, and was listening to Joe talking on the phone to her brother, Sigismund. "Sigi, you must understand that what you hear is all rumour. You are right in thinking our sales are down, and the new lines just are not shifting, but the Company has no immediate plans to lay anyone off, so you gotta take things as they are. I know that all the plants are working straight time, but we are working to find out why the cars aren't moving, and hopefully we'll get back to the overtime in quick time." He listened to his caller, then replied, "Look, Sigi, when have I not been able to help? We're family, and if I hear anything, I'll be sure to do what's best, trust me! Bye, Sigi!"

Joe glanced across at his wife, shrugged and leant back into his armchair, "Rumours are flying around the Plant like tornadoes. That was Sigi, claiming that the word was that there would be redundancies starting from the week after next. Mind you, we are still hurting from the Stiletto not taking off, but the old models are keeping us afloat, and the backlog of new vehicles is not getting any higher, so people are, of course, only too keen to start rumours flying that we are planning to close the plant, or some other stupid damn thing!"

Alex sat beside her husband, and snuggled up to his shoulder. "Is there any chance of lay-offs, Joe?"

"Not as far as I know, honey, and I ought to be one of the first to get the word. I will keep my ear to the ground, and keep the boys in touch."

"Are you still going to New York, you said something about it earlier?"

"This problem that Ken Melchek called about, he asked me to go to New York and have a talk, didn't want to say anything on the phone, but I heard he was in hospital, and the trip was cancelled. I've been so busy, I haven't had a chance to find out what he wanted, apart from telling me that Allison Klein was murdered."

-------------  '---------------

The Grand Rapids main gate was used to seeing Drew Garnett heading in to work at all sorts of odd hours. So the guard just waved the pensions administrator through, and casually logged him in on his book. Drew parked his car close to the office entrance, locked his car and went into the block, up the stairs and along to his office. He clicked on his computer terminal, went through the passwords and then into the hard disc file list, exposing the file tree which now included the fourth level, holding the password file, and the Selection file. He deleted the big spreadsheet, which had listed all the Continental pensioners, together with their latest addresses, and then washed the remaining space on the memory, thus eliminating any trace of the original file. He deleted the last password, then switched off after logging out of the system. He than called his new associate, who was waiting for his call, and simply confirmed the deletion of the file, before taking a very few items from his desk, returning to his car, then left the plant for the last time.

-------------  '---------------

Detective Harry Gorsen, after the young firebomber's admission that he had his working calls all taped, had completed some fast footwork with the District Attorneys office, and after some initial reluctance, the thoughts of getting the prime movers in eight killings overruled the annoyance at giving any sort of a deal to the man who had set the bombing and burnings. The D.A. had stated that immunity from prosecution would depend on getting at least a twenty-five per cent success rate with the principals in the killings. SixThree grinned, and said that he could put at least six or seven away, but he had to have a guarantee before speaking further. Once the final terms were agreed, with a representative of the Organised Crime task force present, as well as attorneys for SixThree, he gave the location of the tapes, and the detectives moved to pick up the evidence. Two hours later, the interview room was full of Law officers listening while SixThree's voice came over the speakers, confirming the contracts for killings with smiling jokes. As the second last tape was played, one detective asked, "Who's Web?"

"He's the only one that I didn't know. Real heavy dude, that guy, one man that I didn't ever want to let down in any way. I ain't joking, I was real nervous when I was dealing with him, sorta cold eyes! Didn't get a real good look at him, his face was mainly in the shadows, but his eyes, those I caught, That was the burn that I set up on a Volkswagen!"

The balance of the voices having been recognised, especially as they had all given their real names during the calls, the detectives were assigned their caseload, and the out-of-precinct killings were advised to the proper addresses; the only outstanding item being 'Web'. Harry Gorsen tapped the file with his pen, then decided that he had enough to do for now, but put the listing on the City-wide computer, which asked if anyone had had dealings with a perp. named 'Web', because there was confirmation of a Felony-murder rap, which could be pinned straight on to the unknowing criminal.

-------------'---------------

Brad Davis, who was still assigned to the Homicide file which he and Ken had started with, was idly checking the listings for parking tickets on a patrol-related matter, and, not having much joy, was about to log off the network when the information about a mysterious 'Web' who had arranged a possible 'burn' on a VW, came up on the screen; no other information available, except the the car location was a street in Queens. He punched the phone keys to get in touch with Gerson, and rapidly confirmed that all the information available was on the screen.

"You  got something, Officer Davis?"

"Maybe! I know it's a long stroll from being an advertising whizzkid, to ordering a 'hit', but I think I'll give this a spin. He just might fit the bill when we start counting who shot my partner and his girl!"

"Shit, when was this?"

"About a week ago, Ken and the girl are both still in intensive care, and it was her car that was originally blown out."

"Remember the NYPD code, always cover your ass, Officer Davis!"

"Bye, Detective, and thanks for the kind thoughts." Brad signed off the computer, then, after gathering his thoughts together, dialled out the number for the Marketing VP in Detroit. When the call was finally connected, he heard Joe say, "Kozcinski here, what can I do for you, Officer Davis?" Brad explained who his partner was, and why his visit had been postponed, saying that Ken was still in intensive care.

"Mr. Kozcinski, would you come to New York, I think that you may well be able to help with the investigation. We have unearthed a connection between the guy who tried to burn the girl in hospital beside Ken, and some fella in the advertising agency which you use! I know it's a bit thin, but it's all we got right now!"

"I'll be in New York tomorrow, around midday; which Precinct do you work from, Officer Davis?"

The 95th, Mr. Kozcinski, I look forward to meeting you, Sir".

Brad replaced the phone, and sat back, wondering if he should attack this problem head on, or should he plan to be devious. He wandered in to speak with his Lieutenant, and asked his advice.

Francis Patrick O'Leary listened to the patrolman as he laid his problem out, then marshalled his thoughts, and answered, "The Commissioner is supposed to be buddies with this Zeno guy, one of the four partners in this advertising firm. I'll get the Commander to have a word, and see if we can't get in through the back door, as it were. Leave it with me, Officer Davis, good thinking!"

-------------  '---------------

Ben Newcomb wheeled his car through the last suburban bends, before hitting the ramp leading to the Detroit Freeway, on his way to Grand Rapids. He accelerated, almost on auto pilot, matching his speed to the traffic on the inside lane, before sliding his car into the stream. He sat back, enjoying the sunshine through the roof, as he drove, along with many others, along the safest roads in the world, statistically speaking. Unfortunately, the gatherers and interpreters of statistical information could not allow for the fact that the brakes on Ben's car were powered through a steel hydraulic pipe, a section of which was paper thin, as the same pipe had apparently rubbed against an adjacent sharp steel bracket, through vehicle vibration, until the wall of the pipe was just about worn right through. The only thing which may have kept the brakes working was the fact that Ben always braked gently, and in good time, thus minimising pressure gradients on to the piping.

However, a seventeen year-old student, driving an old but well-maintained Mustang, decided that he was fed up with strolling along in the sun, and boosted his vehicle forward, as he saw a gap which would give him access to the faster outside lane. A Toyota, driven by a elderly man who had very slow reflexes, had it's brakes slammed on hard, as the driver thought he was threatened by the faster Ford. A ripple effect began, with cars sliding under heavy braking, as the stream tried to avoid a multiple pile-up. Ben saw the red brake lights, and reflexively hit his own, harder than normal. The sudden overpressure, boosted through the power servo, blasted straight through the brake pipe wall, his brake pedal slid straight to the floor, and the brake pressure disappeared. Not being ready for this happening, Ben swung his steering to the side, but his auto, travelling at a speed of fifty-five, with an all-up weight of just over a ton and a half; would not accept the change in direction, flipped over like a childs toy, hit the separator and ploughed straight through, dropping forty feet from the elevated highway, on to a concrete verge. Ben only knew he was sliding, then suddenly, nothing!  Vince Lombardi, stationary by the roadside, after turning off the freeway at the next off-ramp, and heading back towards the wreck site, had a grin fixed to his lips as he watched the ambulance crew lift the covered corpse, and deposit it on a stretcher, ready for transferral to the morgue. The accident report specialist, hours after the body had been pried out of the wreck, started with the brake system, where he could locate it, found the burst pipe, shook his head and marked the auto death down as 'maintenance-related'.

-------------'---------------

Bob Webster, media director for Morson, Zeno on the Continental account, as well as the new jet for Boeing, sat in his study at his home, alone, as the work he was processing required utmost concentration. He wasn't particularly worried about the fact that the work he was progressing had already cost five lives. He sat in front of a video playback system, but one with many differences to the ordinary VCR which was sold over the counter. He had a modified graphics package, set on a computer, tied in so an expanded or zoomed sector of the scan lines of the tape could in fact be modified to accept a pixel change. As a pixel was the smallest amount of area which accepted change on a television screen, it literally did not exist in conscious terms, but Webster had determined that, if the pixel scan was interrupted in a preset fashion, given the correct frequency response, a subconscious message was delivered to around thirty percent of those watching.

His first efforts had taken a great deal of time to prepare and test, but he had streamlined the modifications needed, so he could add or change a message to a pre-recorded tape in little over a week. He studied the tape, marked 'Continental No. 3' which had been the cause of the fantastic drop in Continental's share price, decided that the damn thing worked like a charm, and decided to leave it as it was, ready to be broadcast the day before the return of the Auto company to the listings, and continued his work on what he had labelled the 'Revival' tape. This was to be broadcast immediately his employers gained control, and would hold a message which would reverse the negative image of the Continental Cars, and boost the need to buy shares, which would quickly return to their normal pricing levels; "At least," he mused, "that's what's supposed to happen." He scribbled the sequence for transmission on a pad, and then closed his system down.

Chapter 20

The Detroit police patrolling the roads around the old Seventh Day Adventist church building tended to be on their guard against ambush, and attack. The old time prosperity had given way to a keen wind of decay, and deprivation; which brought drug use and crime in it's wake. Desperation for a quick fix drove normally careful people to try wild things, and the armour-plated liquor stores and pharmacies bore the marks of continuous attempts to change the perpetrator’s luck. The police cruisers carried shotguns on racks as a matter of course, and the weapons had been used several times, just to extricate the officers from a situation which had gone wrong. So when a mobile unit received a call to proceed to a fire in that area, late in the evening, it was almost reflex action to check the loads in the pump shotguns, and loosen the revolvers in their belts, before setting their course, sirens blatting, towards the abandoned church. They came up to the church corner, slewing their cruiser across the road, and watching as the big car in the middle of the street burnt. The police driver called in the tag plate number, and, as the flames slowly died down, heard his radio give confirmation that the registered driver was a Drew Garnett, with an address in one of the quieter suburbs of Detroit.

"If the guy frying in the road is Garnett, either our taxpayer was trying to make a buy, and it went wrong somehow; or he got hit before the buy took place, and the perps burnt the auto just to keep us busy." remarked the second cop, "Funny, we normally don't get taxpayers making drug buys around here, the distributors have all the areas serviced, wouldn't have thought a guy from near Grosse Point would need to drive way down here to make a coke or crack connection."

The driver answered him, with his eyes still alertly roving the surrounding area, "Maybe he was a dealer, but whichever way it was, our local concerned citizens are queuing up to give vital information, as usual" while eyeing the people on the sidewalks, who did not even slow to watch the death of another, but instead kept their eyes firmly on the pavement in front of their path.!" The arrival of a fire appliance, complete with sirens, to douse the flames, ended their conversation, as they rapidly made their notes, and filed the reports which would lie forgotten within a very short time, concerning the death of one Drew Garnett.

-------------'---------------

Virginia Horrigan, involved as she was in a series of multiple murders, even at third hand, was very careful when she went out, especially when in town alone, for Detroit was no place for the faint-hearted. She had a carry permit for a thirty-eight revolver, had taken the prescribed training course, and was determined to strike first, as the instructor had told the class; "You gotta learn that there is no such thing as shooting someone in the leg, or the arm! You have a stopping area, and that is what you aim for, because you are gonna stop the son-of-a-bitch from moving against you. There are no prizes for coming second, because you will be dead. Make no mistake, if you don't drop an attacker, he is definitely gonna kill you!" She remembered the tall ex-marine instructor with clarity, because of his words, "You have bought a gun, and you should only draw that gun if you intend to use it, and the only way to use it is to shoot to kill!" She stood on her town house steps, checking the position of the gun in her purse, before locking the door and descending the steps towards her car.  She spotted the man's shape in the reflection from the car window as he moved out from the shadows, dipped her hand into the purse and came out with the revolver. She swung the gun up, adopting the crouch she had been taught in class, and called, "Move one step further, and you are dead!"

The figure paused, then moved forward again, but the woman cocked the hammer back and took aim, preparing to fire. She squeezed the trigger, and the shot sent the man back three feet, dropping to the ground to lie, moaning in agony, before quivering into silence. Virginia stayed still, as lights flashed on, and doors opened, with anxious neighbours calling to find out what had happened. "Will someone call the police? I've just shot a mugger, and he needs an ambulance!" she called.

An anonymous voice called assent, and the standard crowd filled the sidewalk, gazing at the man's body, as he lay on the pavement, knife still held in one hand; and also at the slim woman, still gripping the revolver, as she leant against the side of her car, breathing heavily as what she had done permeated into her consciousness. Fifteen minutes later, the road was cluttered with police cruisers, all with their strobe lights flashing, illuminating the medics as they finished wrapping the body of the mugger, before lifting him into the ambulance for the non-urgent run to the hospital morgue. The investigating Homicide detective was comforting Virginia, who only now was reacting from her actions, and was shocked by what she had done. "Miss Horrigan, you don't have a thing to worry about. You did the right thing, by aiming and firing at that low life in the ambulance, he was out to rob or rape you; just remember that. He was trying to take away your rights, and by ventilating him, you did society a big favour."

The crowd started to move away, as the body had disappeared, and there didn't look like any more shooting was gonna come their way. Virginia, clutching a blanket around her shoulders, asked the detective what happened now.

"Well, Miss Horrigan, we have to submit a report to the District attorney, as there has been a death, but as you were acting in self-defence, it's just a formality. He came at you, you warned him, he didn't stop; so you fired. I think you did the only thing possible, and remembered your training. You know what I mean, there is no such thing as shooting to wound! You did real good, and you don't have a thing to worry about. Would you like one of our female officers to stay with you for the rest of the evening?"

"Er, no.. no thanks, Detective, it's kind of you to offer, but I really am feeling better, and the paramedic gave me a pill to get me some sleep if I need it, later on."

The two policemen sat in their car, doing the wrap on this call, and the driver, a man who had been on the streets of Detroit for over twenty years, was puzzling something in his mind. Finally, he turned to his partner, and asked, "Josh, that perp, the dead one, I just remembered where I seen him before, he used to hang around the edges of our own little organised crime syndicate; you know, Joey DiFalco, his mob. What's he doing trying his hand at mugging taxpayers?

Josh answered, "maybe a little freelance work, Joey usually keeps his boys on a tight rein, but it is a bit unusual. Nothing spectacular about the woman?"

The first detective glanced at his notes, and shrugged his shoulders, "Finance VP for Continental, looks like she's hard as nails. Good shooting!"

-------------'---------------

Vince Lombardi caught the call, as he sat at breakfast the next morning. "Vince, Joey here. Can we talk?"

"Go ahead, Joey. Everything okay at the track?"

"No it ain't! The broad took Silvio out with a thirty-eight. She plugged him with one shot, and put him down. He must have moved too soon, or something. Do you want to try again?"

"No, we'll have to think of a nice accident for our Miss Horrigan. Two mugging attempts in two days might start alarm bells ringing in our wonderful policemen's ears, and we can't have that! Thanks for the effort, Joey. My condolences to the family. Tell me when the funeral is, so we can make our regrets in person!"

"Sure thing, Vince, I'll call you on it. See ya, Vince."

Harry Mettaliou cocked an eye at his partner as he switched his phone off; "Trouble?"

"Yeah, seems the clown that Joey Falco sent up against Virginia Horrigan got himself blown away by the broad. She had a gun, and dropped him in one. Shit, now we gotta arrange an accident, and people might start counting!"

"You mean, with Drew supposed to be burnt, and Ben taking diving lessons in his car; it could be termed unusual," Harry nodded in agreement, " we still got to clear her away from the field, before Ray supervises Nick's resignation. You want a domestic accident? I used to be good at the old kitchen routine!"

"That might see us out of our troubles, Harry, and keeps it in the family, as well. Yeah, go for a domestic, it's probably the best bet!"

-------------'---------------

Joe Kozcinski came out on to the main concourse at Kennedy airport, and was met by Brad Davis. He dumped his overnighter in the trunk, and climbed in to the front and sat back as the policeman moved his car out on the route into New York. "We got a tricky situation with the advertising agency office." Brad said, "The Commissioner is buddies with one of the partners, guy called Zeno, and he's given the okay for us to go in after hours, to run a check on the computers which Allison Klein used, as well as Bob Webster. My partner, Ken, was able to speak a few words, before he went back to sleep in the hospital. He warned me about Webster, said it was definite that the information given you about the poll results was false. Do you have the discs which were sent you by Webster?"

"Yes, they arrived about two days after we got the faxes through telling us that, according to the survey, the ads which were done by Morson, Zeno were doing a fair to moderate job; nothing exciting, but getting there."

"Ken also told me that Claudia had thought that there was definitely something wrong with the adverts which were screened!"

The Marketing VP swung his head around to gaze at the policeman, "Wrong; how?"

"He didn't say, guess he was too weak. But, have you watched your advert. clips on the screen?"

"Well, no. We always get them screened in the office, or in a view theatre. Gotta admit, I never watch television, too much crap on for me."

Brad had recommended a hotel near to his Precinct House, and after getting Ken checked in, they rolled on to the Police Station, and up to be introduced to Lieutenant O'Leary. The senior police officer sat Ken down, and offered him coffee, then explained  the situation with the Advertising Agency offices. "One of the Partners, Alois Zeno, has agreed that we can enter the premises, and conduct our own search." he said, "Trouble is, evidence gained during a surreptitious entry , such as ours, probably would not stand up in court. So, anything we find cannot, in itself, be lead out in open court. We gotta go by what is called 'Probable Cause'; which means that if we go in somewhere, we gotta have reasonable grounds for thinking there is evidence of a felony, before that evidence can stand up in court. What we are working on is a flimsy connection between a black guy who firebombed a car, and a nickname for a high level advertising executive. I am personally going along with Officer Davis' request for a search on the computers, but we gotta be able to unearth something solid, otherwise the accused will walk; we got too many judges who are to willing to give the suspect the benefit of the doubt!"

Ken nodded, "We'll just have to wait, and find out what there is when we search. When are we due to go in?"

"Nine this evening. We have clearance from the local force, and as I said, the partner will be letting us in. There is no nightime security watch, so no loose mouths around; we should be okay!"

The three said their farewells, and the Detroit man departed for his hotel, to catch a little sleep before the evening's activities, and the Patrolman went to the hospital, to check once more on his buddy.

At nine prompt, the two car convoy stopped outside the Madison Avenue entrance to the agency, and were met by Alois Zeno, who quickly ushered the team inside the building, before locking the door once more. He then led the way into the elevators, and up to the floor which Brad had visited before. "Make yourselves at home, Gentlemen," the partner called, "I'll be in my own office if you need me!"

The police team, which included the Lieutenant, Brad and Joe, also included a computer specialist, with a software package which could, in the expert's own terms, raise the dead from a disc. On being told which computer Webster had inherited from Allison Klein, he installed the search package, and simply asked the pack to log the directories and files on the hard disc, then to check which files had been erased. As standard computer operating  software, when directed to 'erase' a file, only erased the first identifying letters from the file, which freed up the space for an overwrite without actually erasing the offending file, it was easy to identify the files which had been 'erased. The police computer man then kicked in the 'Retrieve' section, which actually recreated the file, and set it back into an appropriate directory. Then he asked Joe what package had been used by the agency to establish the trends, and loaded the database package into the system, after which he set in the original files from the retrieval software. As the graphs showed up on the screen, Joe stared in disbelief, "Jeez, he was hiding this from me. We paid Morson, Zeno a total of nearly 7,500,000 dollars, and we get this heap of crap back as a result! But I saw the damn clips, and they were good!"

"But you saw them in your offices, not on the television," the Continental man was reminded by Brad.

"The effect should be the same but we can always check. Can you take copies of all this stuff?" Joe asked the computer man who promptly nodded in assent.

The lieutenant leant forward, "This doesn't tie in our friend Webster to the firebombed Volkswagen. All we got is a set of graphs which don't correspond with those sent you by this guy Webster."

"Yes, Lieutenant, but this is proof that our friend Webster is definitely dirty, and we are on the right track! If I had seen these on a printout, I would have known immediately that there was something up in the advertising sector, and make big changes. Remember, we think Claudia Crickell was first the target for the bombed Volkswagen, and secondly she was shot, and Ken Melchek reckoned the only thing that tied her into Webster was the computer work she showed to Allison Klein. The next thing I do, is sit down somewhere and watch television!"

Joe returned to his hotel, being dropped at the door by the policemen. He retrieved his key, entered his room, and, after pouring himself a cool drink from the mini-bar, flicked the television on, and checked his schedules for when the Continental clips were due to be shown. He had fifteen minutes to wait, but left the t.v. on, to sample what was being shown at the late hours of the evening. when the commercial breaks started, Ken actually felt relieved, as the dross that was showing on all sixty channels was the same, suitable only for the lowest common denomination of intellect. He watched a smart clip for Marlboro', feeling that if half the effort which had gone into the commercial, had been reflected in the main programmes, the Channel would be a winner. The start of the Stiletto advert. came onto the screen, and he settled back to watch what he thought was a familiar run, but as the images raced across the screen, he literally felt the word 'Turkey' forming itself in his imagination. He watched the screen without cease for another four hours, well into the night-time viewing period, and watched the same commercials run time after time, and at the end, setting his alarm for eight, he settled back on the bed, and drifted off, wondering how the hell the message was being sent.

-------------  '---------------

Bob Webster had just walked in to his office, when the phone rang, with Joe on the line; "Bob, Joe Kozcinski here, I have decided to change the advertising strategy, for the remainder of the primary contract period. There is a total spend remaining of somewhere around three hundred and fifty million. remaining in the present budget, and we want a new view of the whole game before we go back into the advertising market. Harry Lassiter will be contacting you formally to suspend the showing of the present series of clips, good though they are; but I want the commercials to stop as from this morning. We will be reviewing the marketing take-up of the Stiletto and Sabre autos, and maybe commissioning new adverts. You still have the contract, so there is no need to worry about the onward progression of your work with Continental. Okay, Bob?"

"Joe, I really can't see why you want a suspension of the clips. You had a full review, at your offices, and you counted yourselves satisfied. If we pull the present run of clips, we will lose the ongoing perspective which has been built up, in the eyes of the bulk of viewers, about the viability and selling points of both ranges. Please, Joe, can't I persuade you to reconsider?"

"No, I want my decision, which is to suspend the commercials until further notice, to be active from this morning. Harry will be in touch when we want to talk about a new view of the advertising strategies, and we can go from there. Things are still not too good at Continental, and the drop in share price, and the suspension, hasn't helped!"

"As a professional in the advertising field, I gotta say the you are making a mistake, but if you want to pull the plug for now, that's no problem. There may be default payments called for with some of the smaller networks, but most of them have so many guys calling for a free slot, that shouldn't happen too often, Okay, Joe, talk to you later."

Webster replaced the phone on its rest, while massaging his chin in indecision. "Why," he mused, gazing out of the window, "why now, if they were happy before, what's changed his mind?" He dialled out, unaware that his line had, at the request of the Commissioner of New York's police, and with the agreement of a judge, been set up with a tap. When the rasping tones of Lazarus answered, Webster spoke, "We got a problem. Joe Kozcinski has just called and suspended the showing of any further commercials on the present series. I don't think he knows or suspects anything, it's just that we might not be able to push the last message through before re-listing! After that, we can send the 'revival' message, and close the play down, but we need that last message on the clips."

Lazarus paused before replying, "You must get it through to Kozcinski that he must allow the resumption of the commercials, so that, as far as you are concerned, the public are reminded that the Continental models are great, just before re-listing the shares. If we get that, and we show the same tape sequence as brought down the price as before, the resultant slump will give us the balance of the shares on offer, at a new low price, and we then have control. Do that, and you will receive a good bonus. Goodbye, Bob."

-------------  '---------------

The 95th Precinct main interview room had never seen anything quite like the meeting which was taking place, with the Precinct commander, the Commissioner, the duty Lieutenant, Brad Davis and Joe Kozcinski, together with Alois Zeno and John Tynan from the ad. agency. The policemen were all for storming the office, and arresting Webster on conspiracy, and possible accessory to murder charges, and the agency Partner wanted to have him fired and sued, as a first step. Joe had quite a time before he persuaded them all to wait, until some of the damage could be undone. "what I would like to do," Joe continued, "is to find out exactly how he gets this message on to the tapes, because that is what is happening. You all heard the conversation, they want one last crack at dropping the price of Continental shares, before the re-listing takes place, which is gonna be in four days time. Trouble is, we won't have much time in Websters' home, so we gotta switch the tapes. If we let them show the clips, I want to be able to get the 'revival' tape shown, instead of the one which nearly killed Continental on the Market. John, he must somehow have worked out how to put in that stuff you were talking about when you and Allison visited Detroit; you know, the subliminal stuff, you said it was impossible; Well, there is proof that the idea works, and our share price is the result. What say, John?"

John Tynan glanced at his boss, and saw Zeno slowly nod, before he spoke, "If you are right, and he is getting a subliminal message across, it is feasible to believe that a reversal of the process is possible. When we listened to the tape of the conversation between Webster and this other guy, they were both confident that they could influence a good proportion of the population that first, Continental stinks, and everyone should sell, followed by another tape, which would then reverse the trend, and bring the price back to normality once again. Well, I've been in this game a long time, and my boss, Mr. Zeno has been around for longer, but if it is true, it is, at the same time, great and horrible! Great because someone worked out how to beat the percentages, and horrible because it is just brain-washing under another name. The advertising profession has had some godawful things thrown at it, what we don't want is a suggestion that we have thrown in with Pavlov and his dogs!"

"What sticks in my craw is the fact that you are asking us to hold off on the arrest of a felon, one who we can tie to the attempted murder of a policeman!" This interjection came from the Precinct commander.

"Sir, I have already explained, you can arrest him at any time; why not wait, get all the phones tapped on this guy that Webster phoned, and then, after they have made all their calls, and think everything is back in place, then you arrest them, and you will have the proof you need to put them all in the slammer for a very long time. At the same time, you will be safeguarding the livelihoods of thousands of auto workers, whose jobs are threatened by a bunch of cynical manipulators, whose only allegiance is to greed!"

The Commissioner  wavered, then finally plumped for Joe's plan, "Remember, he mustn't get away, otherwise my balls will be wrung out tight!"

"I'm gonna need the help of someone who can break in, undetected, and let me at Webster's home. He's got to have all the equipment there, and if we are gonna swap things around, it's as well to do it at the source, before there are any possibilities for losing control," Joe said, "He must have a master tape, because the copying and distribution are done by some Albany firm, Seeton, Seeton Harland, someone like that. If we swap the master, everything will be copied from the new tape, okay?"

The Commissioner nodded slowly, "We will give you a man who can open any door, any safe, bypass any alarm, in the whole world. We have a hold on him, and he does consultancy work for us."

The strategy agreed, the police brass and the advertising executive left the office, and the Marketing VP sat gazing at Patrolman Davis. "How's Ken, Brad?"

"I visited last night, he's still very weak, and mainly sleeping, but the medics reckon they will be ready to operate in about a week's time, to get the second bullet out. Claudia came to for about five minutes yesterday as well; mainly because her mother told her to. Honest, Joe, that is one hell of a woman!"

Joe smiled at the tale, before turning to the burning topic of the adverts; "We need to get moving on this tape, partly because the time to copy and distribute takes up about two days. We are gonna have to go in tonight, otherwise Webster will have their message on the screens instead of ours!"

"Don't worry, Joe. I've heard about this guy that the Commissioner has offered you; he is a genius. All you have to do is walk behind him, and he'll take you straight in, do the job, and walk out again, intruder alarms or not!"

-------------  '---------------

The team, consisting of Brad, Joe, and the Precinct Commander, sat in an unmarked car, half-a-block distant from the brownstone house where Bob Webster lived. They had been joined by a big, burly man, whose very laugh, as he got into the car, was loud enough to wake the dead; or so Joe imagined. The 'Consultant' had slapped the Commander on the back, and introduced himself as 'Fred', before saying that he had already scouted the house, and it was only protected by a simple alarm system.

"You've already checked...?" asked an amazed Joseph.

"Wouldn't be doing my job if I hadn't; don't like surprises. Is this guy going out soon?"

"We put a tap on his phone, and he's due away at eight, got a date with some broad. we'll give it ten minutes after that, then we want to go in, do the switch, and get straight back out! We are breaking enough rules without spending unnecessary time in a suspect's home, without a due search warrant." rasped the Commander, who was already feeling the cold winds of second thoughts around his ankles.

The four men quieted as the door to the house opened, and Bob Webster left the house, locked the door and walked down the steps, heading for his car which stood ten yards away. The watchers waited while the car engine started, and the big Olds rolled away from the kerb, followed by an unmarked patrol car, whose driver had instructions only to call if he saw the suspect returning to his home; leaving the area clear, as far as they knew, for their entry. Ten minutes after Webster departed, the big alarms expert got out of the car, accompanied by Joe, and casually walked across the street, and up the stairs. Fred withdrew a card from his pocket, levered it at the lock area for approximately five seconds, and the door swung open. He walked three paces into the hall, and simply tapped out a code on the alarm panel, then turned to Joe, grinned and said, "Nuttin' to it, really. These guys are all the same. I got an override code for every alarm in New York; these clowns spend maybe two, three grand on an alarm system, and because all the technicians have IQ's of around thirty, they have a built-in override code, besides the one given to the owner, who thinks everything is safe and secret. Okay, Mr. Kozcinski , tell me whereabouts you want to go, and then just follow me, some people have secondary systems, but I know how to spot everything; trust me!"

"Er, if you can locate where he has his computers, and possibly a video machine; he will probably have the tapes nearby."

The two walked slowly through the house, and ended up outside the study. 'Fred' examined the door frame, then nodded slowly, "He has got a secondary circuit, but he ain't as clever as me! No way, José!" The big man produced a fine screwdriver, and carefully removed the two screws which held a small cover on to a plastic box recessed into the frame. "See, he has a switch which is activated when the door is opened, probably doesn't sound an alarm, but registers that someone has been inside. This is a very good installation, see how the cover is coloured to match in with the frame. We'll just slip a wire across the connections, then open up, and check if he has any more surprises for us." So saying, he clipped a wire across the terminals, then gripped the handle and gently eased the door open. He knelt down, and gently lifted the rug, searching for any signs of a pressure plate, but nodded in satisfaction when he found nothing. "Looks clear, Mr. Kozcinski , it looks like he has all his video and computer stuff on the desk."

Joe walked forward, and started searching the video cassettes which were racked before him. He saw the titles 'Continental One', 'Continental Two', 'Continental Three', and then 'Continental Revival', stacked together in one shelf corner. He reached for the 'Revival' tape, and gently peeled off the title strip, temporarily sticking it on the desk. He then removed the label from the 'Three' cassette, and placed it on the 'Revival' tape, before lifting up the 'Revival' label and placing it on what was the 'Three' tape. He replaced the cassettes on the shelf, in the same order as he has found them, before stepping back, to satisfy himself that everything looked untouched, then nodded to 'Fred' that he was finished.

The two left the study, closing the door behind them, and the wire bridge was removed from the alarm switch, before the cover was replaced by 'Fred'. The two intruders left the house, with the alarms expert relocking the door behind them. They sat back in the car, with Joe gently mopping his brow, "Jeez, I don't wanna do that again in a long time; must have shorten'd my life span by ten years!", he said, while 'Fred' slapped him on the shoulder. "You did just great! Is that all, Commander?" As the policeman signified the end of the task, the big break-in man said a loud 'goodnight', and left the car, and the three moved off, while swapping notes on the successful entry.

-------------  '---------------

Harry Mettaliou sat patiently, hidden behind the clothes and sliding door of Virginia Horrigan's bedroom wardrobe. He had been in the house for almost two hours before  the Continental VP arrived home, and then had moved to hide in the closet. He was confident that he would not be discovered, as he only had to wait until his target was in the bath, before making his move; watching Virginia through a narrow gap in the door, as she took her clothes off, preparing for that same event. She donned a plastic shower cap, and walked through towards the steaming bath, which she had filled less than five minutes previously.

The big intruder slowly slid the door open, and slowly walked towards the bathroom door, which gave him a view of the back of Virginia's head, as she sat in the almost full bath, soaping her arms. Harry went forward, just placed both linked hands around the woman's forehead, and slammed her skull back against the edge of the bath, knocking her unconscious immediately. He then, with his hands on top of her head, pushed her whole body down into the water, and waited until the reflex motions of the drowning woman's body ceased, and her arms gently floated on the surface of the bathwater. He dried his hands on a small towel, then took that same towel and stuck it into his coat pocket, before heading into the lounge. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he dialled out on the phone, and spoke two words, then rang off. Then he sat at the window, waiting until he saw his retreat being set, with one car driving into another, and the drivers shouting and waving at one another, before opening the front door and swiftly walking away from the entrance steps, unnoticed by the onlookers of the accident.

Chapter 21

Joe Kozcinski arrived back in Detroit in a confident mood, assured that at least one of his Corporation's problems was being resolved. He had contacted Nick Cavalieri, and had briefly told the CEO about the plan to disrupt the price and the sales of Continental autos, and the moves to counter the plot. Nick, predictably, had wanted to have everyone arrested, but Joe had won his argument, the same way as he had in New York. He then contacted Harry Lassitter, and asked him to call Bob Webster in New York, and authorise the commercials to be shown again, starting with the evening before the relisting of the Continental shares on the Exchange. "Just say that we have had second thoughts, and the commercials deserve to be given a chance; okay, Harry?" Once the message was passed, he reckoned that Webster would be straight on to his principals, to give them the good news, and now that all the telephone intercepts were in place, Joe had been assured by the senior policemen that everyone concerned would be incriminated by their own voices.

-------------'---------------

Nick Cavalieri had other worries besides the future return to profitability of his Corporation, as he stared at the two paragraphs in the local newspaper. The first gave the news that Drew Garnett had been the victim of a drugs-related killing in a war area of Detroit, and the second was the accidental death, in an freeway auto accident, of Ben Newcomb, pensions administrator from Grand Rapids. Cavalieri was no fool, and he read the death sentence which lay behind the bland news fillers on the page. He would have placed a great deal of money on Virginia Horrigan's death being reported very soon, which left himself as prime target. He called the airport, and asked that the Continental Executive Jet be readied for use, stating that he did not need, this time, the Company pilot to fly the aircraft; as he needed to keep his own flying hours building, in order to keep his licence current. Telling his P.A. that he was going to pay a surprise visit to the California design offices, he left the office complex within fifteen minutes of reading the two items in the news columns. He headed straight for his own home, piled a grip with clothing and toiletries, and made for the airport, keeping a careful scan to his rear in case he was being followed. His big Stiletto carved it's way through the light mid-morning traffic, and he was at the airport in record time.

Parking his car, he spotted the Ground Crew chief walking away from the little jet. He asked what his fuel load was, while he called the valet to heft his bag on to the aircraft, then he moved off to file a flight plan with the tower. Returning from the Control Room, Cavalieri swung aboard, and walked forward into the cockpit. He gripped the checklist, and swiftly and competently went through the vital list of routine items; finally firing up the two engines, and observing the readouts on the display. Calling the tower, he requested clearance for departure; and being assigned a runway, departure heading and initial altitude, stroked the twin throttles forward to taxi speed. As there was a lull in the usually busy commercial traffic, he was given take-off clearance with almost no delay and, with the throttles forward against the stops, sent the little aircraft racing forward along the runway. The valet  was carefully observing the progress of the executive aircraft, but for a different reason to many others. His hand was poised over a small plastic case, fitted with a small lever switch, and with an extended aerial clamped to the side of the case. As the nose of the aircraft rose into 'rotate' position, he pressed the lever firmly over, seeing the 'active' light flash on the box, then retracted the aerial, and placed the transmitter back into his work clothes. Ray Salvatori estimated that the elevator hydraulics would jam in about thirty minutes, putting the little jet into an uncontrollable dive, with no chance of survival for the pilot.

-------------'---------------

The Stockwatch office had received the news that Continental was going to be re-listed as from two days after the notice with a mixture of relief and alarm. Relief that the Corporation officers were certain that their problems were over, and alarm that nothing had been established as being the cause of the tremendous dive of the share price. James Gareth Wexley called all his staff together for a warning talk. "You now have in place some of the most sophisticated scanning and interrogatory software this country has ever produced. If this stock starts another nose-dive, I want to know exactly who has been responsible, and then we can nail the sonsabitches! Remember, the whole Stock Exchange will be watching, and if we end up with our tits in a wringer, we are gonna lose our credibility."

The morning of the re-listing dawned, and once more chaos reigned, but a different sort of chaos. There had been virtually no buying of the Continental shares, which had been placed for sale by the holders of that stock, before the suspension; and dealers and brokers all over the country were being bombarded with demands that their sale be halted, the stock was being withdrawn and held, and wherever possible, more of the Continental offering bought. This sudden demand for a share which was previously thought to be on the skids made the Market react, and the Continental price rocketed back, through the barrier which was the original price, upwards to a new high, over fifty percent up on the prevailing bid price. The market watchers had never seen anything like it, and as one they all piled in, thus pushing the bid price even higher.

-------------'---------------

Lazarus was shouting down the phone at Bob Webster, demanding that he do something, anything, to reverse the trend, when his manservant knocked, then entered his employers' study, closely followed by four detectives who arrested the crippled German on charges of Conspiracy to Murder; and a representative of the S.E.C., who confiscated all the discs and records of the giant buying operation. At the same time,  Elspeth Hardesty and five others were taken into custody, and charged with Conspiracy to Defraud.

-------------'---------------

During the search of Bob Webster's desk after his arrest, the detectives found a diary listing a name, Ray; a comment, 'hit' and a telephone number. Following up on this, a search warrant was taken out on the home, office and property of Ray Salvatori, an analyst with a large securities company on Wall Street. His home and office proved a blank, but one officer, dutifully searching the suspect's car, found a metal hose-clip in the car side pocket. Three days later, after forensic examination and comparisons, Ray Salvatori was charged with the murders of Howard, Allison, Amy and Jack Klein. Surprisingly, despite massive security precautions, he died from food poisoning five days after his formal arraignment.

-------------'---------------

Don Guido Soncini still sits in his office, facing on to Battery Park; he is still occupied by the need to control the vast wealth his Family has generated over the years, but has decided to leave the industrial side of the business to his cousin.

-------------  '---------------

As his knock sounded at the front door, Eudora Crickell left Claudia seated by the window, and opened the door of her apartment; then gazed at Ken Melchek as he stood on the porch. As he spoke, stating that he would do his best to look after her daughter from now on, her face broke into a gentle smile, and she welcomed him in; and as Claudia wrapped herself around him, the mother felt secure that her daughter was in the right hands.

-------------'---------------

The new Chief Executive Officer of Continental Motors rolled his car into the drive of his home in Grosse Point, Detroit. It was two months after the traumatic events of the suspension and relisting of the shares, the death of Nick Cavalieri in a plane crash, the S.E.C. examination of the Pension Fund; together with the discovery of a shortfall of over seventeen million dollars from the Fund, and the triple>accidental= deaths of the other principals on the Continental administration side of the Fund. The new models, both Stiletto and Sabre, were selling well, without the extra message from the hidden persuader in the commercials. Joseph was beat, after another frustrating attempt to find why the Continental workforce had seemed to be dying ahead of their time. The Plants had all been given a clean bill of health, and no-one knew where to turn next, but the early deaths had ceased.

He knew that Alexis was home, as her car was parked out front, but she was not in the kitchen, or the lounge. He called out, and heard her voice from the bedroom, "In here, honey." He walked through, to find his wife lying propped up on pillows on the big bed.

"Everything all right, Alex?"

Her eyes lit with mischief, Alex replied, "If it's a boy, shall we call him Tadeusz?"

Ω

8 1999              James Michael Cunningham

This e-book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations in this story are imaginary. No resemblance is intended between these characters and any real persons, either living or dead.

This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, photocopied, electronically transmitted or held in any retrieval system or otherwise circulated without the author=s prior consent in any form whatsoever and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Mike Cunningham has been married to his beloved

Jacqueline for 43 years. He is the father of three adult kids and has three

dynamite grandsons. A writer for over twenty years, with a drawerful

of rejection letters to prove it, he has always believed that the

writing ain’t the difficult bit; the hard part is finally seeing your name

in print.

He maintains a website at http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/mikesbookpagesonline/

and blogs at http://mikecunningham.wordpress.com/

This e book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations in this story are imaginary. No resemblance is intended between these characters and any real persons or group of persons either living or dead.

This e book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re sold, hired out, photocopied, electronically transmitted or held in any retrieval system or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form whatsoever and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.