Screens with figures gliding by showed the world’s latest trades, currency rates, interest rates.
On a television screen mounted in the center of one wall, Senator Orlando was giving a speech emphasizing the importance of supporting Hampshire’s battle against narcotics. It was a recording, and Orlando froze in the middle of his sentence as Cornelius pressed the Pause button on a remote control. He set the control down.
One of the lieutenants, a graying man in his fifties with worry lines deeply etched in his forehead, said, “Just decoded from Miley, U.S. ground jets wiped out Field 59 and downed our plane flying semi-refined coca base to the lab for processing.”
“Save Field 68,” Hampshire said. “Have Peters deliver antiaircraft guns to it. Round up every mercenary specializing in ack-ack.”
His eyes were on Senator Orlando, mouth agape, pointing index finger poised in mid-gesture. “Where do things stand with our friend there?”
Another lieutenant spoke up: “Orlando can’t be bought.”
“We’ve found nothing on him?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing on his wife?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got to be able to get
something
on the bastard.”
“If we did, he’d give it to the press and resign. He’s that kind.”
“He’s holding up our deal with Atlantic.”
The third lieutenant: “He’s killed our deal with Atlantic.”
Hampshire digested the news, accepted it, moved on. No point getting angry. It was only money.
But they’d find a way to make Orlando pay for it.
He turned to the last lieutenant: “What’s the latest on that L.A. piracy last week?”
“Grapevine points at the bagman.”
“No bagman engineers his own death.”
“Piracy last night on the Hudson and in Jersey were aborted. Both hijackers dead. Brothers.”
“I know,” Hampshire said. “There was a mole in the Manhattan laundry.”
“And…?”
“There isn’t anymore. What about Menkin?”
The first lieutenant: “Menkin confirmed.”
“Bring me up on Jorjo.”
“The bribe didn’t work. Buenos Aires has him in investigative custody.”
“Goddam it.”
“Jorjo’s a sphinx.”
“Under fire a sphinx will name names. Have Jorjo hit immediately.”
“They have him tucked away pretty securely.”
“His mistress?”
“Tucked away.”
“What have we got?”
“I have a friend there who could round up a fire team.”
“Do it.” Back to the second lieutenant: “What about the turnover?”
“Status quo, sir.”
“Luxembourg and Australia?”
“They’ve agreed to join the pack.”
“How many is that?”
“Eight.”
“Good. Michael, what’s going on with Citra?”
“She’s being executed Friday.”
“Get our liaison to buy her freedom. Give him a million.”
“He’s being executed with her.”
“Goddam it! She’s the best distributor in Malaya.”
“She was.”
“What about Russia?”
“The ban on farms growing poppies shot opium prices sky high.”
“Addicts’ll pay the difference. Take advantage of the revolt of the ruble. And, oh yes, on the baseball scandal? Kill any bastard selling drugs to ballplayers. I love that game. Don’t fuck around with baseball. Ever.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Citra. Break her out. Understand? I don’t care how, but you break her out before Friday and find her a spot in Burma. Or in Thailand. How’s McCall doing?”
“Still hooked on his own heroin.”
“Send his ashes to some anti-smoking organization. What about that Fed mole in Chicago?”
The first lieutenant: “Turned out to be Arnie Campbell.”
The second lieutenant choked on his drink.
“Drown him,” Hampshire said.
The second lieutenant: “
He’s my wife’s cousin!
”
“I know,” Hampshire said.
“She won’t like him swallowing half of Lake Michigan.”
“Neither will he. What progress on Jose Alvarado?”
The first again, worry lines deepening: “The Left’s kidnapping candidates, the Right’s assassinating them. Jose doesn’t know what side
On a television screen mounted in the center of one wall, Senator Orlando was giving a speech emphasizing the importance of supporting Hampshire’s battle against narcotics. It was a recording, and Orlando froze in the middle of his sentence as Cornelius pressed the Pause button on a remote control. He set the control down.
One of the lieutenants, a graying man in his fifties with worry lines deeply etched in his forehead, said, “Just decoded from Miley, U.S. ground jets wiped out Field 59 and downed our plane flying semi-refined coca base to the lab for processing.”
“Save Field 68,” Hampshire said. “Have Peters deliver antiaircraft guns to it. Round up every mercenary specializing in ack-ack.”
His eyes were on Senator Orlando, mouth agape, pointing index finger poised in mid-gesture. “Where do things stand with our friend there?”
Another lieutenant spoke up: “Orlando can’t be bought.”
“We’ve found nothing on him?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing on his wife?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got to be able to get
something
on the bastard.”
“If we did, he’d give it to the press and resign. He’s that kind.”
“He’s holding up our deal with Atlantic.”
The third lieutenant: “He’s killed our deal with Atlantic.”
Hampshire digested the news, accepted it, moved on. No point getting angry. It was only money.
But they’d find a way to make Orlando pay for it.
He turned to the last lieutenant: “What’s the latest on that L.A. piracy last week?”
“Grapevine points at the bagman.”
“No bagman engineers his own death.”
“Piracy last night on the Hudson and in Jersey were aborted. Both hijackers dead. Brothers.”
“I know,” Hampshire said. “There was a mole in the Manhattan laundry.”
“And…?”
“There isn’t anymore. What about Menkin?”
The first lieutenant: “Menkin confirmed.”
“Bring me up on Jorjo.”
“The bribe didn’t work. Buenos Aires has him in investigative custody.”
“Goddam it.”
“Jorjo’s a sphinx.”
“Under fire a sphinx will name names. Have Jorjo hit immediately.”
“They have him tucked away pretty securely.”
“His mistress?”
“Tucked away.”
“What have we got?”
“I have a friend there who could round up a fire team.”
“Do it.” Back to the second lieutenant: “What about the turnover?”
“Status quo, sir.”
“Luxembourg and Australia?”
“They’ve agreed to join the pack.”
“How many is that?”
“Eight.”
“Good. Michael, what’s going on with Citra?”
“She’s being executed Friday.”
“Get our liaison to buy her freedom. Give him a million.”
“He’s being executed with her.”
“Goddam it! She’s the best distributor in Malaya.”
“She was.”
“What about Russia?”
“The ban on farms growing poppies shot opium prices sky high.”
“Addicts’ll pay the difference. Take advantage of the revolt of the ruble. And, oh yes, on the baseball scandal? Kill any bastard selling drugs to ballplayers. I love that game. Don’t fuck around with baseball. Ever.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Citra. Break her out. Understand? I don’t care how, but you break her out before Friday and find her a spot in Burma. Or in Thailand. How’s McCall doing?”
“Still hooked on his own heroin.”
“Send his ashes to some anti-smoking organization. What about that Fed mole in Chicago?”
The first lieutenant: “Turned out to be Arnie Campbell.”
The second lieutenant choked on his drink.
“Drown him,” Hampshire said.
The second lieutenant: “
He’s my wife’s cousin!
”
“I know,” Hampshire said.
“She won’t like him swallowing half of Lake Michigan.”
“Neither will he. What progress on Jose Alvarado?”
The first again, worry lines deepening: “The Left’s kidnapping candidates, the Right’s assassinating them. Jose doesn’t know what side
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