was at the head of the table. He didn’t look
upon himself as a criminal; he looked upon himself as a man who wished to
maintain the status quo.
He was one of a small group of Southern
millionaires who had made their money in the small-arm trade. Theirs was a
giant business: it was the right of every American citizen under Amendment Two
of the Constitution to bear arms, and one in every four American males
exercised that right. A regular pistol or revolver could be had for as little
as $100 but the fancy shotguns and rifles that were a status symbol to many
patriots could fetch as much as $10,000. The Chairman and his ilk sold handguns
by the millions and shotguns by the tens of thousands. It had not been hard to
persuade Ronald Reagan to leave the arms trade alone, but they knew they were
never going to convince Florentyna Kane. The Gun
Control bill had already squeaked through the House, and unless some drastic
action were taken, there was undoubtedly going to be the same result in the
Senate. To preserve the status quo, therefore, the Chairman sat at the head of
their table.
He opened the meeting formally, as any
regular chairman would, by asking for reports from his men in the field. First
Matson.
The big nose bobbed, the heavy jaw moved.
‘I was tuned into the FBI’s Channel One.’
During his years as an FBI agent, preparing for a career in crime, Matson had
stolen one of the Bureau’s special portable walkie-talkies. He had signed it
out for some routine purpose and then reported that it was lost. He was
reprimanded and had to reimburse the Bureau; it had been a small price to pay
for the privilege of listening to FBI communications. ‘I knew the Greek waiter
was hiding somewhere in Washington, and I suspected that because of his leg
injury, he would eventually have to go to one of DCs five hospitals. I guessed
he wouldn’t end up with a private doctor, too expensive. Then I heard that
bastard Stames come up on Channel One.’
‘Cut out the profanity, if you please,’
said the Chairman.
Stames had given Matson four reprimands during his service with the FBI.
Matson did not mourn his death. He started again.
‘I heard Stames come up on Channel One, on his way to Woodrow Wilson Medical Center ,
to ask a Father Gregory to go to the Greek. It was a long shot, of course, but
I remembered that Stames was a Greek himself, and it
wasn’t hard to trace Father Gregory. I just caught him as he was about to
leave. I told him the Greek had been discharged from the hospital and that his
services would no longer be needed. And thanked him. With Stames dead, no one is likely to follow that one up and, if they do, they won’t be any the wiser. I then went to the nearest Greek Orthodox
church and stole the vestments, a hat, a veil, and a cross and I drove to
Woodrow Wilson. By the time I arrived, Stames and
Calvert had already left. I learned from the receptionist on duty that the two
men from the FBI had returned to their office. I didn’t ask fortoo much
detail as I didn’t want to be remembered, I discovered which room Casefikis was in and it was simple to reach there unnoticed.
I slipped in. He was sound asleep. I cut his throat.’
The Senator winced.
‘There was a nigger in the bed next to him,
we couldn’t take the risk. He might have overheard everything, and he might
have given a description of me, so I cut his throat too.’
The Senator felt sick. He hadn’t wanted
these men to die. The Chairman had showed no emotion, the difference between a
professional and an amateur.
‘Then I called Tony in the car. He drove to
the Washington Field Office and saw Stames and
Calvert coming out of the building together. I then contacted you, boss, and
Tony carried out your orders.’
The Chairman passed over a packet. It was
one hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. All American employ- yees are paid by seniority and achievement; it was no different in the criminal
world.
‘Tony.’
‘When the two men left the Old
upon himself as a criminal; he looked upon himself as a man who wished to
maintain the status quo.
He was one of a small group of Southern
millionaires who had made their money in the small-arm trade. Theirs was a
giant business: it was the right of every American citizen under Amendment Two
of the Constitution to bear arms, and one in every four American males
exercised that right. A regular pistol or revolver could be had for as little
as $100 but the fancy shotguns and rifles that were a status symbol to many
patriots could fetch as much as $10,000. The Chairman and his ilk sold handguns
by the millions and shotguns by the tens of thousands. It had not been hard to
persuade Ronald Reagan to leave the arms trade alone, but they knew they were
never going to convince Florentyna Kane. The Gun
Control bill had already squeaked through the House, and unless some drastic
action were taken, there was undoubtedly going to be the same result in the
Senate. To preserve the status quo, therefore, the Chairman sat at the head of
their table.
He opened the meeting formally, as any
regular chairman would, by asking for reports from his men in the field. First
Matson.
The big nose bobbed, the heavy jaw moved.
‘I was tuned into the FBI’s Channel One.’
During his years as an FBI agent, preparing for a career in crime, Matson had
stolen one of the Bureau’s special portable walkie-talkies. He had signed it
out for some routine purpose and then reported that it was lost. He was
reprimanded and had to reimburse the Bureau; it had been a small price to pay
for the privilege of listening to FBI communications. ‘I knew the Greek waiter
was hiding somewhere in Washington, and I suspected that because of his leg
injury, he would eventually have to go to one of DCs five hospitals. I guessed
he wouldn’t end up with a private doctor, too expensive. Then I heard that
bastard Stames come up on Channel One.’
‘Cut out the profanity, if you please,’
said the Chairman.
Stames had given Matson four reprimands during his service with the FBI.
Matson did not mourn his death. He started again.
‘I heard Stames come up on Channel One, on his way to Woodrow Wilson Medical Center ,
to ask a Father Gregory to go to the Greek. It was a long shot, of course, but
I remembered that Stames was a Greek himself, and it
wasn’t hard to trace Father Gregory. I just caught him as he was about to
leave. I told him the Greek had been discharged from the hospital and that his
services would no longer be needed. And thanked him. With Stames dead, no one is likely to follow that one up and, if they do, they won’t be any the wiser. I then went to the nearest Greek Orthodox
church and stole the vestments, a hat, a veil, and a cross and I drove to
Woodrow Wilson. By the time I arrived, Stames and
Calvert had already left. I learned from the receptionist on duty that the two
men from the FBI had returned to their office. I didn’t ask fortoo much
detail as I didn’t want to be remembered, I discovered which room Casefikis was in and it was simple to reach there unnoticed.
I slipped in. He was sound asleep. I cut his throat.’
The Senator winced.
‘There was a nigger in the bed next to him,
we couldn’t take the risk. He might have overheard everything, and he might
have given a description of me, so I cut his throat too.’
The Senator felt sick. He hadn’t wanted
these men to die. The Chairman had showed no emotion, the difference between a
professional and an amateur.
‘Then I called Tony in the car. He drove to
the Washington Field Office and saw Stames and
Calvert coming out of the building together. I then contacted you, boss, and
Tony carried out your orders.’
The Chairman passed over a packet. It was
one hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. All American employ- yees are paid by seniority and achievement; it was no different in the criminal
world.
‘Tony.’
‘When the two men left the Old
Similar Books
