The Monkey Handlers Page 7

  A customer entered the store. Instantly, Ira Levin was the storekeeper everyone knew. “Counselor, you’re gonna do great. You’re gonna do better than Tom Dewey. Dewey hell, Oliver Wendell Holmes!”

  They reached the door. As he patted Stone on the back when they walked through it, Levin muttered: “Watch your back, counselor, yours is not a popular cause.”

  “Thanks,” Stone whispered back. Then, loudly: “See you, Ira!”

  * * *

  “This will do very well,” said Helmar Metz, the small eyes in his heavy-boned face sweeping over the private bathroom off Georg Kramer’s office suite. “The facilities are sufficient. I sleep on the sofa. The food will be brought up from your employee dining room.”

  Kramer, standing so close to Metz that when the burly German turned to move away from the bathroom door they nearly collided, was unhappy at the prospective intrusion. “But,” he protested as he backpedaled, “wouldn’t you be much more comfortable at a hotel? We could…”

  Metz stared at Kramer for a moment, then spoke slowly and deliberately for emphasis: “I … am … not … here. Can’t you understand that!”

  Kramer looked miserable. He stood motionless, not knowing what to do or say next. Metz had no such problem. He picked up the briefcase that had been the subject of attempted theft at the airport and put it on Kramer’s desk, then sat himself in Kramer’s desk chair and opened the briefcase. He looked up for a moment at Kramer, said, “Sit, sit,” then turned his attention to the telephone on Kramer’s desk.

  By those two words, and by planting himself firmly behind Kramer’s desk, Metz assumed de facto command of the Riegar facility at Rhinekill, and Kramer, by sitting gingerly in a leather wing chair to the side of his own desk, confirmed it in the minds of the four vice presidents he had assembled in his office to meet Metz.

  Metz busied himself removing the thin wire that led into Kramer’s telephone and plugging it into a receptacle in the portable secure telephone inside the briefcase. Kramer sought to recover some of the face he had just lost before his vice presidents. “You won’t need that,” Kramer said. “All plants are equipped with scrambler phones to protect proprietary information in conversations with Germany. Mine is inside the long cabinet behind you.”

  “The scrambler system is obsolete,” said Metz. “On my recommendation, it is being replaced by units like this. It uses advanced techniques for voice digitization, an enhanced LPC-10, and sophisticated digital encryption algorithm. Voice signals are transformed into a stream of digits, then encrypted by a randomly generated three-level key system that produces different combinations up to ten to the fiftieth power. Far superior to anything used in the past. Any questions?”

  The vice presidents, to a man and woman, looked nearly as uncomfortable as Kramer. The three men sat on the sofa that Metz had selected as his sleeping place. The woman was seated in an armchair diagonally across from the wing chair occupied by Kramer.

  The room reeked of wealth derived from science. A century-old thirty-by-forty-foot Kirman covered the floor. On the paneled wood walls hung framed and matted originals of patents issued by governments around the globe granting Riegar a long-term monopoly on drugs the world believed it could not live without. Interspersed were autographed photographs of famed inventors from Edison on up to Dr. Riegar himself, an unloved tyrant during his lifetime, now venerated as the company founder.

  Kramer made the introductions. He started with the woman: “Marilyn Winter, Sales and Marketing; Steve Brikell, Production; Bob Hunt, Administration, and I believe you know Dr. Letzger, Research.”

  Each of those introduced mumbled in turn a polite response, except Dr. Letzger, who merely nodded. Metz gave only the barest recognition of the introductions by eyeing each in turn, adding a slight nod. He sat hunched over, elbows on the desk, hands clasped, massive shoulders straining at the seams of his suit coat.

  “You are all aware of why I am here?” Metz asked the group.

  “Dr. Letzger, of course, as well as myself,” Kramer replied for them all, “and I thought that in view of their positions, you might want to fill in Steve, Bob, and Marilyn on a need-to-know basis.”

  “If I might just interject, at this point,” said Marilyn Winter, “I think if we just keep cool and low-key and avoid overreacting, this whole animal-rights protest thing will have no effect on sales. I mean, our products carry no visible sign of connection to animals. It’s not as if we’re talking fur coats here.”

  “There’s been no effect to date on production,” chimed in Steven Brikell. “Our workers are loyal to the company, and, if anything, resent these people. I’m inclined to go along with Marilyn.”

  “And you, Bob?” asked Kramer, trying to reassert himself.

  “Administratively, we’ve had no problems, and I don’t foresee any. If there’s any wish to change guard companies because of the incident last night, it won’t be a problem. Easy to do. Rent-a-cops are all pretty much the same, though—under their company discipline, not ours. I want to point out,” he added defensively, “that none of them report to Administration. The only analogous situation is the monkey handle … er, Dr. Letzger’s personnel, and,” he added quickly, “there has been no problem with them. I have no problem with them reporting directly to Dr. Letzger.…”

  “What did you call Dr. Letzger’s people?” asked Metz, fixing a squirming Hunt with a baleful stare and leaning even farther forward.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunt apologized. “It’s a slang term, a nickname used by the other workers to refer to Dr. Letzger’s assistants.”

  “All of whom were personally selected by me,” said Metz.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hunt, flushing at his blunder.

  “Thank you all for your views,” Metz said. It was a dismissal. He moved back to an upright position in his chair. Then, to Letzger, he said, “Doctor, if you will stay with us please.”

  Letzger remained seated as the other three rose and left the room.

  “Your assessment of the damage?” Metz queried.

  “I don’t know. The woman saw, so far as we know, only one laboratory, and it was empty of test subjects. You are familiar with the equipment that is in there. We don’t know how long she was there—not long from the report. Everything was there to be photographed, but we don’t know if she photographed anything at all. None were found, then or later.”

  “Later? What do you mean, later?” Metz leaned forward again.

  Dr. Letzger read the anger in his superior’s eyes and the forward lean. Letzger was good at body language.

  “I believe that question would more properly be directed to Herr Kramer.” Letzger and Metz were speaking English for Kramer’s benefit. The lapse into the German Herr betrayed an anxiety otherwise masked completely.

  “So?” Metz looked to Kramer.

  “On my order,” Kramer said, trying to be mindful about it, “two of Dr. Letzger’s men searched the girl’s apartment for the photographs, on the theory that she might have had an undiscovered accomplice or corrupted the guard to get them out. They found none.”

  “On your orders! You knew I would be here today. You know I am responsible for resolving this matter. And yet you use two of my men for something that even now must be reported to the police and can only call more attention … ach!” Metz’s disgust was enough to propel him to a standing position. He started to pace.

  “What else?” Metz bellowed.

  “What?” said Kramer.

  “What else has been done without my knowledge or approval?”

  “Nothing … only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Some motorcycle people … thugs, really … have been recruited to make life difficult for the demonstrators.”

  “A further escalation! More attention called! Cancel it!”

  Kramer was wilting under Metz’s anger. “I’m afraid that might be hard to do. They were rather enthusiastic about the idea. I think they might have been willing to do it even without the money
.”

  “Pay them more. ‘Money talks’ is an American saying, not so?”

  “And bullshit walks,” Kramer muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  “I said I’ll take care of it,” Kramer said, a bit too loudly.

  Metz let it go. “Good,” he said, then turned from Kramer back to Letzger.

  “So. Everything in the laboratory was exposed to the intruding woman, who had a camera, but no film was found. We must assume she could have seen the scale.”

  “Yes,” Letzger agreed.

  “And that at least one or more of the photographs, if any, might show it.”

  “Yes.”

  Kramer brightened as a thought occurred to him.

  “She’s promised a press interview. It might even develop into a conference. Her lawyer opposes it, but she wants to do it. The point is, the scale is of such importance that she could not fail to stress it if she saw it. It will be her whole story.”

  “She would need proof,” Letzger opined. “A photograph could give her that.”

  “No,” said Kramer, “it would be circumstantial evidence but not proof. Her lawyer would know that and certainly tell her. And without proof, the charge would be viewed as the hysterical and incredible imaginings of a woman given to extremes, such as burglary to find a pet cat—if we are to believe her—or a calculated smear by someone in the employ of competitors seeking to distract attention from her attempt at industrial espionage—our position. Either way, I think the situation can be contained.”

  Metz pounced. “How do you know she promised a press interview, and her lawyer opposed it?”

  Kramer’s expression was that of a man who’s stepped into the same trap twice. “I had our security company assign one of its investigators to follow the girl and her lawyer. He overheard the conversation in a hall in the courthouse.”

  “I ask you again. What more have you put in motion without my authority!”

  “Nothing,” the hapless Kramer replied. “That’s it.”

  “Call him off. I will handle everything from now on with the people I placed under Dr. Letzger.” Metz stopped pacing and looked from Letzger to Kramer. “The other three who were just in here. They know nothing of the special laboratory work, or the object of the research?”

  “Nothing,” Kramer said. Letzger nodded in assent.

  “I brought them up here for two reasons,” Kramer continued. “One, so that they would not question your being in charge managing this particular crisis; two, because to exclude them would have caused them to wonder why.”

  Metz understood Kramer’s first reason to be a lie. Kramer had hoped to be in control himself and impress the others with that for future reference. The tactic had backfired on him. Metz let it pass. He was content to win the engagement. Kramer wasn’t fooling Letzger and certainly not himself.

  “All right,” said Metz, seating himself again, “the heart of our vulnerability is that we cannot suspend operations. The experiments must proceed. We are already behind schedule, and the deadline must be met. When do the next subjects arrive?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Letzger. “As usual. By rail to our siding.”

  “That’s not how you ship the product when ready?”

  “No. We have a dock, and the Hudson River is navigable by oceangoing vessels. The product will go by sea.” Letzger rose and went to the windows overlooking the river eighteen stories below. “You can see it from here.”

  Mertz got up, walked over to the window, and looked down where Letzger was pointing. Between the side of the building and a heavy shipping pier was a single track siding and a traveling crane to serve either railroad flatcars or the cargo holds of a freighter. Between the large pier jutting into the river, a breakwater several hundred yards to the north, and a floating gate between them was created a huge water-filled enclosure.

  Metz looked at the enclosure appreciatively. “Is it tidal?”

  “Yes.”

  “There will be underwater machinery for the gate—piles, muck, and debris. The tide and the dredged cavity will make for powerful currents. The water will be dark, dirty, and cold.”

  Kramer had joined them. “I suspect you’re right. How do you know?”

  “I was Kampfschwimmer for the Bundeskriegsmarine,” Metz replied. “I spent much time in such places. And worse.”

  “Kampfschwimmer?” asked Kramer.

  “Frogman for the West German navy,” Letzger translated.

  That, thought Kramer, accounted for the massive thickness of Metz’s upper body and, perhaps, for the aggressiveness of his personality.

  Metz turned away from the window, dismissing his reminiscences.

  “What do we know about the girl?”

  “Virtually nothing,” said Kramer. “She’s not from around here. Came here about the time the demonstrations started. Does not appear to have much money. Lives in a very modest apartment.”

  “And her lawyer? He is good?”

  “Him we know more about. I checked him out through our local law firm. Nothing very special. About your age—also ex-navy, I might add. Modest real estate law practice. The odd thing about him—about his being the lawyer for this girl—is that so far as anyone can remember, this is his first criminal-law case. It’s something of a mystery why she chose him. Other than that he’s probably quite cheap compared to an established criminal lawyer.”

  “So?” Metz raised his eyebrows. “Some romantic attachment, perhaps?”

  “Not unless it developed in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe she was looking for a bodyguard as much as a lawyer. He’s a big guy, ex-athlete, who’s said to spend as much time keeping in shape as practicing law. But a loner. Nobody close to him.”

  Metz digested Kramer’s information. Then he said, “Those ruffians with the motorcycles. Have them test him. I want to know what we’re up against in him. And have that security company try to find out anything on the girl’s background. I want it quickly. Double the security guards; that would be normal in a situation like this. And, Dr. Letzger, I want to speak privately with all your men as soon as they can be assembled.”

  * * *

  Progress came slowly, if at all, to Rhinekill. So it was that the telephone booth into which Michael Stone had stuffed his broad shoulders was the old-fashioned, total-enclosure kind. The fan didn’t work, so to keep from being stifled, Stone propped the door open as he spoke to Aunt May.

  “But she’s my client, and there’s a number of things I need to talk to her about as soon as possible.…”

  “Now you listen to me, young man! That girl is exhausted. She fell asleep in the bathtub. Didn’t wake up till the water got cold. I put her to bed, and that’s where she’s staying till she wakes up again. Then I’m going to feed her a good hot meal and send her back to bed. There’s nothing you have to talk about that’s so important it can’t wait until morning.”

  “Okay, okay, morning. But is it all right if I come over and pick up a few more things? I need some athletic stuff and underwear.”

  “You may so long as you don’t try to bother Sara.”

  “Promise. Any mail?”

  “Just the latest case supplement from West Publishing and a navy-reunion final reminder for you—”

  Stone felt a pang at the mention of the navy reunion and cut off Aunt May. “File the case supplement for me, will you, Mazie? And stick the reunion notice in the letter holder on my desk.”

  “All right.” Aunt May continued as if uninterrupted, “—some bills for me and a package for Sara.”

  “A package for Sara! Addressed to 182 Garden?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone’s mind raced. “Has she seen it yet?”

  “I told you, she’s asleep. I’m not going to wake her up for some mail.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “On the table in the law library, where I always leave the mail.”

  “Mazie. Listen to me carefully. Wake up Sara. Throw a robe on her and get her and y
ourself out of the house. Do it now! I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! I’ll not have that young girl running around outside in her bathrobe! What’s all this about, for heaven’s sake?”

  Stone invoked his command voice from his navy days: “Mazie, do as I told you! Immediately! Take her in the backyard if you’re worried about how she looks. And don’t tell her about the package. She’ll be curious and want to open it. Don’t touch it. I’ll explain when I get there, which’ll be as fast as I can.”

  5

  Michael stone’s mind was racing faster than the Mustang as he turned it onto Garden Street. The nearest bomb squad was in New York City, eighty miles south. Handling the package that was lying on the conference-room table would be up to him. He searched his memory for what he had learned in Explosive Ordnance Disposal class years ago and grimaced at the first thing that popped into his mind, Master Chief Swenson smiling at the class and announcing, “Just in case there’s any swingin’ dick here ain’t motivated to pay attention, remember rule number one.” The smile widened to a grin. “You fuck up, you blow up. Any questions?”

  As he swerved into his driveway, Stone had plenty of questions—and few answers. The problem with the EOD course was that it was named correctly, explosive ordnance disposal. All sorts of mines, from pressure to magnetic, but no letter bombs. He’d have to rely on general principles.

  * * *

  Aunt May and Sara Rosen were waiting under the porte cochere as Stone drove up to it. Before he could get out of the car, Sara was at the driver’s side window. She looked ridiculous, swallowed up as she was in his terry-cloth robe, but any inclination he had to laugh was suppressed by the look on her face and the tone of exasperation in her voice as she said, “Now, what!”