“No. She seemed flattered at our interest.
“Hmm.”
“There are not many descendants alive—ten in total. All of whom live in Greater
Atlanta, except two—her nephew and his daughter who live in Macon.” She handed him the list.
Sloan identified himself to Carol Morgan, but when he was about to pose his first question, she interrupted. “Perhaps you should tell me your interest, Professor. I’ve already given information about our family to your secretary, but I’d like to know more about who I’m talking to and why.”
“Yes, of course. We’ve found what may be a curiosity concerning the early hi story of International Construction Products, Inc., and your grandmother.”
“A curiosity, Professor? Hmm. Well, before you tell me yours, let me tell you mine.”
“Yours?”
“I’ve never in my life had anything to do with ICP and now I’ve had two contacts in what—four days?”
“Another contact?”
“A man named Stanley Webb called last Sunday. He identified himself as an employee of ICP and said permission to visit. I agreed and he came to my house. It turned out he was also concerned with my husband’s Grandmother Morgan.”
“OK.”
“It seems the Company had discovered she had lent some money to the Company when it was just getting started and had not been re-paid. A thousand dollars, around the turn of the century. The Company people had added up the interest from the time they thought the money should have been re-paid until today. A bit more than twenty-six thousand dollars. Can you imagine?”
“The compounding of interest produces amazing effects.”
“The Company had found there were nine adult descendants and one child, David’s daughter, Debra Ann. They are going to round the twenty-six thousand to twenty-seven thousand, then give the nine—Debbie doesn’t get any money—an equal share. Three thousand dollars.”
“Interesting.”
“He showed me something he called a ‘release’ form. It just said signing it meant whoever signed would no longer have any claims of any kind on ICP. It didn’t relate to me, of course, since it was my husband—who’s deceased—who was a descendant of Grandmother Morgan. Everyone is supposed to sign it. He said if I would call everyone, he would follow with a visit. I was about to agree to make the calls, when he offered to pay me a thousand dollars for my trouble.”
“Hmm,” Sloan said.
“I told him the offer seemed to be to everyone’s advantage, but I wasn’t going to actually recommend it—and so wouldn’t take his money. Each one would have to judge for himself—except I did recommend signing it to my sister-inlaw, Cynthia, who’s not very sophisticated in such matters.”
“I see.”
“And so I called everyone I could.”
“That you could?”
“I was unable to contact two. My father-inlaw, who’s in a nursing home, and my daughter, who’s out of the country.”
“I see.”
“There’s one problem for everyone, though. To get the money right away, everybody has to sign. If everyone doesn’t sign right away, the signers have to wait for a year from the date he or she signs.”
“Pressure to sign. Do you happen to know how the signing is coming along?”
“No—except, as I said, my sister-inlaw, Cynthia, signed. Mr. Webb said he’d be in touch when they were ready to send checks, but I haven’t heard how it’s going.” She paused. “There’s a big problem, anyway, since my father-inlaw has to sign.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“He’s in very poor health—often comatose. Mr. Webb will have to find him awake and then hope he stays awake long enough to hear the whole explanation. And after that, hope he’ll sign.”
“He might not?”
“My brother-in-law Will was killed in an auto accident in 1966. Will, Senior, thought the Company might have been responsible. He might not sign just because it’s ICP.”
“I see.”
“Well, Professor—Sloan, was it?”
“Yes, Tom Sloan.”
“Well, I’ve rambled on, haven’t I?”
“I appreciate your helping me.”
“Now, what about your daughter?”
“Celia’s out of the country on one of her buying trips.”
“A buying trip?”
“For Rich’s. She’s in East Africa right now and won’t be home until the middle of the month or so. Mr. Webb isn’t going to get finished with his signatures until at least the third week in June—unless he wants to go to Africa, of course.”
“Interesting. Hmm, well, Mrs. Morgan, thank you very much for your time. I may want to talk to you again.”
“Any time, Professor.”
Sloan called the other names on the list, except for Cynthia Morgan. All had signed, except John Hawkins Morgan, Sr., at the Hiram A. Smith Home for the Elderly, in Coral Gables, Florida, and Celia Jane Morgan, visiting the native weavers in the uplands outside Nairobi.
Derek David Morgan’s reaction to Sloan’s call was different from those of the other family members. Morgan, a thirty-one year-old bachelor employed at the big General Motors assembly plant in Doraville, was several thousand dollars behind with one Joseph Contandino, an unsympathetic bookie. Three thousand dollars wasn’t going to settle things with Joe, but it would calm him down. But Morgan wasn’t going to come into any money until his fancy cousin got home. Morgan decided to let the man at ICP know about the telephone call.
“And what did this professor want?”
“This is second-hand—Aunt Carol to Mother to me. He just said he was looking into the old days at ICP and had found some papers that might mean something to Daphne Morgan’s heirs.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Yeah, but I forget.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“OK, thanks for calling.”
“Let me know if I can do anything to help out. I could sure use this little present from Great Granny.”
Harding took Sloan’s call immediately. “What do you have?”
Sloan described his progress.
“A release! From what?”
“I haven’t seen the document, but it sounds like a standard sort of form. “Do we know how the campaign’s going?” Harding voice had a frantic note. Sloan repeated Carol Morgan’s status report.
“They’ve tipped their hand.”
“Tipped their hand?”
“They really do have some sort of problem.”
“Yes, but we knew about the unpaid debt. What we don’t know is what claims the
Morgan family members have given up.”
“How much are they giving the descendants?”
Sloan described Carol Morgan’s explanation. “Rounded to three thousand each.” “What about inflation? That ought to amount to more than the interest?” “Not mentioned. Principal and interest.”
Harding paused. “Well, it does make a certain amount of sense, but...” “But, what?”
“Well, ask yourself this: if a world-wide industrial empire could have gotten rid of a
problem for twenty-seven thousand dollars —and a lot less each year one steps back in time—don’t you think the ICP lads would have done it long time ago?”
“Yes.”
“So, then, my academic young friend, if they could have fixed it for twenty-seven thousand or less, why didn’t they? Answer: they had no reason until now to try.” He paused. “Now, comes the real question: what aspect of that loan couldn’t be fixed by just paying twentyseven thousand dollars?”
“Uh…”
“It’s called the default provision, young business professor—what was to happen if the Company didn’t repay the loan.”
June 16, Atlanta.
Mangrum called McQuade the following morning. “We encrypted?”
McQuade looked at the computergenerated display. “Yes.”
“OK, I want to keep you in the
picture regarding Stan’s efforts. You might have to
step in at any time. He’s gone to visit one of the descendants, a son, William Hawkins Morgan, in a nursing home in Coral Gables.”
“OK.”
“He’ll be in touch with me after he determines the old man’s condition.” “OK.”
“Now, the professor has been contacting the woman’s descendants. He’s gotten the
woman’s name from the copy of the minutes you tried to doctor, hasn’t he?” “And the minutes his man saw at the bank, as well,” McQuade pointed out before he
realized the implications of his statement.
“Incredible! While you were fiddling with your fakes, why didn’t you excise the
woman’s name?”
There was no response.
“All you had to do was cut the name—or change it to something that couldn’t be
traced! Mary Smith. Or leave out any reference to a debt altogether. There would have
been no problem. Stupid.”
Again, there was no response.
“Wait, McQuade. I’m losing my perspective. It’s time for this professor to suffer an
accident.
”McQuade gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Call Seamus.”
“But shouldn’t Josh...”
“We need the first team on. Tell Seamus what he needs in order to deal with this guy.
Tell him it’s to be very accidental.”
Chapter 15
June 17, Atlanta.
McQuade waited as long as he dared. If his delay in contacting Hanrahan couldn’t be
explained, Mangrum would be informed of his reticence.
“You’re late with your call, McQuade.” As usual, Mangrum had told Hanrahan to
expect McQuade’s call.
“I had some other…”
“Who has the file?”
“Josh.”
Webb arrived in Miami mid-afternoon, rented a car at the airport, and drove to the Hiram A. Smith Home for the Elderly in Coral Gables.
After a minor bout with the receptionist in the main lobby, he approached the third floor supervisor. Mr. Morgan was unconscious. He might awaken in ‘five minutes, five days, or never’.
Webb explained his mission.
She could appreciate the value of Mr. Webb’s talking with the patient, but there was nothing she could do. But, for a fifty-dollar recognition of the extra effort that would be entailed for her, she allowed Webb to remain in the small waiting room for Mr. Morgan’s return to consciousness.
The patient had not regained consciousness by the end of the second shift. For an additional fifty dollars, Webb was allowed to remain for the next sixteen hours.
June 18, Atlanta. When Sloan and Tyler left their table at The Varsity, there were more patrons departing than entering. Tyler was behind Sloan as they reached the handicapped parking spaces outside the entrance.
A pretty co-ed crossing the parking lot toward the entrance was struggling with a load of books. Her effort to keep the load balanced became critical as she paused in front of Sloan.
“May I...?” he began, when the entire pile of books fell at his feet.
“Ooooh! Sorry!”
“No problem,” Sloan said, smiling.
She smiled at Sloan, then they both stooped to retrieve the books.
By the time they had retrieved the books, the girl had shifted her position so she was
now closer to the restaurant’s e ntrance than Sloan. Sloan was already standing when the girl lurched upward toward him, turned her body, and drove her shoulder into his abdomen. Sloan staggered backwards into the parking lot. An old blue Ford Ranger approached from the left, accelerating and steering toward Sloan.
Tyler grabbed Sloan’s c ollar and jerked him backward. Sloan was brushed by the right front fender, then hit by the right-side mirror. The impact spun Sloan back into the co-ed, who dropped her books and ran into the restaurant.
The old truck sped through the remainder of the parking lot, made a sharp right turn onto North Avenue, and joined the westbound traffic toward the Coca-Cola Tower in the distance.
A small crowd gathered around Sloan. He waved his arm to deprecate the extent of his injuries. “No problem at all,” he said to the group. “Ought to be more careful.” When the first supervisor Webb had met returned for her next shift, she found him asleep on a couch.
Minutes later, the supervisor shook Webb’s shoulder, crooked a finger, and led him to room 318. Webb placed a chair beside the patient’s bed and began speaking, when the old man rolled away from him. Webb walked to the far side of the bed. The man was emaciated, yellow-white hair falling across closed eyes. His mouth hung open, his breath was a rasp.
Webb forced another fifty dollars on the supervisor in return for the promise of a telephone call when the patient awakened.
Webb checked into the Hyatt Regency on Alhambra Plaza, then called the third floor nurses’ station. There was no change in Mr. Morgan’s condition.
Mid-afternoon, Harding returned a call from Sloan, who described the incident. “How badly are you hurt? Been to see a doctor?”
“No. Just bruises.”
“What happened to the truck? Anyone get a license plate number. What about the
girl?”
“The truck roared away. No one had time to see a tag number. And we don’t know
what happened to the girl. It may be significant that no one—at least while we were still
around—returned to claim the books.”
Harding was silent for a few moments. “So what do you make of this, Professor?” “I’d like to think it was an accident, but...”
“Accident, my foot! It should be obvious you are on to something important enough
for someone to try to kill you.”
“That’s Woody’s reaction.”
“Well, then, what do you propose to do?” There was a taunt in Harding’s voice. “Off
to Delaware?”
“No. Interjecting myself in ICP’s release plan may have triggered today’s activities.
Worth some more investigation.”
“Keep me informed.”
Mangrum called Seamus Hanrahan. “And?” “No dice. S ome guy pulled him back from in front of the truck. Good plan, but little damage.”
“An obvious intent?”
“No.”
“OK.”
“Anything more on this?”
“No. Let’s wait for now. Maybe he got our message.”
“Question: have you thought about tapping this guy’s phone?”
“I haven’t. Maybe McQuade has—although he hasn’t mentioned it.” “You should.”
“Tell Josh to handle it.”
Hanrahan called Bartlett.
“Walter’s having some trouble with a professor at Tech. Guy named Thomas Sloan. Tap his phones —office and home. McQuade can give you the numbers and locations.” “Whose idea is this?” Bartlett said. It was a turf question.
“My idea, Walter’s order.”
“OK.”
“Give the cassettes to Walter.”
“Done.”
Chapter 16
June 19, Atlanta. By dawn the next day, Sloan had convinced himself it was his responsibility to stop the ICP juggernaut. He was certain he had Harding’s full support—if not direct orders— to do so.
Celia Morgan was the key to ICP’s co mpletion of its release program. If she could be dissuaded from signing the release, the mechanism would grind to a halt, providing time to unravel the puzzle.
He called Carol Morgan. “Mrs. Morgan, this is Tom Sloan again.”
“Good morning.”
“I’d like to be in touch with your daughter.”
“That’s fine, but the only thing I can do is to suggest you call Rich’s. I got a postcard
from her a few days ago from near some volcano crater, but she was going to be there just for the day. Rich’s travel people are your bes
t bet.” She was about to hang up, when she added, “Oh, if you find her, tell her to let us know when she’ll be home.”
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Morgan.” That same morning, Webb called Mangrum in Hong Kong.
“Where are you?”
“Coral Gables.”
“What’s the status?” Mangrum demanded.
“Are we encrypted?”
“Yes.”
“The subject’s in a nursing home. He spends most of his time in a coma, in the late
stage of diabetes. I started telling my story yesterday afternoon, but he passed out before I could make my pitch. I’ve been part-time hanging around the hospital floor waiting room and part-time at a hotel, with the floor supervisor bribed to call me if he wakes up.”
“What’s the prognosis?” “They don’t know when or if he’ll wake up.” Webb hesitated. “Should we close his file?”
“I don’t want another death if we can avoid it.”
“Another death?”
“You haven’t been fully briefed, Stan. Tell me when the woman’s due back?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out, yet. ‘Later this month’ was the best her mother could tell me.”
“OK, get on that—it’s critical.”
“OK.”
“If he hasn’t signed by the time she’s headed for Atlanta, we’ll make a decision at that time. We can fly you back to Atlanta to deal with her, then have Josh send someone there who hasn’t been seen. If she signs, we’ll only be looking at one corpse. In any case, you’ll have been gone from the scene for a few days when he dies. Understand?”
“I do.”
June 21, Atlanta. Isabelle Applegate told Sloan she’d know where Celia Morgan was as soon as she knew where she’d misplaced her itinerary. Would the Professor care to hold or call back? Sloan said Ms. Ames would hold.
“Here we are,” Isabelle exclaimed. “They’re in Mombasa.”
“Which is where, please?”
“Kenya. Last night, tonight, and tomorrow night she’s at the Kenyatta Imperial
Hotel.”
“Do you have a telephone number?”
“Yes, but I recommend a cable.”
“Do you have a cable address?”
“Yessss,” Isabelle said, straining as she reached for a directory. “Here it is: K-N-YS-M-B-SA.”
“And she’ll be there through the morning of the twenty -third?”
“That’s correct.”
The Dryden Note Page 9
