She went back to the living room on her way, pulling a thin antenna from its place in the flat metallic box of her device, which looked something like a small cigarette case. She placed it next to the TV phone and pressed a stud. It began to hum faintly.
She sat down on the couch, turned on her transceiver, flicked the scrambler button, and dialed.
The answering voice came almost immediately.
Lee said hurriedly, “I’ll have to make this quick. There’s a bug in my suite. I have the muffler on but heaven knows what would happen if some monitor was checking manually. So, briefly, everything is going better than we could have dreamed of. I am the Secretary of Sheila Duff-Roberts, the secretary of the Central Committee. I am meeting the ten members, one by one by one. So far, I have found more division among them than we had known. Grace Cabot-Hudson is to be replaced; the Graf and the Prophet are top contenders for her position. Both will add to the extremist element in the Committee.”
A thin, faraway voice spoke from the transceiver.
Then she said hurriedly, “I must go. There is to be a party tonight which I’ll attend. Meanwhile, check this, if you can. A Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, was the former holder of my job. I don’t know what happened to her but I was indirectly informed today that once one takes a job this close to the Central Committee one doesn’t quit. Obvious question: where is the McGivern girl?”
The voice spoke again.
And Lee said, “I’ll be very careful. I’m a little afraid.” She switched off the transceiver, hurried over to the muffler and deactivated it as well, then took it back into the office and hid it again.
Chapter Eighteen: Jeremiah Auburn
It soon came to Lee Garrett, when she attended the party in the ballroom of the Palazzo Colonna, why Sheila Duff-Roberts’s position was so important. The Committee itself was undoubtedly the most informal presiding body of a large and influential organization of which she had never heard. Sheila’s office held it all together. Present at the get-together were nine of the ten Central Committee members, about a score of candidate members, and another score or so of prominent supporters and employees of the World Club who had not as yet attained Central Committee rank, but were knowledgeable of its secret nature and headed various of the foundations, research groups, pressure groups, and lobbies. All were in formal dress but that was as near as Lee could see to it being a formal affair. She would have called it a cocktail party, at most. The buffet was one of the most elaborate she had ever seen, and Lee Garrett had attended many an embassy affair. There were tobacco fumes in the air as well as those of cannabis.
Men predominated by far. She noticed a dozen other women, most in their middle years, and most gave the impression of being the wives of male members. One wore a golden Indian sari but otherwise all were gowned most expensively in the latest styles. Two of the men wore Arab garb, but all the rest were in European dress, though at least half were of dark complexion, including one very black man who, unlike the others, didn’t seem at ease in his black tie and tails. For a moment, as she surveyed them, she wondered about the conservatism in men’s dress. Formal attire had changed precious little since the days of Abraham Lincoln. Sports and daily wear, yes; evening wear, no. A guest at a reception given by Woodrow Wilson probably wouldn’t have looked out of place here tonight.
When she first entered there were as many servants present as guests, tending bar and the buffet, carrying drinks and canapés, running the errands waiters run. But very shortly after she arrived they seemed magically to disappear, to her surprise. Then the realization came: those present were not in a position to be overheard. For the balance of the evening, the guests helped themselves to the buffet and the abundant drinks at the two bars.
She recognized only a few people—Sheila Duff-Roberts, of course, and Jerry Auburn, and Fong Hui, who inclined his bald head in salutation when their eyes met. Across the room was Nils Norden, an unconventionally jovial Swede who had been pointed out to her though thus far they hadn’t met.
No, this was no formal party; merely a get-together of the bigwigs of the World Club. They stood or sat about the ballroom of the renaissance palace chatting, arguing, debating; sometimes friendly, sometimes in heat, and in groups of anywhere from two to eight. Most seemed to make a policy of circulating around, joining one conversation for a time, then drifting on to another individual or group.
Sheila had suggested Lee’s presence as an opportunity to meet not only other members of the Central Committee but the other influential of the World Club as well. For the moment, she didn’t quite know where or how to begin. But then, from across the room, Jerry Auburn waved to her. He was standing with Sheila Duff-Roberts, who was dressed in a stunning, bright-blue evening gown which surely must have been designed with only her in mind. With them was a stranger who bore a fragile handkerchief with which he daintily touched his lips after each sip at the champagne he carried.
Lee approached hesitantly, wondering if the wave had meant she was to join them, and Jerry beamed at her. He held a highball glass in hand and, by the darkness of its contents, it was either straight spirits or nearly so. His shining eyes and flushed face indicated that the drink probably wasn’t his first.
When she came up to the others, Jerry waved his glass in a gesture of welcome and said, “Honey, meet Carlo Brentanto.
Carlo, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila’s new secretary. A knockout, which you wouldn’t recognize, though Sheila does.” Sheila, who had a brandy glass in hand, murmured throatily, “You look stunning in that gown, darling.”
Carlo Brentanto said, in almost a lisp, “Incantato,” and bowed over Lee’s hand gallantly.
Jerry said, “Carlo’s been explaining that the gays should inherit the Earth.”
“Certainly, they should have a greater say in its governing,” the Italian told him coolly. “After all, my dears, they have been outstanding throughout history. It is ridiculous that there isn’t a single homosexual in the Central Committee.”
Jerry took a pull at his drink and said, “Well, we have our imposing Sheila.”
Sheila snorted.
“Over and over, the homosexual has proven himself down through history,” Carlo argued, after daintily sipping. “Can you think of anyone more outstanding in the military and in government than Alexander the Great, Caesar, Frederick the Great, and many more prominent than Plato? Man has reached his heights when the homosexual was most widely understood—The Golden Age of Athens; the Renaissance here in Italy.”
“Tolerated, but not exactly in power,” Jerry said. “Off hand, the only governments I can think of that were ruled by the gays were Sodom and Gomorrah—and they came to a fiery end.”
“I’ve always wondered what it was they did in Gomorrah,” Lee murmured.
“You name it, they did it,” said Jerry.
Sheila gave her curt little laugh and said, “I’m gratified to see you have a sense of humor, darling.”
The Italian fluttered the hand bearing his handkerchief and said, “Oh, all of you are quite hopeless. I think I shall go over and join the admiral.”
“I have no doubt you’ll try,” Sheila purred.
He-left and the three of them looked after him for a moment.
Jerry said, “How in the hell did he ever get into the candidate class?”
“Actually, he’s quite brilliant and the Brentantos are the wealthiest family in Italy,” Sheila told him. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Jerry, before he interrupted us?”
He finished his drink and said, “Oh, yes. When I asked you yesterday what had happened to Pamela McGivern you said that I’d undoubtedly hear later. I haven’t. In fact, I’ve asked a couple of the Committee and none of them seem to know, though Chase managed to mutter that it was good riddance. I don’t believe that our Pamela was capable of hiding what she thought about his racist leanings.”
Sheila said, “She was becoming quite impossible. It’s one thing my being somewhat of a minister with
out portfolio in the Central Committee, but, after all, she was only my secretary, and there was no reason for their putting up with her opinions.”
Jerry cocked his eye at her. “Minister without portfolio, eh? I didn’t know that was how you regarded yourself, Sheila. I thought you were more like a Man Friday. You’re sure that you’re not beginning to take on responsibilities beyond those the Committee had in mind?”
Sheila’s silent irritation was only partially concealed.
He said, “Now, what happened to Pamela? I, for one, liked the girl, and so did Fong Hui, among others.”
“I dismissed her, giving her a bonus of fifty thousand pseudodollars.”
“Without consulting anyone, eh?”
“I didn’t think it necessary. After all, she was my secretary. I originally employed her on my own, without consulting anyone.”
“What happened to her? Where is she now?”
Sheila frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t know. Perhaps she returned to Ireland.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He looked at Lee. “Neither of us has a drink. Should we go on over to the bar and remedy that situation?”
“Thank you,” Lee said, and turned her eyes questioningly to her superior.
Sheila did her bleak smile and said, “Run along, dear, and do meet as many of those present as you can. You’ll be working with all of them later.”
Jerry took Lee by the arm and led her to one of the bars which had been set up in the ballroom, immediately across from the buffet tables. For the moment, it was unoccupied.
He dropped the curt air he had assumed with Sheila Duff-Roberts and said, “What will it be—champagne? One of the candidates has his own vineyard near Rheims. He provides us with the best vintages.”
“That will be fine, Mr. Auburn.”
“Jerry,” he told her. “I’ll stick to cognac.”
There was a long row of ice buckets, each with a bottle of sparkling wine. He selected one which had already been opened, took up a clean glass and poured for her, then took up a half-empty bottle of impressive-looking brandy and renewed his own glass with a generous charge. She had been right. Save for two ice cubes, he was drinking his spirits straight. Lee winced at the idea of putting ice in good cognac.
She said, “Cheers,” and sipped at her wine. It was certainly as good as any she had ever tasted.
A small, thin, slightly hawk-nosed, dignified elderly man came up and poured himself a glass of sherry. He nodded at Jerry and looked questioningly at Lee.
Jerry said, “Mendel, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila’s new secretary. She’s a bit bewildered, undoubtedly because she didn’t know the Central Committee was composed of such far-out folk. Lee, this is Mendel Amschel, a Committee member and once my father’s closest friend.”
“I’m charmed, my dear,” the newcomer said, taking her hand. “I don’t know why, but one never expects surpassing beauty in a girl who must also be surpassingly intelligent and competent.”
“Why, you old goat,” Jerry protested. “I saw her first.” Lee was fully aware of the identity of Mendel Amschel, reputedly the head of the richest bank in Common Europe, although his name seldom appeared in the news.
“You flatter me, Jerry,” the older man said, smiling gently at the girl. “However, if I were twenty years younger…”
“You’d still be sixty,” Jerry said. “You dreamer.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lee protested. “Isn’t the Code Duello still legal in Italy? If you must fight over me…”
“Right,” Jerry said. “The bois at dawn. I’ll get Peter Windsor to second for me. I see him over there, talking to the Archbishop. Competent man in a fight, I understand, but don’t turn your back on him. You might get a knife in it, even though you thought he was on your side.”
The banker raised his eyebrows at the younger man. “I suspect when it comes to a vote to replace our Grace Cabot-Hudson, you are not likely to opt for the Graf.”
Jerry said testily, “I doubt if the original founders of the World Club ever expected professional killers to be represented in the Central Committee.”
“I discussed it with Harrington,” the other said. “He pointed out that most of the former mercenary activities of Lothar von Brandenburg are now becoming phased out, but that there will always be a need for espionage and, ah, strong men even in a World State.”
Jerry dismissed that opinion. “It’s true mercenaries are on the wane. Wizard. But the Graf is expanding into other lines. Personal assassination hasn’t been so prevalent since the days of the Borgias. He’s simply computerized it.”
The Viennese banker scowled at him questioningly. “Isn’t that largely a matter of gossip and rumor? Every homicide in the world is being laid at the door of the mysterious Graf.”
“Yes.” Jerry looked thoughtful. “And that reminds me. I wanted to see Peter Windsor and ask about the death of Harold Dunninger. He’s the one I would have voted for to take over Grace’s seat on the Committee, rather than either the Prophet or the Graf.”
“So would I have, my boy,” Amschel said. “But the Nihilists, who seem daily to become more bold, got through his defenses.”
“I wonder,” Jerry said. “At any rate, I want to talk with Windsor. You two get to know each other; see you later.”
When the younger man had gone, Amschel sighed and said, “Our Jerry Auburn is considerably different than I remember his father.” He smiled slightly. “Perhaps it is the generation gap, after all. I was Fredric Auburn’s contemporary. Jerry seems a bit precipitous. I wince at his confrontation with the Graf’s representative.” He turned his eyes from the retreating Jerry and brought them back to Lee. “I imagine everyone is asking you what you think of the World Club.”
“Well, yes,” she told him carefully. “My first reaction is that the Central Committee’s plans seem to be somewhat premature, though I support them. Is the world ready for a universal government?”
“Ready or not,” he said with a touch of resignation in his voice, “it is the only answer. Today, the world is on the precipice of disaster. What is the old Britishism? The chickens have come home to roost. The slowly developing problems of the past three centuries have now reached a head.”
Lee demurred. “Oh, come now, the world is comparatively dormant at present. There are no real immediate crises. We haven’t known a major war within the lives of anyone now living.”
He shook a thin finger at her. “My dear, it is astonishing how quickly matters can develop when conditions are ripe. Consider the spring of 1914 when everything seemed stable. The Kaiser was securely on his throne, Franz Joseph of the Austro-Hungarian Empire on his, the Sultan ruled the powerful Ottoman Empire, and the Czar of all the Russias had recently celebrated the 300th anniversary of Romanoff rule. Five years later, there was no major monarchy in Europe save England, and capitalism itself had collapsed in Russia, the largest nation of the world. No, my dear, comparatively overnight, world institutions can radically alter, given the right, or perhaps I should say the wrong, conditions.”
She took a full lower lip between perfect white teeth. Then, “And you think such conditions exist today?”
“Yes.” He looked about. “Come, my dear, let us find a place to sit down. My friend Fong Hui tells me you are an interesting young woman. Frankly, I was sorry to see Pamela McGivern leave, but if it was necessary at least we seem to have found a competent replacement. Would you like me to fill your glass?”
“No,” she said. “No, I have plenty.” She followed him to a fifteenth-century couch set against one of the large chamber’s walls. When they were seated she said, “And what do you foresee in the nature of this new World State? What kind of government will it be? I get the impression that there is considerable difference on this among Central Committee members.”
He conceded the validity of that. “Yes, there is. Some of us wish to continue the type of democracy that now prevails in the United States of the Americas.”
She sipped again a
t her wine, frowning slightly. “You advocate a two-party democracy with both of the parties controlled by a power elite?”
He smiled his little dry smile again. “Yes. I am a product of my class and my age. My class owns the so-called Western world. I believe that they should govern it. Benevolently, of course, and maintaining all the liberties that man has achieved. Perhaps half of the Central Committee and even more of the candidate members concur.”
“And the ordinary citizens, including the proles: they are still to have the vote?”
“Yes, of course, my dear. Why not? It keeps them happy to think that they have the ultimate say. Every four years we put up two candidates and let them take their pick. What could be more democratic than that? You must realize that even at the height of the Empire, the Roman proletariat had the vote. They usually sold it to the highest bidder, of course, but they had it. The proles, my dear, we shall always have with us. They are the masses who labor at the undesirable jobs when labor is needed, or fight as common soldiers in times of war. They are the nonentities. The world has passed them by. A typical example is the peons of Latin America, now assimilated into the United States of the Americas. Uneducated, untrained, they were pushed from a burro society into one of electronic computers. They won’t adjust, nor will their children. Like the Roman proletariat, they must simply be fed and otherwise taken care of by the state, as cheaply and efficiently as possible, and forgotten about.”
“But there are exceptions among them. There surely are many exceptions.”
“Of course, and they must be found and encouraged. Thomas Edison was born in poverty and had only about three years of grammar school. But he was a genius. Andrew Carnegie came to America as an immigrant and fought his way upward into the highest ranks of the powerful. Oh yes, there are many exceptions. The ancestor of Harrington Chase who founded the Chase fortune was an oilfield worker in Texas.”
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