Perhaps Crown was the key to it all.
But what were they planning to acquire?
Tokyo was down another hundred points, Smith saw as he turned the problem over in his mind.
"I should have had Remo and Chiun take out Looncraft," he said ruefully. "Anything to slow this down."
It had not been easy to accept Looncraft as part of the plot, Smith reflected. His family had come from the same social set and good Yankee roots as had Smith's. It was a personal blind spot, he saw now. He had seen Looncraft as being of such wealth, position, and breeding that crime on this scale should have been beneath him.
A mistake. It was all a tremendous miscalculation.
The red telephone interrupted Smith's self-recriminations.
"Smith?" The voice was sleepy.
"Yes, Mr. President," Harold Smith said, his throat rumbling from disuse.
"We're getting frantic cables from the British government, accusing us of attacking their most sacred institutions. What do you know about this?"
"Everything," Harold Smith said without hesitation. " I have sent my people over there. Mr. President, I can no longer withhold this from you. I have uncovered a scheme of incredible magnitude, designed to take over our country. It's of British origin, apparently."
Smith paused. If there was any chance that the President was involved in this scheme, he had to know now.
"British! Smith, they are our staunchest allies."
"Currently."
"For as long as I can remember."
You obviously do not remember the War of 1812, when they burned down the White House, as well as the Capitol Building."
"The British did that?" "Surely you know your history."
"It's been a few years, Smith," the President said ruefully.
"If you'd prefer that I withdraw my people from Great Britain, I will agree to that. But I cannot take responsibility for the consequences."
Smith held his breath while he waited for the answer. This was the moment of truth.
"No," the President said firmly. "Do what you think is best. But tell me, what do I say to the prime minister?"
Smith cupped his hand over the red receiver to mask his audible sigh of relief. The President had not been compromised.
"Tell her . . ." Smith hesitated. An idea struck him.
"Ask her to invite P. M. Looncraft of Looncraft, Dymstar d for a state visit. Tell her to give no reason. Just invite him. Get him out of this country. Inform her that Looncraft is suspected of complicity in the market upheavals plaguing the world. By the time he arrives in London, my people might have some answers."
"The British are complaining that someone stole the Royal Sceptre. Would that be your people?"
Smith cleared his throat in discomfort. "Assure them it will be returned unharmed. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. President, I have a great deal to do."
Harold Smith hung up. Suddenly a thought had occurred to him. Looncraft's computers had given up the secret of Crown's board of directors. But who were the stockholders, if any?
Smith thought he knew. He began paging through the Crown file, hoping to learn the answer.
As he pecked at his keyboard, Smith gave thanks that Looncraft had been so confident in the security of his system that his files had not been encrypted. Not that any code the human mind could devise would have long defeated the CURE mainframe. But the Nikkei Dow had lost another twenty-five points, and at his back, the sun lurked beyond the glittering expanse of Long Island Sound. Dawn was coming to America. Dawn and the early editions of The Wall Street journal, carrying news of the new tidal wave of panic about to sweep the globe like an invisible steamroller, were hitting doorsteps and corporate mail slots all over the nation.
The list of stockholders was in a separate file. It matched, exactly, the list of Loyalists.
"Yes," Smith told himself as the waning moon silvered his back. "Crown is the key."
But what was the lock it was intended to open?
Chapter 24
P. M. Looncraft enjoyed the uplifting sensation of the Looncraft Tower elevator against his shoes. It was like a bracing tonic, pushing him to higher and higher plateaus of power.
On the thirty-fourth floor he stepped off; nodded to the doubled security guard, and paused inside the trading floor of Looncraft, Dymstar d.
He spoke a single word: "Sell."
Every trader looked up from his work. The stock exchange was not due to open for an hour, but its computerized Designed Order Turnaround system, or DOT, would accept any sell orders that LD it, holding them for execution at the opening bell.
"Sir?" The dumbfounded bleat came from Ronald Johnson.
"I said sell," Looncraft repeated urgently. "Sell everything!"
And like well-trained soldiers, they took to their phones and made frantic calls.
"Liquidate every position," Looncraft shouted like a general commanding his troops. "Divest fully. I want Looncraft, Dymstar d to be completely liquid by the time the Dow opens. And damn the man who trades in his own portfolio before he has liquidated the firm's!"
With that, Looncraft marched into his office.
The office copy of The Wall Street journal lay open to the front page. Looncraft absorbed it at a glance: "NIKKEI DOW IN MASSIVE SELL-OFF."
"I knew those damned Japanese would be good for something other than cameras someday," Looncraft snorted, doffing his chesterfield coat and taking his chair.
He logged onto the Mayflower Descendants bulletin board and typed out a question:
"PERMISSION TO CONTACT OTHERS DIRECTLY."
"GRANTED," came the reply.
The message had obviously been monitored at other terminals, because before Looncraft could tap a single key, other messages began flashing.
"LIPPINCOTT HERE. WHAT IS THE WORD?"
Looncraft typed: "SELL!"
And all over America, the selling began. Sell orders rushed into the DOT system so rapidly, the computers balked at the volume. Orders backed up. Wall Street had never seen anything like it. It was an hour before opening, and nervous floor specialists at the New York Stock Exchange were going white.
The chairman of the New York Stock Exchange heard the reports coming up from the pit. He went out to the observation balcony. The floor was already littered with paper scraps. But more important, he could feel the rising body heat, smell the sweat. The broadtape ticker was blank. Suddenly the chairman felt a wave of sick anticipation of the numbers that would soon appear on it.
He consulted with the DOT-system computer people, nodded grimly at their projections, and returned to his office, where he began working the phone.
P. M. Looncraft typed merrily. He hummed an old English drinking song, "To Anacreon in Heaven," which Francis Scott Key had pillaged for the familiar "Star-Spangled Banner" melody.
"NOTHING LIKE GOOD OLD ANGLO-SAXON INGENUITY," he typed.
Another line appeared under his:
"THE REBELS WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT HIT THEM."
"WHAT GETS UP MY NOSE IS THAT IT TOOK SO BLOODY LONG," another typed.
Looncraft typed in his reply: "BE GRATEFUL YOU LIVED TO SEE THE GLORIOUS DAY, AND THAT YOU WERE A PART OF THE UNWRITING OF THE BLACKEST PAGE IN BRITISH HISTORY SINCE CROMWELL."
"HOWDY, BOYS! YOU AIN'T STARTING WITHOUT ME?"
Looncraft frowned. It was that infernal Texan, Slickens. The man was an embarrassment, British roots or not. When the new order was in place, Looncraft intended to shunt Slickens into some barely visible position. Perhaps governor-general of Boston, or something equally unsavory. Let him deal with the bloody Irish-Americans.
Looncraft forced himself to be polite. He typed: "HAVE YOU BEGUN DIVESTING?"
"WHAT'S THE BLAMED RUSH? THE PIT DON'T OPEN FOR ANOTHER HOUR."
"YOU WILL NOT GET THE BEST PRICE IF YOU DAWDLE,"
Looncraft typed.