1959 October 05 Monday 03:51
“Lights,” the man seated behind the tripod-mounted binoculars said to his partner.
“Ready.”
“Turning. Got a… I’m not sure what that is. Wait! It’s the Mercedes.”
“Romeo, Zulu, nine, two, zero?”
“Roger.”
“Logged.”
“Turning left into Sector Four. Hey! Hear that?”
“I don’t hear anything,” the other man said.
“Neither do I,” the spotter said. “Even with all these windows open.”
“So he’s parked?”
“Yeah. Close by.”
“This is our post.”
“Come on! This is the third time. Whoever he is, he’s not out for a night drive.”
“We’re not supposed to-?”
“We can go over the roofs,” the spotter said. “They’re all pretty much the same height. He can’t be more than a block or two away, and we’d still have-”
“-the high ground,” the other man finished. He unzipped a padded bag, removed a heavy-barreled rifle. “All right, but it has to be quick.”
1959 October 05 Monday 03:54
The Commander’s car was nowhere in sight, but Carl was unconcerned. He flashed his brights three times, quickly. A door next to what had once been the loading bay began to climb upwards, slowly exposing an empty slot. Carl knew the electricity to the warehouse had been cut off years ago, and the Commander was cranking the door by hand.
Carl backed his Mercedes into the open space. He watched through the windshield as the door descended, turning his whole world dark.
1959 October 05 Monday 03:59
“Now what?” the man holding the rifle whispered.
“Somebody opened that door for him. From inside.”
“You want to try to get-?”
“No. We’re in perfect position here,” the spotter said. “Let’s just wait. We only saw one come in. What we want is to see everyone who comes out.”
1959 October 05 Monday 04:02
Karl climbed out of his Mercedes. He closed the door lightly behind him, but the sound was still audible in the empty building. Suddenly, a hand-a powerful hand, it always was, when Karl called up the image in the privacy of his shower-grasped the back of his neck. Obediently, Karl allowed himself to be propelled forward, his eyes now picking up the streaks of phosphorus that appeared on the concrete floor. Arrows, pointing the way to his destiny.
Around a corner, and there was light. Faint light, from a three-cell flashlight, positioned so close to the wall that only a pale aura was visible. But there was enough light for Karl to see the roll of carpet on the floor. And the blanket-covered sawhorse.
The hand on the back of his neck clamped tightly, but Karl never flinched. His hands were steady as he undressed.
“The Spartans never went into battle without the special strength they drew from their Boys of War,” the Commander said, his lips an inch from Karl’s ear.
1959 October 05 Monday 04:44
“Car number one-”
“The known.”
“Right. Car one-the known subject-entered Sector Four at oh three fifty-one. Entered Building 413 at oh three fifty-four. Exited oh four thirty-six. Car number two-unknown subject, Foxtrot, Echo, Bravo, eight, eight, one, local plate-exited oh four forty.”
“He must have come in from across the open ground to the east,” the rifleman said. “That’s why we haven’t see him before, I bet. But now, whoever he is, he won’t be unknown in a few hours.”
1959 October 05 Monday 05:58
“Nice time for a briefing,” Special Agent David L. Peterson said grumpily to his partner. “Six in the morning.”
“The Bureau never sleeps,” Mack Dressler replied laconically.
“Nothing ever bothers you, does it, Mack?”
“Not anymore, it doesn’t,” the older man said, settling himself in a metal folding chair.
A tall man in a navy-blue suit suddenly strode into the large room. He had dark hair, worn slightly longer than current Bureau fashion, and an aristocratic face.
“I’m betting Yale,” Mack whispered. “He looks a little too loose for Harvard.”
“Gentlemen,” the man at the podium addressed the thirty men seated before him. “My name is M. William Wainwright, Special Agent in Charge of the Organized Crime Task Force, Midwest Branch. I’ve called you in this morning to review our objectives and bring you up to speed on the current initiative.”
“The Invisible Empire,” Mack muttered sarcastically.
“The Klan?” his younger partner whispered.
“Pretty hard to be invisible when you’re walking around with a sheet over your head, partner,” the older man answered, his voice as soft and dry as sawdust. “This guy’s talking about the Mafia. You know, the mob the boss said didn’t exist until a couple of years ago.”
“As you already know,” the speaker continued, “there exists within America a tightly organized network of criminals. Originating in Sicily, this…”
As the speaker droned on, two assistants entered from the side, one carrying a large easel, the other several sheets of poster board. When they completed their setup, the speaker unclipped a pen-size object from his breast pocket. With a snap of his wrist, a professorial pointer emerged.
“This,” he said, “is the overall structure, at the national level.” A brief biography of each individual followed. “As you can see, there is a quasi-military structure to the organization, with a distinct chain of command.”
“Jesus,” Mack said, very softly.
His partner moved a few imperceptible inches away from the heretic.
“But that’s just background,” the speaker said, his tone indicating he was about to say something important. “In this region, our specific target is one Salvatore ‘Sally D.’ Dioguardi. Originally a member of the Mondriano family in Brooklyn, New York, Dioguardi was dispatched to Locke City approximately four years ago, with orders to wrest control of local rackets from one Royal Beaumont.”
The speaker’s assistants placed charts of the two organizations side by side on the easels.
“Beaumont is a local product, with no national connections. However, he is well entrenched, with deep roots in local politics, and Dioguardi has not been successful in dislodging him. The Bureau has been aware of the situation since its inception. However, as activity was relatively stable, and, presumably, well-known to local law enforcement, no Bureau role was envisioned.”
The speaker paused to gauge the impact of his presentation on the audience. His quick glance took in a wall of attentive postures and flat faces-a tabletop full of face-down cards.
“Recently, one member of the Dioguardi gang was severely beaten. He is still comatose. Two other members were assassinated. No arrests have been made. According to our sources within the Locke City Police Department, there are no suspects.
“Note, Dioguardi himself appears to share the view that Beaumont is not responsible for the attacks. Our profile of Dioguardi indicates that he is a rash, impulsive individual, with a violent temper. And hardly an intellectual,” the speaker said, chuckling.
None of the assembled agents joined in.
“Therefore,” the speaker went on, unfazed, “we do not believe we are facing a gang-war situation as has occurred in larger cities around the country. In fact, several of our RIs have reported rumors of an impending truce of some sort. Any potential alliance of criminal organizations is of great interest to the Bureau, especially one that involves Mafia families and outsiders. We have no record of this occurring previously, although, of course, nonmembers have worked with Mafia organizations on many occasions, and even formed working partnerships.”