“And he lives in Claremont,” Jackie added.
“Is that nearby?” Bates asked.
Barclay turned. “Out near Pomona. About thirty miles east of L.A.”
“What about the others?” Bates’s assistant asked, sensing a decision had already been made.
Barclay stared at the screen, lost in thought for several moments. Finally the words registered. “No, I don’t think so. Mark the others so we can retrieve them if we need to.”
The man was shaking his head in disbelief as he tapped out the instructions.
“Attach to our printer and get Jackie a printout of Jeppson’s profile, will you?” He turned to Jackie as the man nodded. “Get a copy of it to Jarvis this afternoon. I want a full report on this Jeppson by the time I get back from Paris next week.”
He took Bates by the arm. “I need to have you take some things back to Washington. Let’s go in the other office.”
It was nearly half an hour later when the man brought from Washington to run the computer set down his magazine in the outer foyer of Barclay Enterprises and looked at Jackie. She was at the reception desk, her head bent to her work.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She looked up. “What?”
“What happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“With this Jeppson guy. How does Mr. Barclay go about getting him to join his staff? I mean the guy is happily employed as a college professor.”
“Maybe,” she agreed with a half smile. “Maybe not. Why the M. B. A.?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But suppose he is unhappy. I mean, how does Barclay even approach the guy?”
“It varies. About a week ago, Alex was invited to be one of the guest lecturers at a seminar sponsored by the UCLA Graduate School of Business. He declined.” Her smile broadened, showing flawless white teeth. “Among other things, I suspect that sometime this afternoon, I’ll be calling UCLA to tell them Mr. Barclay’s plans have changed and that he can lecture there after all.”
“And if Jeppson doesn’t come to the lecture?” He shook his head. “Even if he does. Then what?”
She laughed right out loud. “You don’t understand, Mr. Davies. That is the part Alex enjoys the very most. Marc Allen Jeppson will never know what hit him.”
PROFILE SERRCH COMPLETED TOTRL PROFILES SERRCHED: 82 PROFILES MRRKED AND SAVED: 9 DO YOU WISH COMPLETE FILES ON THOSE PROFILED? Y/N
Without looking up for affirmation, the man hit the Y key, then leaned back. “This will take a few minutes. It has to go back to the original database and add complete files on each man.”
Benjamin Bates stood, drew heavily on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing ash tray. He was an oak of a man—short, thick, facial features like weathered bark. He stretched, limbering up his body. They had been at it for over three hours, Barclay leaning over the man at the keyboard, reading each profile quickly as the computer spewed out the data feed, Bates alternately smoking and dozing in the corner.
Barclay ran his fingers through his hair and turned to Bates. “Just exactly how big is that data base you tap?”
Bates smiled. This was part of the ritual. Four times Barclay had asked Russell Whitaker of the State Department for help. Four times Whitaker had sent Benjamin Bates. Every time Barclay had asked that same question, Bates had given the same response, “We left out Idaho. That helped.”
Alex laughed softly and let it drop. In fact, he didn’t even know if Bates was from the State Department or some other agency. He just always came with some bright-eyed assistant whom he never bothered to introduce, a terminal, a phone modem, and access to a data base that always left Alex feeling slightly uneasy. He leaned over and picked up the phone.
“Jackie, is lunch ready?” He listened for a moment, then, “Good. I’ll be out and help you.” He hung up and exited the room.
The man at the keyboard rubbed his eyes, then moved his fingers up to massage his temples. Bates watched for a moment, then grinned. “If Jackie brings lunch in, that’ll rest your eyes.”
The even white teeth flashed. “Hey, isn’t she something?”
“And every bit as sharp as she looks. Barclay calls her his executive secretary. But I’ve watched them operate. I think she’s more like a partner.”
“On or off the job?”
Bates pulled out another cigarette, retrieved a lighter from a crumpled coat pocket and lit it thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said finally, “but according to Whitaker, it’s strictly on the job. He says Barclay takes great pride in playing it straight with his wife.”
“Who is this Barclay, anyway?” the man demanded of his boss. “I can’t believe the way he races through the data. He’s got each individual marked or rejected while I’m still reading the stuff.”
Bates just shook his head. “The uncanny thing is yet to come. Just watch him. Sight unseen, he seems to have a sixth sense about who will work out for him.”
“Work out for what?”
There was the slightest shrug. “Depends which project he’s putting together. Whenever he’s starting on a major project, he goes on a hunt for help. Sometimes he gets him through his own means. Other times, if it has to do with a government project, he searches our data base.”
“Why does he need help? I thought you said that he and Jackie ran this whole operation.”
“They do. Oh, there’s the hired help—warehousemen, drivers, custodial staff, that kind of thing. But no other executives. Just Alex and Jackie—and temporary help as needed.”
“Like this Derek Parkin who picked us up at the airport last night?”
“Yeah. He’s brand-new from what Alex said. Hired him away from some law firm.” Bates drew out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and lit it. He drew deeply, then blew the smoke at the ceiling. “This must be some project. To my knowledge Alex has never brought on more than one new man before.”
“Why doesn’t he use the same men over again?”
Bates looked surprised. “Oh, they never survive.”
The other visibly started, which brought a laugh from Bates.
“No, I don’t mean that. Though one did end up in an Indonesian prison with his knuckles broken.”
The blue eyes widened, which only added to Bates’s amusement. He took another heavy draw on his cigarette. “No,” he went on, “it’s not like that. Barclay just burns them out. By the time he finishes with them, they’re either too frustrated or too disillusioned or too exhausted—” He paused. “Or too scared. Alexander Barclay goes at hired help like sixteen linebackers at a rookie quarterback.”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
Again there was an enigmatic shrug. “The world of the arms dealer—even the legitimate arms dealer—has its ups and downs.”
“Like what?”
But before Bates could answer, the door pushed open, and Jacqueline Ashby pushed in a cart carrying white sacks emblazoned with a bright yellow sun and the words CASA DEL SOL RESTAURANT. Both men watched her appreciatively. Barclay paid her well, and she obviously spent a goodly portion of it on clothes. The white skirt and navy blue blazer were accented with a soft, red and blue plaid blouse with a white bow at the neck. It was elegantly understated and complimented the slenderness of her figure. Cool green eyes, looking out from under eyebrows as black as her hair, held a faint touch of amusement, as though accepting the unspoken praise being directed at her as part of her due.
Barclay followed close behind her, carrying a tray of Coke and Seven-Up and glasses filled with ice. With swift efficiency, Jackie had napkins and the food spread out across the desk.
For a few moments they were all occupied with getting their food and drinks sorted out, then Alex turned to Bate’s assistant. “Okay, let’s get started. I’ve asked Jackie to stay.”
It was not a request, and Bates nodded almost imperceptibly as the other man shot him a startled look. Barclay and Jackie noted both reactions without expression. ?
??Bring up number six,” Barclay went on.
“Number six?”
“Yeah. His name was Jeppson.”
The computer operator took a huge bite of a chimichanga and a quick swig of drink, then banged out the commands quickly. All three of the others inched their chairs closer so they could watch as the data started to fill the screen.
PROFILE: MRRC RLLEN JEPPSON
RGE: THIRTY-TWO
RDDRESS: 717 E. BRIDGEPORT RVE., CLRREMONT, CRLIFORNIR
OCCUPRTIONRL PROFILE: MISSIONRRY SERVICE IN URUGURY/PRRRGURY, THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS (72-73); TEACHING RSSISTANT, U OF U (74-75); PERCE CORPS, EGYPT ROD SUOAN (75-76); ASSISTANT PROFESSOR, GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY (80-82); ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR, CLAREMONT COLLEGES (82-PRESENT)
EDUCRTION: BR, POLITICAL SCIENCE, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (75) MR, MIOOLE ERSTERN STUDIES, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (77) PHD, NERR EASTERN STUDIES, UC BERKELEY (80) CURRENTLY ENROLLED, MBA, UCLR GRRDUATE SCHOOL OVERALL GPR: 3.92
LRNGURGES: ARABIC (FLUENT), SPANISH (FLUENT), HEBREW (CONVERSANT), PARSI (CONVERSRNT)
PERSONAL: MARRIED LYNETTE THOMPSON (78); WIFE KILLED IN AUTO ACCIDENT (83); TWO SONS, BRETT MARC, B, RND MATTHEW DRVID, 4. INTERESTS/HOBBIES: WRITING, SKIING, WATER SKING. NO RECORD OF RRRESTS. NO KNOWN DETRIMENTRL HRBITS. CREDIT RRTING 1R. KNOWN DEBTS, RBOUT $12,000. ACTIVE CHURCH ATTENDER. MEMBER CLRREMONT KIWRNIS CLUB
PROFILE: MRRC RLLEN JEPPSON
RGE: THIRTY-TWO
RDDRESS: 717 E. BRIDGEPORT RVE., CLRREMONT, CRLIFORNIR
OCCUPRTIONRL PROFILE: MISSIONRRY SERVICE IN URUGURY/PRRRGURY, THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS (72-73); TEACHING RSSISTANT, U OF U (74-75); PERCE CORPS, EGYPT ROD SUOAN (75-76); ASSISTANT PROFESSOR, GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY (80-82); ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR, CLAREMONT COLLEGES (82-PRESENT)
EDUCRTION: BR, POLITICAL SCIENCE, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (75) MR, MIOOLE ERSTERN STUDIES, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (77) PHD, NERR EASTERN STUDIES, UC BERKELEY (80) CURRENTLY ENROLLED, MBA, UCLR GRRDUATE SCHOOL OVERALL GPR: 3.92
LRNGURGES: ARABIC (FLUENT), SPANISH (FLUENT), HEBREW (CONVERSANT), PARSI (CONVERSRNT)
PERSONAL: MARRIED LYNETTE THOMPSON (78); WIFE KILLED IN AUTO ACCIDENT (83); TWO SONS, BRETT MARC, B, RND MATTHEW DRVID, 4. INTERESTS/HOBBIES: WRITING, SKIING, WATER SKING. NO RECORD OF RRRESTS. NO KNOWN DETRIMENTRL HRBITS. CREDIT RRTING 1R. KNOWN DEBTS, RBOUT $12,000. ACTIVE CHURCH ATTENDER. MEMBER CLRREMONT KIWRNIS CLUB
“Well, well,” Barclay said as the lines finally stopped coming up.
“Not bad,” Jackie agreed. “Ph.D. in Near Eastern Studies. Fluent in Arabic. Not bad at all.”
“And working on an M.B.A. at UCLA,” Barclay said. “That’s an unexpected dash of frosting on the cake.”
“And he lives in Claremont,” Jackie added.
“Is that nearby?” Bates asked.
Barclay turned. “Out near Pomona. About thirty miles east of L.A.”
“What about the others?” Bates’s assistant asked, sensing a decision had already been made.
Barclay stared at the screen, lost in thought for several moments. Finally the words registered. “No, I don’t think so. Mark the others so we can retrieve them if we need to.”
The man was shaking his head in disbelief as he tapped out the instructions.
“Attach to our printer and get Jackie a printout of Jeppson’s profile, will you?” He turned to Jackie as the man nodded. “Get a copy of it to Jarvis this afternoon. I want a full report on this Jeppson by the time I get back from Paris next week.”
He took Bates by the arm. “I need to have you take some things back to Washington. Let’s go in the other office.”
It was nearly half an hour later when the man brought from Washington to run the computer set down his magazine in the outer foyer of Barclay Enterprises and looked at Jackie. She was at the reception desk, her head bent to her work.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She looked up. “What?”
“What happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“With this Jeppson guy. How does Mr. Barclay go about getting him to join his staff? I mean the guy is happily employed as a college professor.”
“Maybe,” she agreed with a half smile. “Maybe not. Why the M. B. A.?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But suppose he is unhappy. I mean, how does Barclay even approach the guy?”
“It varies. About a week ago, Alex was invited to be one of the guest lecturers at a seminar sponsored by the UCLA Graduate School of Business. He declined.” Her smile broadened, showing flawless white teeth. “Among other things, I suspect that sometime this afternoon, I’ll be calling UCLA to tell them Mr. Barclay’s plans have changed and that he can lecture there after all.”
“And if Jeppson doesn’t come to the lecture?” He shook his head. “Even if he does. Then what?”
She laughed right out loud. “You don’t understand, Mr. Davies. That is the part Alex enjoys the very most. Marc Allen Jeppson will never know what hit him.”
Chapter Four
Marc Jeppson stopped abruptly as he came out of the front entrance of the social sciences building. The rain was coming down in sheets, sometimes almost horizontally as the wind caught it. It was only the first week in October, which made this first real rain of the season early, but it was coming in with a vengeance.
For a moment he hesitated, glaring up at the heavy grey sky. He started back, then glanced at his watch. He lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, and darted across the quad toward the faculty parking lot.
With the rain, the traffic was moving even more slowly than usual down Euclid Avenue, and he caught three red lights in a row. It was already nine twenty-eight, and he had promised Mary Robertson he would be on time, if not early. His past record was not totally impeccable, so she had made him swear solemnly that he wouldn’t add another black mark to the list.
As he approached the next intersection, the light turned yellow. He hit the gas pedal. The 1977 Volkswagen Beetle had a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it, and it lurched forward like an old plow horse. It was too little too late. Marc jammed his foot on the brake and slid to a stop squarely in the middle of the crosswalk.
Two middle-aged women joggers, their sweatsuits dark with rain, detoured around the front of his car, and shot him a dirty look. The one yelled something, and while he wasn’t up on lipreading, he was pretty sure it was a comment you wouldn’t hear from the pulpit.
“May your shin splints multiply and your gym socks turn to mold!” he shouted after them through the closed window.
It was a quarter to ten when he swung the beat-up VW into a parking place outside the mall and darted through the rain to the main door. As he entered, the smell of the rain on his sportcoat made him wrinkle his nose. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his glasses and made a quick pass at his damp hair with one hand.
Before he reached the center plaza of the mall, he could see Mary and Valerie standing at the top of the escalators looking around impatiently. “Oh, brother!” he muttered, then ran up the moving stairs lightly, bracing himself for the attack. Valerie spied him first and touched her mother’s arm.
“Marc!” There was more exasperation than anger in Mary’s voice. “You promised!”
“I know,” he started lamely, “but some students caught me after class—”
She grabbed his arm. “We’ll have to hurry. They open the main doors about six minutes to. They always do.”
Suddenly she turned and surveyed the rain spots on his clothes. “Marc, where’s your raincoat? I sent it with you this morning.”
Valerie was smiling as Marc rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know it was raining until I came outside, and then I decided I was already late and—”
She dragged him into a quicker pace. “We’ve got to walk faster!”
“Mother,” Valerie cried. “You’ve only been out of the hospital a week. You shouldn’t be hurrying.”
The older woman waved that
aside as if she were waving away a fly only half noticed.
“Now listen, the toy department is closest to the main door so you’ll go in there. Valerie and I will go to the south door, but that little man up there never opens the door until two minutes to. It’s maddening!”
He nodded. “Probably has to take a belt of something or other to build his courage.”
She shot him a quick look. “What are you mumbling about?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Remember, the Super Cycle is not just on sale. It’s what they call ‘the door crasher.’ The quantities will be limited, and they’ll go fast. You can’t be timid or polite, or they’ll be gone.”
“Yes, sir!” he barked crisply. “Chin down, bayonet up, and watch my back, sir!”
That finally broke through to her. She stared at him for a moment and then laughed. Valerie was trying hard to maintain a straight face. “Will you stop it!” Mary said firmly. “I’m just saying that you’ll have to get in there and hold your own.”
“Mary, if this is going to involve hand-to-hand combat with other women, why don’t you or Valerie do it?”
“Because the winter coats for the boys are also on as a door crasher, and it will take two of us to get one for both Brett and Matt, so by the time we could get down to the toys, all the Super Cycles will be gone, and you know the Super Cycle is the one thing Matt wants for Christmas more than anything else.”
Marc was awed. She had got it all in one sentence without missing a step or taking a breath. “Tell me again how much we’re saving.”
“Normally they’re forty-nine ninety-five. On the door crasher they’re only nineteen ninety-five.”
“Thirty bucks!” he yelped, causing a lady headed in the opposite direction to turn and stare at them. “I’ll give you that thirty, and throw in another twenty if I don’t have to do this.”
Instantly, Marc knew he had pushed her too far. Her back stiffened, and her heels popped sharply on the marble floor. “You think I like it? I try to help you get a little Christmas shopping done, and this is what I get.”
“Mary, I was just kidding.”
“I try to save you some money, stretch things so your kids can have a nicer Christmas, and the one time I ask you for help—”