Villiers waited for him to sit down before he said, “What is it?”

“Colonel Butler’s signature on all five copies. I caught him at the airport. He had a few words to say, but he signed.”

Villiers opened the briefcase and had a look through the contracts. George Hackman was laughing. “Son of a bitch nearly dropped his pants. He thought it was going to be weeks before we’d have the papers ready. It never occurred to the stupid bastard we had the papers all typed up and ready for his signature before he even heard about the deal.”

“Satisfactory,” Villiers muttered, making a neat stack of the contracts and dropping it on the desk. “But it shortens your deadline, Sidney. I’m buying Colonel Butler out with Melbard stock, and I don’t own any Melbard stock. Until you get it for me.”

“I told you you were moving too fast.”

“Nuts. Just do it-quit whining.”

Hackman was punching up the Quotron, reading its market announcements. He looked at his watch and grunted. “Good enough. The Dow Jones is up three points over yesterday’s close-market index up eight cents.”

Villiers said, “Never mind that. I want the two of you to look around for a man to put in nominal charge of Heggins Aircraft-somebody with an air of respectability who can be controlled. We’ll have to juice up their accounting, they haven’t been depreciating things fast enough. We’ll put out a slick report with plenty of expensive artwork. The first thing for the new administration to do is shave the operating costs-I want all superfluous personnel fired, particularly at the management level. The company’s topheavy with Butler’s retired Air Force cronies and sixty-year-old executives. I’ll spend the weekend going over the books, and by next week I’ll have a set of goals mapped out for the next quarter. One thing I know already-Heggins has a fleet of repossessed obsolescent cargo planes in mothballs in the desert down in Arizona. I want those planes fixed and sold-there are plenty of markets in the Middle East and South America. I want Heggins’ balance sheet to be in the black by the end of the year, with or without government contracts.”

Sidney Isher said, frowning, “You sound as if you want to keep Heggins operating. I thought you planned to strip it.”

Villiers shook his head. “The company’s no good to me dead. One thing our new management will have to do right away. Heggins has been paying rent to one of its own subsidiaries for the use of runways and test-flight ranges in Nevada. One of Butler’s cute ideas-the rent boosted Heggins’ operating expenses and cut its earnings, so Butler could defend his applications for higher government research fees. He never applied the subsidiary’s dividends against Heggins’ operating costs-he allotted them all to stockholders, and he’s the principal stockholder outside of Heggins itself. I don’t want the money going into Butler’s pockets. Heggins will have to buy back the runways and close down the subsidiary. That way we’ll increase the assets on the books and cut the operating expenses. It should show a big rise in paper profits by the end of the year, and that’s what we’ve got to have-the appearance of strength in the company.”

Sidney Isher said, “Mind telling us why?”

“My reasons are complex, and there’s no need to go into them all. I might just mention one item. Certain parties have been selling Heggins stock short in big bundles. If we can improve Heggins’ image in the market, the price will go up and the short-sellers will be caught in a tight bind, which is exactly where I want them to be.”

“Who are they?”

“Does it matter? They’re people I mean to squeeze, Sidney. That’s all you need to know.”

The lawyer did not bother to conceal his resentment. Villiers stood up, ready to leave; he said to Hackman, “Any word from the Wyatt kid?”

“Not yet.”

“He may need to be leaned on.”

“Just let me know,” Hackman said.

Villiers glanced at Sidney Isher, who did not meet his eyes, and left the office. He felt very good-taut, alive, expectant, the way he used to feel at fifteen when he was lining up a particularly complex and tricky shot on the green felt of a pool table. He gave the English girl his handsome smile on his way out.

13. Russell Hastings

Quint had probably been born fat-generous, good-natured, and often childish. His huge torso, contained in a dark vest, seemed to need a golden watch chain. He was a pink flannel-and-tweed man with thinning brown hair and a guardsman moustache; his face was big, with deep square brackets creasing it right down past the mouth into the big dependable jaw. He liked to act bumbling and vague, as if he were unaware of the events that surrounded him. It was an effective pose; it put his adversaries off their guard.

His office commanded a view of Foley Square. His desk ashtray, full of cellophane candy wrappers, was an abalone shell.

Russ Hastings sat in a wooden armchair listening to him growl. As Quint spoke, the bow tie bobbed up and down at his throat. “I don’t know, Russ, you come into this business full of spice and vim, and before you know it you’ve been flattened and dried out by the damned bureaucracy of it all. I sit at this desk trying to work out my plans of action, and all day long I get phone calls from one fellow talking about personnel and another fellow talking about budgets and vacation schedules and some unhappy clerk who wants to resign. The chap from two offices down the hall drops in to ask for information about this and that. Salesmen get past the secretary and unnerve me about office supplies. One inconsequential interruption after another, and before you know it it’s the end of one more day, and you don’t know what the devil’s happened to it, you came in red hot and raring to go in the morning, and you never got a chance to start. It makes me wonder what the hell I’m ever going to accomplish.”

It was a speech Hastings had heard before, with variations; he said, “Why don’t you burn the whole place down and start from scratch?”

Quint grinned and waggled a finger. “Don’t mind me, old boy. There aren’t many sympathetic ears hereabouts. Forgive me if I lean on yours now and then.” The English accent, added to the guardsman mustache, gave Quint a Blimpish aura-one kept expecting him to refer to his wife as the memsahib.

Quint put on his stern down-to-business face. “All right. You said you had a request.”

“I want your authority to make a few waves.”

“To what end?”

“Maybe to squash a raid. Maybe nothing. It’s still too vague to write up a bill of particulars-but somebody’s playing Ping-Pong with Northeast Consolidated stock.”

Quint said, “A few days ago that was a hunch. Is it anything stronger than that now?”

“It’s getting there. I’ve collected lists of NCI trades from the floor specialist and a dozen big brokers. When you compare them, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Too much Canadian activity, too many anonymous Swiss accounts and dummy front men-all buying NCI. Small lots, but steady buying. Just the kind of thing you’d do if you wanted to accumulate a strong position but didn’t want to alert anybody or inflate the price. Whoever he is, he’s collected better than half a million shares in the past six weeks.”

“Is that a firm figure or a guess?”

“A little of both. Some of the Canadian purchases may be legitimate. It’s impossible to tell the difference until we’ve traced every stock certificate by number from source to buyer. That’s going to take time. But in the meantime this fellow’s still out there buying. It’s my opinion if we wait for guaranteed proof with all the t’s crossed, he’ll get there ahead of us.”

Quint unwrapped a ball of hard low-calorie candy and popped it in his mouth. “Any idea who this mythical chap is?”

“Not yet.”

“Suppose it turns out to be Elliot Judd?”

“I’ve thought of that.”