And behind it all was CURE. The information, in millions of words, the useless information, the big breaks, the false leads flooded into Folcroft, ostensibly headed for people who never were, for corporations that existed only on paper, for government agencies that never seemed to do government work.
At Folcroft, an army of clerks, most of them thinking they worked for the Internal Revenue Service, recorded the information on business deals, tax returns, agricultural reports, gambling, narcotics, on anything that might be tainted by crime and some of it that couldn't possibly be, they thought.
And the facts were fed into giant computers in one of the many off-limits sections of Folcroft's rolling grounds.
The computers did what no man could. They saw patterns emerging from apparently unrelated facts and through their circuits, the broad picture of crime in America grew before the eyes of the chiefs at Folcroft. The how of organized lawlessness began to unfold.
The FBI, Treasury Department and even the CIA received special reports, lucky leads. And CURE operated in different ways, where the law enforcement agencies were powerless. A Tuscaloosa crime kingpin suddenly got documented proof that a colleague, the man with whom he had split up Alabama's crime, was planning a takeover. The colleague got a mysterious tip that the kingpin was planning to eliminate him. It ended in a war that both lost.
A large New Jersey pistol local changed command when sudden injections of big money saw the honest insurgents win at the union ballot boxes. It also saw the man who counted the votes retire quietly to Jamaica.
But the whole operation was slow, murderously slow. CURE made its strikes but no really finishing blows against the giant syndicates that continued to grow, prosper and stretch their money-powered tentacles into every phase of American life.
Moving agents into certain spheres-especially in the New York metropolitan area whose Cosa Nostra worked more smoothly and efficiently than any giant corporation-was like unleashing doves into a flock of hawks. Informants disappeared. A special division head of the informer network was murdered. His body was never found.
MacCleary learned to live with what he called «the monthlies.» Like the agony of a woman's period would be Smith's every-thirty days berating.
«You spend enough money,» he would say. «You use enough men and equipment. You spend more on tape recorders than the Army does on guns. And still the recruits you bring us don't do the job.»
And MacCleary would give his usual answer. «Our hands are tied. We can't use force.»
Smith would sneer. «In Europe, where you might recall we were highly successful against the Germans, we did not need force. The CIA uses very little force against the Russians and does rather well. But, you… you have to have cannons against these hoodlums.»
«You know very well, sir, we're not dealing with hoodlums.» MacCleary would start to boil. «And you know damn well we had armies following us in Europe against the Germans and a whole military establishment waiting against the Russians. And all we have here are these goddam computers.»
Smith would straighten at his desk and imperiously command: «Computers would be good enough if we had the right personnel. Get us some people who know what they're doing.»
Then he would make out his reports for upstairs, saying computers were not enough.
CHAPTER NINE
For five years, the routine was the same until two a.m. one spring morning when MacCleary was trying to put himself to sleep with his second pint of rye, and Smith rapped on the door to his Folcroft suite.
«Stay out,» MacCleary yelled. «Whoever you are.»
The door opened slowly and a hand snaked its way to the light switch. MacCleary sat in his shorts on a large purple pillow, cradling the bottle between his legs.
«Oh, it's you,» he said to Smith who was dressed as though it were noon, in white shirt, striped tie and the eternal gray suit.
«How many gray suits you got, Smitty?»
«Seven. Sober up. It's important.»
«Everything's important to you. Paper clips, carbon paper, dinner scraps.» He watched Smith glance around the room at the assorted pornography in oils, photographs and sketches, the 8-foot high cabinet stacked with bottles of rye, the pillows scattered on the floor and finally to MacCleary's pink shorts.
«As you know, we've had problems in the New York City area. We have lost seven men without recovering even one body. As you know, we have a problem with a man named Maxwell whom we don't even have a line on.»
«Really? That's interesting. I wondered what happened to all those people. Funny we didn't see them around.»
«We're going to low profile in New York until we have our new unit ready.»
«More fodder.»
«Not this time.» Smith shut the door behind him. «We've been given permission, highly selective but permission nevertheless, to use force. A license to kill.»
MacCleary sat upright. He put down the bottle. «It's about time. Just five men. That's all I need. First, we'll get your Maxwell. And then the whole country.»
«There will be one man. You will recruit him this week and set up his training program in thirty days.»
«You're out of your bloody mind.» MacCleary jumped from the pillows and paced the room. «You're out of your goddam mind,» he shouted. «One man?»
«Yes.»
«How did you get us roped into that deal?»
«You know why we never had this type of personnel before. Upstairs was afraid. They're still afraid. But they figure one man can't do much harm and if he does, he's easily removable.»
«They're damned right he won't do much harm. He won't do much good either. He won't make enough of a splash to wipe up. And when he gets it?»
«You recruit another.»
«You mean we don't even have one on standby? We assume our man's indestructible?»
«We assume nothing.»
«You don't need a man for that job,» MacCleary snarled. «You need Captain Marvel. Dammit, Smitty.» MacCleary picked up the bottle and then threw it against the wall. It hit something and did not break, only increasing his anger. «Dammit, Smitty. Do you know anything about killing? Do you?»
«I've been associated with these projects before.»
«Do you know that out of fifty men, you might get one halfway competent agent for this type of work? One out of fifty. And I've got to get one out of one.»
«Make sure you get a good one,» was Smith's calm reply.
«Good? Oh, he'll have to be good. He'll have to be a gem.»
«You'll have the finest training facilities for him. Your personnel budget is unlimited. You can have five… six instructors.»
MacCleary propped himself on the couch, right on Smith's jacket. «Couldn't do it with less than twenty.»
«Eight,» Smith said.
«Fifteen.»
«Nine.»
«Eleven.»
«Ten.»
«Eleven,» MacCleary insisted. «Body contact, motions, locks, armaments, conditions, codes, language, psychology. Couldn't do it with less than eleven instructors. All full time and then it would take at least six months.»
«Eleven instructors and three months.»
«Five months.»
«All right, eleven men and five months,» Smith said. «Do you know of any agent who would be suited for this? Anybody in the CIA?»
«Not the superman you want.»
«How long to find one?»
«May never find one,» MacCleary said, rummaging in the liquor cabinet. «Killers aren't made, they're born.»
«Rubbish. Lots of men, clerks, shopkeepers, anybody turn into killers in war.»
«They don't turn into killers, Smitty. They find out that they were killers. They were born that way. And what makes this damned thing so tough is that you don't always find them wearing guns. Sometimes, the really good ones have an aversion to violence. They avoid it. They know in their hearts, what they are, like the alky who takes one drink. They know what that drink means. It's the same with killing.»