Bruce Wayne knew, just as he knew there could only be one mind behind it all. Maybe forty-five years ago it was a group; not anymore. No committee could generate the subtle elegance of the Connection’s world-ringing transactions. But not even Bruce Wayne had a clue about the body or personality that went with the name. Other monikered individuals, including himself, had public faces and private faces, but the Connection—so far as anyone knew—had no face at all. A complete recluse, he’d never been fingered, not even when one of his operations went sour. If a description did emerge, it contradicted all previous ones—fueling the case of the committee-ists. Bruce Wayne was guiltily grateful that the Connection—though widely believed to be an American operation—scrupulously avoided washing its dirty laundry in the USA.
“They weren’t positive,” Gordon said when the silence became uncomfortably prolonged. “It’s not the Connection’s style to make a swap where our side has jurisdiction. They’re leaping at the chance, I think, but they admit it might all be smoke and mirrors.”
Massaging his cheeks, Batman shook his head. “The world’s changing; it’s already changed so much the sides are smudged. The Connection’s got to change with it. I don’t wonder that the Feds and Interpol are jumpy. There’s a first time for everything—he’s testing the waters.”
Gordon took note of the singular pronoun. “You think it’s one man, then?”
“I’m sure of it. One genius. He doesn’t leave many traces, and when I find them, I’m always chin-deep in something else. But this time he’s steaming right across my bows, and I’m going to find him.” Batman’s voice was calm and even, leaving no room for doubt.