Caulkins laughed apologetically. “Well, Mr. Forte, I’ve run into a little problem, and I thought you might be able to help me with it.”
“Shoot,” Forte said, wistfully wishing he could. Hobe Caulkins was the cleverest investigative reporter in Texas, and where he went, trouble followed. In his wake floated the debris of an implacable curiosity- divorces, hasty resignations, indictments, libel suits (rarely won), fist fights (rarely lost), sudden disappearances, suicides, and consent decrees. Anything that smacked of scandal was grist for his grinder, and the fatter the victim, the sharper the ax. He had never taken on Gwillam Forte before-not because he feared his connections or the clout of Forte’s own Houston Herald, but simply because Forte had a reputation for straightforwardness and indifference to public opinion. Forte had never dodged the unpleasant truth that in business, as in love and war, where there are winners there must be losers. Forte did whatever was necessary to win, and made no apologies about it.
“Got a list of names here.” The young man dipped into an inside pocket and extracted a notebook. “Thought you might be able to tell me something about them.” He flipped it open and slid it across the glass-topped desk.
Forte glanced down the list. It contained twenty-one names, the names of veterans-hospital shipmates he had put in charge of the Texas restoration two years earlier. The only omissions were those of Lester Bates and Haig Gargurian, who had died the previous year.
“What about them?”
“Do you know them?”
“They’re patients at the veterans hospital over on Old Spanish Trail. Yes, I know them.”
“Anything special about them?”
“Plenty. They served their country and paid for the privilege with their limbs and their health. Their country has rewarded them with bed, board, and amnesia. The usual Tommy Atkins treatment-garbage disposal, American style.”
“Tommy Atkins?”
“Kipling. Tommy Atkins is the nickname for the British soldier, and Rudyard Kipling had things to say about civilians ‘making mock of uniforms that guard you while you sleep,’ and how in peacetime ‘it’s Tommy this and Tommy that, and “Chuck him out, the brute!” But it’s “Savior of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot.'”
“Before my time. What else can you tell me about them?”
“Nothing.”
“But they’re working for you.”
“If you want to know anything about them,” Forte said, feeling his lips tighten, “they’re the people to talk to.”
“They won’t talk to me.”
Forte shrugged.
Hobe Caulkins’s eyes hardened. “It’s going to be that simple, Mr. Forte. They may be involved in activities adversely affecting the national interest. And that involves you, because they are on your payroll.”
“So are approximately 8,300 other people, at latest count. Are you suggesting that Sunshine Industries, Inc., is working against the national interest? Because if you are, you should tell the Department of Defense right away: I have $2.3 billion in prime defense contracts, and you wouldn’t want them to worry, would you?”
“I wouldn’t know about-”
“I’m busy, Caulkins. Get down to cases or get out.”
Caulkins retrieved his notebook and flipped a page. “Okay. These twenty-one men are veterans of foreign wars. They all have horrible, disabling wounds. They range in age from forty-three to seventy-eight, and have hope neither of full recovery nor of leading full, useful lives on the outside.
“Second, for some time they’ve been observed passing regularly through the main gate to your La Porte property. On that property is located Sunshine Industries’ underground manufacturing and research facility, SD-1.”
“Not to mention the barge landing on the Houston Ship Channel, a 65,000-barrel-per-day refinery, a cat-cracker, and a PVC factory. Not a horse- and cattle-breeding spread, El Caballejo. After all, that property’s 960 acres.”
“But we both know they’re going down to SD-1, don’t we, Mr. Forte?” Caulkins winked conspiratorially. “And in the bowels of SD-1 you do atomic research and weapons development.”
“That’s classified information.” Forte’s stomach muscles were tightening.
“Sue me. You can always claim I was a Russian spy. Third, I’ve discovered that the nearest relatives of every one of these veterans I’ve checked on have been receiving substantial cash payments each month.
I guess I don’t have to tell you the checks are drawn on Sunshine Industries, do I?”
“Where did you get that information, Caulkins?”
“Informed sources.”
“Care to name them?”
Caulkins laughed good-naturedly. “With all due respect, go to hell, Mr. Forte. Where was I?”
“Fifth,” said Forte, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, “as in that bottle of Scotch over in the bar, in case you need inspiration.”
The newspaperman studied the ceiling. “Fourth, my informed sources tell me that five of these veterans have developed a sudden interest in atomic energy. They’ve been boning up on the subject from reference books in the VA hospital library. . . . How’m I doing, Mr. Forte?”
You’re getting warm, thought Gwillam Forte, getting cold as the implications of what Caulkins was saying sank in. There was nothing he had said so far he could use as a basis for a story, but there was enough to encourage him to continue prying. Forte had to head him off at the pass.
“So, what does all this signify to you, Caulkins?”
Caulkins scratched his head in feigned perplexity.
“Damned if I know. But a lot of interesting explanations spring to mind, which I owe to my readers to check out.”
“For instance.”
“Waaal, let’s try this one for size- Everybody knows how you feel about the Washington Protocols. Your editorial writers froth at the mouth every day, making dire predictions of the demise of the West if they’re signed. One of the provisions you most object to is that the protocols promise a tremendous revival of American agriculture, which everybody else believes to be a useful and sensible international division of labor, but which you pretend to see as the death of American industrial might.”
“First sensible thing you’ve said today. Please continue.”
“Now, if you wanted to sabotage the protocols before they had a chance to justify their promise of lasting world peace, what I’ve found out would go far to demonstrate that such a program of sabotage exists.”
“How?”
“The veterans-they’re expendable. They know it, and are willing to trade the last few painful years of their lives for assurance that their families will be well provided for after they die. You’ve been making that provision. Next, their sudden interest in atomic energy. Atomic radiation is invisible, and damned dangerous; Houston is the major American port of origin for overseas shipment of wheat and other food grains. Put these two facts together, and you get the suggestion that these men are somehow involved in secret research- probably as guinea pigs-to poison that grain with atomic radiation, perhaps in order to sterilize the Russians and others who eat it, or give them cancer, and thus permit the gradual, painless, and undetectable elimination of those peoples you insist are our enemies. Your guinea pigs would-”
Forte gestured impatiently. “Quit talking nonsense. All this you’re saying is plain preposterous, and you know it.” Inwardly, Forte sighed with relief. Caulkins was only guessing. But at least he hadn’t guessed the Texas connection. That was the important thing.
“Well, of course it’s preposterous,” Caulkins admitted easily, “but it’s only one theory among many. One of them’s got to be right, and none of them are pretty. I’ll keep digging until I uncover the one that fits all the facts. Then I publish . . .”
The newspaperman’s face was suddenly grim, and Forte knew why. Fear was a participant in every Caul-kins interview. Digging was precisely what could not be permitted. The danger to national security of premature disclosure, by so much as a minute, of the Texas plan, overrode every personal consideration.
Though Forte respected, even liked, the young man immensely, for a moment he contemplated calling in several of his competent assistants and instructing them to take Mr. Hobart Caulkins to a remote and private place, and there keep him until sometime in August.
But there might be another way . . .
On the speed key in the kneehole of his desk, Forte’s right hand began tapping out terse instructions. He knew Caulkins’s character well. Money had no attraction for him. But he loved good living-excellent cuisine, praise of his column, creature comforts-and especially the company of lovely women who gave him these things. Before Caulkins had finished reminding Forte of the implications of the revelations he intended to make, Forte’s instructions were already being carried out.
“Well, now, Hobe,” Forte said when the other settled back in his chair, his face flushed from his own eloquence, “that’s some program. I wish I could convince you you’re wasting your time.”
“I’ll bet you do. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting along to work on it. I’ve found that when I start floating a few facts in my column, readers begin phoning in. First thing you know, the dam breaks, and somebody’s catching the next plane to Brazil. Hope it doesn’t have to be you, Mr. Forte.” He rose. “Thanks for seeing me.”