BOOK II
One
John J. Dempster, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., comes charging out of his office bathroom, a dynamo in overdrive. Gray brush-cut hair is wet from a shower; he scrubs his scalp furiously with a towel. He’s wearing only boxer shorts imprinted with monetary insignia: dollar, pound, deutsche mark, yen.
Mrs. Esther Giesecke, his executive secretary, follows him to the dressing room, picking up his damp towel. She stands in the doorway as he dresses swiftly.
“All right,” he says, “what have we got?”
“Tommy called from LaGuardia. The Lear is fueled and ready to go. He wants to know when you’ll be leaving.”
“The idiot!” Dempster snaps. “We’ll be leaving when I get there. What else?”
“Hiram Haldering called to confirm your appointment on Monday afternoon at three.”
Another woman appears at the secretary’s side. She is Eve Bookerman, Chief Operating Officer of Dempster-Torrey.
“You sure you want to go to Haldering’s office, J.J.?” she asks. “Why not have him come over here?”
“No,” he says brusquely. “I want to get a look at his operation. Twiggs at Pistol and Burns says it’s a raggedy-assed outfit, but apparently they get results. Eve, I’ll want you to come with me. And Ted Brodsky, too. Tell him about it. Anything else?”
“Your case is packed,” his secretary tells him. “The takeover papers are in there, with a photocopy of your letter of intent. And a preliminary draft of your speech to the Chicago analysts.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she tells him.
“Eve, you got anything?”
“A cover?” he asks sharply.
“They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“Tell them no cover, no story. Did you send flowers to Ed Schanke’s funeral?”
“I took care of it, J.J.”
“Good. That union should be easier to deal with now. He was a sonofabitch. Well, I guess that’s it. If I think of anything else, I’ll call from the car or plane. You know where to phone me in Chicago and St. Louis. I’ll be back in town Sunday night, so you can reach me at home then if anything comes up.”
He inspects himself in a full-length mirror. He’s wearing a black suit of raw silk, white shirt, regimental striped tie. His black kilties are polished to a high gloss. His only jewelry is a gold wedding band.
“Okay, Esther,” he commands, “check me out.”
“Wallet?” she says. “Keys? Handkerchief? Sunglasses? Reading glasses? Credit cards? Pen? Cigarettes? Lighter? Pillbox?”
As she enumerates all these items, he taps trouser and jacket pockets. “Got everything,” he reports. “Esther, take my case out to Tim. I’ll be along in a minute.”
They move into his outer office, a baronial chamber paneled with bleached pine. It is dominated by an enormous desk-table: a solid slab of polished teak supported on chrome sawhorses.
Mrs. Giesecke carries his attache case into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Dempster puts his back against it and beckons. Eve Bookerman comes into his arms: a long, fervid embrace, lips mashed, tongues seeking.
She pulls away, gasping. “You’ll call me tonight, Jack?” she asks.
“Don’t I always? That ear of yours still giving you trouble?”
“It’s better. The drops are helping.”
“Good. I better get moving.”
“Jack, you be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he says. “See you on Monday.”
Tim, his bodyguard, is waiting at the executive elevator. The two men ride down forty-two floors to Wall Street.
“Nice day, Mr. Dempster,” Tim says cheerily. “Good flying weather.”
“Too bloody hot. But we’ll be going from one air-conditioned cocoon to another.”
A gray Lincoln limousine is at the curb. Bernie is behind the wheel. He hops out to open the back door, and Dempster slides in. Tim walks around to the traffic side to get in next to his boss.
A black Kawasaki motorcycle is idling about twenty feet to the rear of the limo. It starts up, moves forward so slowly that the man in the saddle drags his steel-toed boot on the pavement. Both driver and the man on the pillion are wearing blue nylon jackets, jeans, massive crash helmets with tinted visors that extend to their chins.
The bike pulls up alongside the Lincoln and stops. The rear rider unzips his jacket. He pulls out an Uzi submachine gun, stock folded down. Firing the weapon with one hand, he sprays the three men in the limousine, shooting through the opened door and the closed windows.
The chauffeur and bodyguard die first, their bodies riddled, jerking as the 9mm slugs cut them open. The muzzle is turned to Dempster. He throws up both hands in angry protest, but the bullets slice through. He is slammed back on the seat, then toppled onto the floor.
The assassin coolly empties the thirty-two-round magazine, then slips the gun back into his jacket. The Kawasaki accelerates, roars away, weaving through traffic. In a moment it is gone.
And so is John J. Dempster.
Photographs were gory, but facts were few. Knowledgeable witnesses identified the bike as a black Kawasaki Ltd. 650, and the weapon as a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with folding stock. Descriptions of the killers were meager: two young male Caucasians, medium height, medium build, wearing blue jackets, jeans, visored helmets, boots.
Shortly after the murders, three New York newspapers received phone calls from an organization calling itself “Liberty Tomorrow,” and claiming responsibility for the killings. More attacks against “corporate America” were promised, and the callers warned that assassinations of business executives would continue until the “people sit in the seats of the mighty.”
The New York Police Department, the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and antiterrorist organizations of foreign governments reported they had no information on a revolutionary group called Liberty Tomorrow, but all cautioned that such anarchic cells formed frequently, were usually short-lived, and sometimes consisted of no more than a half-dozen members.
The police investigation concentrated on finding the Kawasaki and checking all the threatening letters that John J. Dempster, like many business executives, received over the years. Detectives also sought to determine who was aware of Dempster’s schedule, knew of his projected flight to Chicago, and was able to direct the killers to the right place at the right time, enabling them to commit their crime quickly and escape with ease.
John J. Dempster was buried on Friday, but even before his funeral (attended by a Deputy Under-Secretary of Commerce), the Board of Directors of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., met in emergency session and appointed a
