“You’ll get some more. Ryan’s hired another man to supervise the—‘foundational work’ he calls it. Man named McDonagh. He’s going to put him on the North Atlantic project once he proves he really can be trusted.”
“McDonagh. Never heard of him—don’t tell me, he’s not another apple picked from an orange tree?”
“A what?”
“You know Ryan, he has his own notions of picking men. Sometimes they’re remarkable, and well, sometimes they’re—strange.” He cleared his throat.
Sullivan scowled. “Like me?”
“No, no, no…”
Meaning yes, yes, yes. But it was true: Ryan had a way of recruiting black sheep, people who showed great potential but needed that extra chance. They all had a spirit of independence, were disillusioned with the status quo—and sometimes willing to skirt the law.
“The problem,” Sullivan said, “is that the government thinks Ryan is hiding something because he’s trying to keep people from finding out where these shipments are going and what they’re for… and he
Greavy went to the blueprints, shuffling through them with one hand, his eyes gleaming behind his thick spectacles. “The strategic value of such a construction is significant, in a world where we’re likely to go toe-to-toe with the Soviets—and Mr. Ryan doesn’t want any outsiders going down there to report on what he’s building. He wants to run things his way, ’specially once it’s set up. Without interference. That’s the whole point! Or to be more accurate—he wants to set it up to run
“Where’s he getting all these new inventions?”
“Oh, he’s been recruiting people for years. Who do you think designed those new dynamos of his?”
“Well, it’s his call,” Sullivan said, looking wistfully into his empty glass. Weak brandy or not, a drink was a drink. “You’ve been working for him twice as long as I have. He don’t tell me much.”
“He likes information to be compartmentalized on this project. Keeps a secret better.”
Sullivan crossed to the porthole and peered out. Saw his shadow, out there, still clamping that pipe in his mouth. But now the G-man was pacing by the
“I’ve got to meet the Wales brothers. You know what they’re like. Artists. All too aware of their own genius…” He frowned at the blueprints. Sullivan could see he was jealous of the Waleses. Greavy sniffed. “If there’s nothing else—I’d better get on with it. Unless there’s something else besides this new man that Ryan’s taken on?”
“Who? Oh, McDonagh? No, I’m here to confirm the time you ship out. Ryan wanted me to come down personally. He’s beginning to think they might be listening in on the telephones somehow. I’m thinking if you can leave earlier than midnight, it’d be better.”
“As soon as the captain’s back. I expect him within the hour.”
“Leave soon as you can. Maybe they’ll get a warrant after all. I don’t think they’d find anything illegal. But if Ryan wants to keep them from knowing what he’s up to, the less they see, the better.”
“Very well. But who could imagine what he’s up to? Jules Verne? Certainly not these drones at the IRS. But Sullivan, I assure you—Ryan is correct: if they knew what he really has in mind, they’d be quite worried. Particularly considering how little help he gave the Allies in the war.”
“He took no sides at all. He didn’t care for Hitler or the Japs neither.”
“Still—he showed no special loyalty to the United States. And who can blame him? Look at the wreckage the ant society made of Europe—for the second time in the century. And the horror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki… I can’t wait to leave all that behind…” Greavy escorted Sullivan toward the door. “Ryan has every intention of creating something that will grow—and grow! First across the seabed, and then, in time, above the surface of the sea—when they’ve done such damage to themselves, these so-called nations of the earth, that they can no longer pose a threat. Until then, he is right to mistrust them. Because he is creating something that will
“Merton? Get outta my bar.”
Merton was gaping at Frank Gorland from behind the beer-stained desk of The Clanger’s smoky little office. Harv Merton was a man with a large round head and thick lips, a skinny body, and a brown turtleneck sweater. Hell, he
“I’m the owner, ain’t I? As of tonight anyhow.”
“Whatta hell ya mean you’re the
The man who called himself Frank Gorland smiled without humor and leaned against the frame of the closed door. “You know any expressions besides
Merton stared at the papers, eyes widening. “That was you? Hudson Loans? Nobody told me that was —”
“A loan is a loan. What I seem to recall is, you were drunk when you signed it. Needed some money to pay off your gambling vig. A big fucking vig it was too, Merton!”
“You were there that night? I don’t remember—”
“You remember getting
“It—it don’t count if I was drunk!”
“Merton, if there was no business done drunk in this town, half its business wouldn’t get done.”
“I think you put something in my drink, that’s what I think; the next day I felt—”
“Stop whining; you cashed the check, didn’t you? You got the loan, couldn’t pay the interest, time’s up— now this place is mine! It’s all there in black and white! This dump was your collateral!”
“Look, Mr. Gorland…” Merton licked his thick lips. “Don’t think I disrespect you. I know you’ve hustled—uh, worked your way to a good thing, this end of town. But you can’t just take a man’s
“No? My attorneys can. They’ll come after you hammer and tongs, pal.” He grinned. “Hammer, Tongs, and Klein, attorneys at law!”
Merton seemed to shrivel in his seat. “Okay, okay, whatta ya want from me?”
“Not what I want—what I’m
Gorland. Barris. Wiston. Moskowitz. Wang. Just some of the names he’d had the last few years. His own name, quite another Frank, seemed like it belonged to somebody else.
Keep ’em guessing, that was his way.
The Clanger wasn’t just a cash cow—it was the place for Frank Gorland to hear the right conversations. It
