By Reason of Insanity (41 page)

Still muttering, Kenton’s sly mind had already begun to search for effective countermeasures. He was damned if he’d let some superslick country editor get the best of him.

Adam Kenton knew he was a good investigative reporter. Better than most and as good as the best of them. He researched his subjects carefully, dug thoroughly for facts, and always applied the human equation to his findings. How did this or that benefit the subject? If the answer was not clear he dug further. In his constant, sometimes frantic search for information he never allowed himself to forget the truth that men invariably acted out of self-serving motives. Whatever was done, whether by individuals or groups or even whole governments, ultimately was done for self-interest. His job was to discover that interest. The conclusions were then usually inescapable.

His only present regret was that he was not working for a paper like the
Washington Post
. For an investigative reporter Washington was the in place at the moment, the place where the news was literally being made by reporters digging into a corrupt government.

Short of that he was satisfied with
Newstime
. It was relatively honest for a mass magazine that served an incredible array of vested interests. The chief sin was not in what it printed, which was for the most part straightforward, but in what it neglected to print. Some Machiavellian mind at the top, perhaps Mackenzie himself, had discovered that it was less troublesome to omit something altogether than to slant it. Once locked in print an article was open to censure, but an omission could always be called simply an oversight. It was a much more subtle and sophisticated way of managing the news, though no less reprehensible. Yet in his six years with the magazine Kenton had seen nothing of his pulled or even materially distorted. It was, even by his cynical standards, a pretty good record.

He was regarded by his peers on the magazine, and by the press corps in general, as a gifted, occasionally brilliant reporter who usually got his story whatever the odds. His investigative instincts were superb, and he had more than once refused offers from private industry. He liked writing about real people and he liked reporting the news, but most of all he liked to dig underneath the news to write about what was really happening. That gave him a sense of power, and power to a newsman, as he well understood, was what it was all about.

He had quickly come to the attention of the assistant managing editors, who soon began using him for the more difficult stories. Within a year he had become a staff writer, in three years a senior writer. He worked in a dozen cities and was always somewhere in the field, always on the move. Several times he was offered a supervisory position in one of the bureaus; each time the offer was refused. He was a maverick journalist who intended to continue doing the one thing that turned him on, and sitting behind a desk was definitely not it.

In 1972 he was sent to California, where he worked on the bizarre Juan Corona case. A Mexican-American, Juan Corona had been accused of killing at least twentyfive migrant workers over a two-year period. He was finally sentenced in the California courts to twentyfive consecutive life terms.

Later that year Kenton moved on to New Mexico, where he investigated a fantastic land-grant scheme that would have netted millions of dollars to a few unscrupulous real estate operators. The entire story appeared first in an issue of
Newstime
.

After several special assignments he returned to California in April of 1973, assigned to the Los Angeles bureau. The whole political climate of that state was in turmoil and could be, so some responsible people in New York felt, a harbinger of what was to come in national politics.

Kenton kept his investigative pores open and was soon deep into a number of stories. The articles on Caryl Chessman and Vincent Mungo, and one on the rise of Senator Stoner had been just a few of them.

Now here he was suddenly back in New York, where he didn’t particularly want to be, and saddled with an impossible task that promised only trouble. He had nothing to go on, nothing to work with except his own skills. And those were hardly up to finding one man out of more than one hundred million in the fourth-largest country in the world.

Yet he had to admit that if he could somehow work the miracle, if he could get to Vincent Mungo first, his name would become a legend of investigative reporting. Assuming he could prevent Dunlop, the big corporate cheese, from stealing the glory. Or John Perrone from downgrading his role.

Assuming all that, including the possibility of miracles, he would not only be plugged into the power but he would be part of the power itself, if only temporarily.

It was worth a shot, or so he thought at the moment.

Which meant he knew he had no choice.

Back in Perrone’s office he was asked what he needed for a start. A getaway car, he had replied grimly. Nobody laughed. He settled for a WATS line covering the whole country and a complete listing of
Newstime
reporters and stringers in all cities. He also wanted everything written about Vincent Mungo, from the smallest country rag to
The New York Times
, as well as copies of all important documents, starting with Mungo’s birth certificate. Perrone had promised to put two researchers on the job immediately; both would be his for the duration of the project.

Anything else?

For the moment, no. Except—Kenton had smiled—he would require the full list of all
Newstime
confidential sources of information, Perrone’s famed information spies. Without the list, he forcefully observed, he would be severely restricted in his ability to reach out quickly for a vital fact or a needed name or even a covert operation.

The managing editor had cautioned that the list was available only to three or four top men on the magazine. How could it remain confidential if allowed to circulate? Kenton had replied that only he would see the list, that in any event he would be solely responsible for its confidentiality and eventual return. A hurried call had prompted Perrone to consent.

If asked, both Perrone and Fred Grimes would have had to express a certain sympathy for their supersleuth at that moment. They recognized the difficulties he faced, the impossible odds he bucked. Yet they passionately believed it was worth a try. They wished Kenton good luck.

Now on the seventh floor he sat in his new temporary office looking out the window and thinking of California. Just twentyfour hours earlier he had been in sunshine and warmth, and here he was in a barren room on a dark and dreary New York day. It didn’t seem fair somehow, and had he believed in the gods he would have cursed them roundly. As it was, he blamed John Perrone and Martin Dunlop and everybody at
Newstime
. But most of all he blamed Vincent Mungo.

He turned to watch the wizened man march into the office. Military bearing, iron-gray hair clipped short, dark ferret eyes. He had heard the name before. Otto Klemp, the company security boss. Klemp introduced himself formally, allowing the ghost of a smile to disturb his rigid features. He allowed nothing else.

His message was brief and precise.

“While you are on this assignment you will live at the St. Moritz in rooms kept by the company. You will tell no one of your work beyond the cover story.
No one
, in or out of the organization. If your cover is blown for any reason, if the secrecy is compromised in any way, your assignment is automatically canceled.” Again the ghost of a smile. “We will be watching your progress closely, very closely. Your quarry, as you know, apparently arrived in New York yesterday. The same day, I believe, as did you. Interesting,
nein?
” His hand was on the door. “In Austria they tell of the fox who dressed like a hound. When the chase began he ran with the pack. Everything went fine—until the wind shifted.”

Klemp seemed to click his heels as he turned and slipped through the narrow opening. Kenton watched the door slowly close behind him.

Of all the traits that combined in Adam Kenton to make him the best investigative reporter on the biggest newsmagazine staff in the country, traits that had in a brief decade brought him a certain measure of renown and respect, and that would ultimately lead to a Pulitzer for his investigation of the sinister forces behind the movement for repeal of the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, perhaps the most important was his ability to adapt himself to the roles of those from whom he sought information. In mannerisms and speech he seemed to blend into their public identities. His sympathetic understanding and acceptance almost invariably prompted a flow of confidences not normally given to reporters. Whether it was businessmen or politicians or bureaucrats or the police, he understood their problems. He was really one of them.

This metaphoric quality was coupled with an intense concentration that often enabled him to think like his adversaries. He constantly asked himself the question: What would they do next? Or: Why did they do that? His guess was usually correct. Only it wasn’t ever just a guess but more of an instinctive leap into their minds. This mental bit of magic, grounded in voluminous information and a brilliant imagination, probably more than anything else had led to the nickname of Superman given him by his peers, not without a strong touch of envy.

Average in everything including his clothes, appearing ordinary except for his eyes, he was able to become whatever was needed.

Beyond that, he had put in ten years at ajob that required an ability to fight dirty and a stubborn refusal to quit. For whatever success he may have achieved he had paid a price in his increasing paranoia, his detachment from women, his negativistic outlook. The years had made him shrewd and tough; they had also brought out his hunger for power and the strong streak of sadism underneath. In his growing isolation, his fantasies of perfection and incorruptibility were becoming more fragmented. Yet the shrewdness and toughness were the dominant strengths of Kenton’s professional life, and were ignored by others only at considerable peril to their freedom of operation or even liberty.

At age thirty-five, with a desperately poor childhood behind him, with a college degree paid by four years of menial jobs, with a disastrous marriage and two years in Vietnam, plus ten years on the firing line, four of them at newspapers in the boondocks and the last six in the big leagues at
Newstime
, Adam Kenton was just about immune to everything but good luck. And he certainly wasn’t going to be fazed by veiled threats from within the company.

His only reaction to what Otto Klemp had said was to narrow his eyes to slits and think furiously.

A half hour’s reflection convinced him of two things. There were some people in the company who really believed that he could scoop Vincent Mungo out of thin air and deliver him to the Corporate Powers, ready to give them the story of the year.

And there were some who wanted him to fail.

As his thoughts finally shifted toward the problem of an invisible madman who seemed to be worth a lot of money to a lot of people, John Perrone came into the room and sat down. He looked worried.

“So Klemp’s been here already, eh? I wondered how long it’d take him. I saw him upstairs and he told me to make sure you had anything you needed. He stressed ‘anything.’ I think the man likes you.” He hesitated. “Or else he’s afraid of you. Does he know something I don’t?”

Kenton glanced over at his boss. “Maybe he’s really Vincent Mungo and he knows I’ll find out.” He grinned at the idea.

“It’s no joke,” said Perrone.

“Neither is this damn assignment.”

“Don’t underestimate him. Klemp is as tough as they come, and he’s totally dedicated.”

“To what?”

“To the job.”

“Whose job?”

Perrone frowned. He never felt comfortable talking about Klemp.

“Mackenzie’s,” he said finally, “if it got down to that. And of course his own. But his actual job is to keep everything locked and everybody in line. Real gung-ho on security, you know the type.”

“I’ve met a few.”

“His passion is to keep secret things secret.”

“And dead things dead?”

Perrone looked around the empty office.

“That too,” he answered quietly.

Somewhere a clock struck the hour. Twelve noon. Only 9 A.M. in California. Kenton pursed his lips in thought. He would still be in bed, hoping for a few more minutes. Instead he was in a sealed glass cage surrounded by enemies and saddled with a lunatic who was his sole means of escape. If he didn’t get Mungo he would lose his reputation, if not his job. Sure, he’d get other offers but he liked his work and he liked
Newstime
. It had style and class and it suited him just fine. He sighed. There was no way out; he was trapped and he would be forced to do what they wanted, at least this time. But in doing so he would, by God, keep his eyes open to the Senator Stoner angle, and to Otto Klemp and everyone else in the company. And if he found anything wrong he would pounce like the Baskerville hound itself.

He shook his head. It was settled, and as his mind turned to the chase he slowly began to see himself as the fox. What would he do?

“You’ve got to come up with something, Adam. And fast. My ass is all the way out on this one. Spend whatever it takes. I’ll see that you get everything you want from this end.”

It was the managing editor. He was still here, still talking.

Kenton pulled his thoughts away from the chase. His eyes widened, his face softened, the sly look disappeared. He turned to the other man.

“It’s not a matter of money. This so-called madman’s had whole states after him, with all their resources.” He snorted in derision. “No, I’m afraid not. If it was that simple he’d be long dead.”

“Then what?”

“Information. We need information. Lots of it. We must know everything about him, from wherever we can get it. And then—”

“And then?”

Kenton smiled. “Then maybe we can outfox him.”

Each man sat with his thoughts for a moment. Perrone was the first to speak.

“I’ve already assigned two researchers to work with you. They’re to know nothing of course.”