Arthur Hailey - Overload

"I have in mind that we are an organization employing many high caliber people with an abundance of brainpower. Judging by results, the law enforcement agencies lack both. Therefore, Nim, these are my instructions to you: Bring your own brain and those of others to bear on this problem.

Call on whoever you require to help you; you have my authority. But I want results. For the sake of our people who were killed, for their families, and for the rest of us who take pride in GSP & L, I want that despicable person, Archambault, caught and brought to justice."

The chairman stopped, his face flushed, then said tersely, "That's all."

* * *

It was a coincidence in timing, Nim thought, after his encounter with Eric Humphrey, that he, too, had been thinking about brainpower.

Four months ago, largely because of skepticism by Mr. Justice Yale, Nim had abandoned the "think group" approach to the problem of terrorist attacks by the so-called "Friends of Freedom."

Following Paul Yale's criticism that they had "pushed supposition pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond," Nim had summoned no further "think meetings" between himself, Oscar O'Brien, Teresa Van Buren and Harry London. And yet, reviewing what was now known, the quartet's ideas and guesswork had been uncannily close to the truth.

In fairness, Nim reasoned, he could only blame himself. If he had persisted, instead of becoming overawed by Yale, they might have anticipated, possibly even prevented, some of the tragic events which had since occurred.

Now, armed with Eric Humphrey's instructions, there might still be something they could do.

Originally, in discussing the then-unknown leader of Friends of Freedom, the "think group" labeled him 'X" the identity of "X" was now known, and the man-Georgos Archambault-dangerous, an overhanging threat to GSP & L and others, was believed to be biding somewhere in the city.

Could intensive thought and probing discussion somehow penetrate that biding?

Today was Friday. Nim decided that sometime during the weekend, using the chairman's authority if needed, he would bring the four "thinkers" together once again.

"As it turned out," Nim said, consulting notes, "we were remarkably accurate. Let me remind you of just how accurate."

He paused to sip the scotch and soda which Oscar O'Brien had poured for him a few minutes ago, before they started.

It was Sunday afternoon. At the general counsel's invitation, the "think group" had assembled in his home and was sprawled around an informal comfortable garden room. The other three had been co-operative when approached by Nim, even more so when informed of J. Eric Humphrey's wishes.

The O'Brien house, high above the shoreline and with a beach below, afforded a magnificent waterfront view which, at the moment, included a multitude of sailboats, their weekend sailors endlessly beating, reaching or running, and miraculously avoiding each other, amid a flurry of whitecaps raised by a stiff westerly breeze.

As on previous occasions when the group had met, a tape recorder was running.

"On the basis of the then-available information," Nim continued, "information which was sketchy at best, we hypothesized that one man -"X"-was the leader and brains of Friends of Freedom, that he was strongly masculine and vain, and that he had a woman confidante who worked closely with him. We also believed that X personally murdered those two guards at Millfield, and that the woman was present at the time. Furthermore, we concluded the woman might be a source of weakness and prove the undoing of 'X',"

"I'd forgotten some of that," Teresa Van Buren injected. "By God, we were right on target!"

The PR director, appearing as if she had come unchanged from a lazy weekend at home, was wearing a rumpled green caftan over her ample figure. Her hair, as usual, was untidy, probably because she ran her fingers through it whenever she was thinking. Her feet were bare; the pair of dilapidated sandals she had slipped off were beside her chair.

"Yes," Nim acknowledged, "I know. And I'll admit to you all, it was my fault we failed to continue. I guess I lost faith, and I was wrong." He decided to say nothing about the influence of Mr. Justice Yale, who, after all, had done no more than express an opinion.

Nim proceeded, "Now that we know the identity of 'X,' and a good deal more about him, perhaps we can use the same mental process in helping track him down."

He stopped, conscious that three pairs of eyes were focused on him intently, then added, "Perhaps not. But the chairman believes we should try."

Oscar O'Brien grunted and removed from between his thick lips the cigar be had been smoking. The air was already thick with smoke, a condition distasteful to Nim, but it was O'Brien's home and objecting seemed unreasonable.

"I'm willing to give it a whirl," the lawyer said. "Where do we start?"

He was wearing old gray slacks, loosely belted below his bulging belly, a baggy sweater, and loafers without socks.

"I've prepared a memo," Nim said. Opening a briefcase, be produced copies and passed them around. The memo contained a summary of all information, published since the NEI convention, about Friends of Freedom and Georgos Archambault. The bulk of it was from Nancy Molineaux's reports. Nim waited until the others had finished reading, then asked, "Is there anything additional, which any of you know, that isn't in there?"

"I might have an item or two," Harry London volunteered.

The Property Protection chief had been cool today when meeting Nim, probably remembering their sharp words two days ago. But his tone was normal as he said, "I have friends in the law enforcement agencies. As Nim knows, they sometimes tell me things."

In contrast to the others-including Nim, who was also dressed casually-London was impeccable in beige slacks with a knife-edge crease, and a starched bush jacket. He wore socks which matched the ensemble. His leather shoes were gleaming.

“The newspapers mentioned that Archambault kept a journal," London said, "and it was found among his other papers. That's in here." He tapped Nim's memo with a fingernail. "What isn't here, and wasn't let out because the D.A. hopes to use it in evidence at Archambault's trial, is what was in the journal."

Van Buren asked, "Have you seen the journal?"

"No. But I was shown a Xerox copy."

As usual, Nim thought, Harry London was moving at his own pedantic pace.

O'Brien asked impatiently, "Okay, what was in the damn thing?"

"I don't remember."

There was obvious disappointment, then revived interest as London added, "At least, not all of it." He paused, then continued, “There are two things, though, you can tell from reading what the guy put down. First, he's every bit as vain and conceited as we figured, maybe more so. Also-and you get this right away from reading all the garage that's in there-he has what you'd call a compulsion to write things."

"So have thousands of others," Van Buren said. "Is that all?"

"Yep."

London seemed deflated and Nim put in quickly, "Tess, don't knock that kind of information. Every detail helps."

"Tell us something, Harry," Oscar O'Brien said. "Do you remember anything about the handwriting in that journal?"

"What kind of thing?"

"Well, was it distinctive?"

The Property Protection chief considered. "I'd say, yes."

"What I'm getting at," the general counsel said, "is this: If you took a sample of the journal handwriting, and then another turned up from someplace else, would it be easy to match the two and know they were both from the same person?"

"I see what you mean," London said. "No doubt of it. Very easy."

"Um." O'Brien was stroking his chin, drifting off into a reverie of his own. He motioned to the others. "Carry on. I only have a half-baked idea that isn't ready yet."