They worked at it all through the night, perfecting the little points, the danger areas, the little details that could trip them up.
Their undercover man was perfect. Just barely old enough to go into a beer parlor, naïve, friendly, guileless.
He had come from a farm in Newfoundland, enlisted, suffered his training, and been shipped west with his face half buried in an immature mustache and beard. His blue, blue eyes argued his innocence and his complete inability to deceive. Even his speech was simple and unpolished.
The man they were after was as crafty as theirs was guileless. He was at least as clever as anyone they had ever come up against before. He dealt small lots until sure of his customer then made the big strike. He had been so successful over the years, somehow escaping detection until only recently, that he now enjoyed the latest and best of everything, both in his personal life and in his efforts to avoid detection by police.
He lived in a penthouse at the top of a sixteen-story modern apartment building: he had bargained with the builders and been granted his own elevator which went from floor fifteen to the penthouse--but only if you had the right fingerprints to activate the sensors. This elevator made his penthouse a fortress. Nobody, not the manager, not the caretaker, or the builder, could reach him. He could let you come up if he were home and chose to see you: there was a television camera above the elevator doors enabling him to see who was calling. If you weren't invited, you were not welcome.
Being so high off the ground and with no other high buildings nearby, he was reasonably safe from electronic surveillance. He never, ever used his phone for business: he never even gave his customers his number. . . |
