Five pieces of jade

CHAPTER 2

Although his office was comfortably air-conditioned, Chief Robert McGowan of the Pasadena Police Department could almost feel the midsummer heat outside. The brilliant California sun baked the window glass and burned hard patterns onto the carpeting. It was proving to be a hot summer indeed, and there were many who, in their way, were trying to make it hotter still.

Bob McGowan sat with his long frame twisted sideways in his chair and his feet stretched across an open lower drawer of his desk. While he clarified his thoughts he studied an attractive bamboohke plant that was growing with airy grace in a pot on his windowsill. Few of the visitors to his office who admired it knew that it was marijuana. Downstairs in the narcotics division there was a considerable collection of other exhibits, some of them less than pleasant, that were kept on hand for educational and training purposes.

McGowan had been selected for his job because, among other things, he had a decided gift for communicating with people: those who worked for him and those in the community whom he served. When the retirement of Chief Addis had opened up the top spot a few months previously, there had been several outstanding candidates from within the Pasadena Police Department. He had been picked because at that time there had been a slowly growing antagonism between the police authorities and the more militant elements of many different ethnic and social groups. The city management had looked carefully for the best man available to deal with that situation; Bob McGowan had been their choice and he had given them no cause to regret it.

His reverie was interrupted when his phone rang once

briefly. "Mr. Tibbs is back from court," his secretary told him. "You asked to be notified."

McGowan swung around and assumed a more businesslike posture. "Thank you. Pass the word that I'd like to see him in ten minutes. Meanwhile get Mr. Dufl^y on the phone for me; you can reach him at the number I gave you this morning."

While he was waiting for the call to be completed he reviewed once more a letter that had been on the top of his desk for two days; he knew perfectly well what it said, but he wanted to have it fresh in his mind before he went any further. When the phone tingled he spoke on the line for only a short time, made a commitment, and then hung up. Five minutes later the man he had sent for appeared in the doorway of his office.

Virgil Tibbs was appropriately dressed in a subdued dark suit which he frequently wore for his court appearances. His somewhat slender build suggested a quiet manner, but the parallel impression, that he was not physically very durable, was an illusion. As he came into the office a more discerning observer might have noted a suggestion of body discipline and with it a subtle air of self-possession. It was not at all evident and most people missed it entirely. Bob McGowan knew as well as anyone else that Virgil Tibbs had grown up under near-poverty conditions in the Deep South, and for a Negro boy to rise from that beginning to become the man who stood before him now had taken much more than ordinary effort and determination.

"Sit down," Bob invited.

There was no point in going through any empty preliminaries. "Virgil, I've heard from some gentlemen who would like very much to meet you, later on this afternoon if you can make it. They didn't go into too much detail with me, but I'm sure that they'll fill you in."

" 'Some gentlemen' is a little vague," Tibbs said.

Bob hadn't reaUy expected to get away with that "I can give you a little more," he continued. "They're Feds and undoubtedly they want some sort of cooperation."

"If so, how far shall I commit myself?"

McGowan waved a hand casually. "I'll leave that entirely up to you; do whatever your best judgment dictates."

Tibbs contemplated him quietly for a moment. "Chief McGowan, are you sure that you don't want to give me any further instructions?"

"I wish that I could, in a way, but you'll have to take it as it is. Whatever you decide to do, I'll back you up-you can count on that."

"I'd just like some assurance that I'm not being sold down the river," Virgil said.

"Absolutely not; I wouldn't consider any such idea if there was any way to avoid it. You shouldn't have to ask that. They want to take a look at you-that's the extent of it right now."

Tibbs got to his feet. "I hope it makes them happy. When and where?"

"They're sending a car for you at three. All right with you?"

"I'll tell you when I get back," Virgil said.

He returned to his own office not overly anxious to keep the appointment that had been made for him. He had problems enough on hand, including two or three cases he was very much concerned with getting cleaned up. Business was good, unfortunately, and every man on the force was carrying a full load. The wave of terror bombings that was sweeping the country with its violence, the intransigency of the militants, the wanton murders of police officers, and the sustained international tensions in the Middle and Far East had aU combined to create an atmosphere of frustration and discontent. Jobs for some time had been few and hard to find, a factor that had added even more to the sum total of irritation, actual distress, and sometimes desperation. Now the Feds wanted something and while he was sympathetic with their problems, he had plenty in stock of his own.

When the car arrived, precisely on schedule, it was a current-model Chevrolet shiny with newness. The driver was quite formal in the way he got out and held open the rear door for his passenger; it suggested that he might have been in the military and accustomed to driving the brass in the regulation manner. It also made clear that conversation was discouraged. Accepting that fact, Virgil settled down in the back seat and allowed himself to be driven away.

As the car headed north the few road noises that filtered through the closed windows and the subdued sound of the air conditioning blower were the only things that underlay the essential quiet. There being nothing else productive to do, Tibbs studied the sharply rising brown hiUs, baked by the strong sunlight day after day and denied water during almost all of the hot summer months. The blanket of smog that so often plagued Pasadena was heavy in the air. Behind the strongly built foothills the mountains were more massive

than they appeared; the discoloration in the atmosphere made them seem almost misty even at relatively close range.

Not long after the car reached the end of the city streets it began to climb. The heat outside became more visibly evident; on either side of the road dried-out vegetation struggled to survive in the arid soil. The engine labored, pinging as it attacked the steeper grades, as though it too was suffering from the pollution in the air.

In the area toward which the driver was heading there was a number of small plants and laboratories, most of them concerned with highly advanced technology related to national defense. Almost aU of them had fairly elaborate plant-protection systems which were tied in with the police network. From time to time unpublicized attempts had been made to break into these facilities; when that had happened the subsequent investigations had always been very thorough and entirely confidential. Satisfied now that he knew the general nature of his errand, Virgil allowed himself to relax and derive what enjoyment he could from the ride.

Several minutes later the car turned up a private road, and after another quarter of a mile, stopped before a set of guarded chain-link gates which gave access to what appeared to be a moderately small facility. The driver displayed a badge, the rear door was opened, and Tibbs was politely asked for his ID. He produced his police credentials and noted that they were examined rather than simply glanced at. The gates were then opened and the car was permitted to pass through.

The building itself gave very little external evidence of its purpose. It was a single-story structure built in a U shape with a small unscarred loading dock at one end and a Spanish-style tile roof unbroken except for a series of vent pipes and some restrained bits of ornamentation. Otherwise it was featureless; the only visible sign was a small one with the word Reception and a directing arrow. The driver took Tibbs up to the front door and then spoke for the first time. "They'll take care of you inside," he said, and turned away.

The small, plainly furnished lobby was devoid of any of the product illustrations or civic award plaques usual in such settings. There was a switchboard operator seated behind a glass panel who barely glanced up when the door was opened; she was quite aware that there was someone in the lobby waiting to receive the visitor. A man rose to his feet as Virgil came in and moved a step or two forward. "Mr. Tibbs? My name is Duffy. Please come in; Mr. Washburn is expecting you."

He led the way by opening a substantial door that was equipped with an electric lock and then turned right down a short corridor. At the end another door gave access to the executive suite. The light green plasterboard walls were supplanted by dark wood paneling and the vinyl floor tiles were replaced by heavy, foot-inviting carpeting. Tibbs had been anticipating that his visit would be primarily with the head of plant security; the front office environment required him to make some rapid revisions. Before he could reach any acceptable conclusions he found himself with his guide in the secretarial area. One of the three young women seated there rose immediately, tapped lightly on the door to the comer office, and then held it open for them to go through.

The first thing that Virgil noted was the furniture, quiet in design but of obviously superior quality. On the large walnut desk that dominated the room there were a few carefully chosen appointments; on a wide windowsiU behind it, a framed photograph of an unusually attractive woman with three children gathered about her. The paneled walls were decorated with original oil paintings of mountain scenery.

There were two men in the office waiting for them. The one behind the desk was early middle-aged; he had about him the aura of the health club and a well-used swim m ing pool which kept his muscles toned and his waistline in proportion. He was blond and definitely handsome, and when he held out his hand it was built of firm flesh well accustomed to being used to do things. "Don Washburn, Mr. Tibbs," he said as he shook hands; then he gestured to his companion.

The second man had been sitting at one end of a leather-covered davenport As he came forward Virgil noted the conservative cut of the sport coat he wore and the mirror-bright shine of his shoes-they would have passed a police inspection anywhere. That was aU that he needed to know for the moment. He shook hands and acknowledged the name, Lonigan; then he turned back to take his cue from the executive who was making him welcome.

"How do you take your coffee, Mr. Tibbs?" Washburn asked.

"Black, please."

The information was relayed via intercom; within a few seconds the girl opened the door once more, this time carry-

ing four cups of coffee in imported Japanese ceramic mugs. She served them and then withdrew.

As soon as the door was closed once more, Washburn continued. "We certainly appreciate your coming up here to see us. So that you know the lay of the land, this is a research facility engaged in government work which we like to think is of considerable importance."

Virgil nodded and sipped his coffee.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Tibbs, if I don't tell you anything more about what we are doing. It is very highly classified."

"I won't mention it to anyone," Virgil promised.

"Do you know?" There was a disturbed note in Washburn's voice.

"I beUeve so."

"Would you mind telling me?" Politely put, it was nevertheless a demand.

"I suspect fuel research, Mr. Washburn. Probably non-hydrocarbon, but that's only a guess."

The air was heavy.

Lonigan broke the brief silence that followed. "Mr. Tibbs, excuse my bluntness, but we'd be very much interested to know how you determined that."

"For one thing, by the thickness of the carpeting." After that Virgil continued to sip his coffee.

Washburn spoke quietly. "I don't see any point in being coy about this: I'd like to know where our security slipped. I ordered the carpeting, incidentally, and if it's giving us away, please tell me how."

Virgil set down his coffee cup. "The car that picked me up was new and obviously well maintained, but when we started climbing up here the engine pinged very noticeably. Since the temperature was normal according to the gauge, that meant either a bad timing adjustment or else a low-grade fuel. I didn't think too much about it until we arrived here and I saw the number of vent pipes in your roof. That rather strongly suggested internal-combustion engines indoors, and the idea of fuel experimentation occurred to me."

"About the carpeting?"

"I was coming to that. In a very new, well-kept car it was highly unlikely that the timing adjustment would have been neglected, so I assumed that someone was trying to economize by buying cheaper gasoline. Things like that happen sometimes when a company decides to put on a drastic cost-cutting drive."

Washburn nodded. "True."

"I believe that it's clear now. This is obviously a research facility: your location and the unused condition of your loading dock made that apparent. Since air pollution by hydrocarbons is an urgent national problem, it seemed possible that you might be working on it here-and trying out your product in your own vehicles. I was still undecided in my mind until I happened to notice the carpeting, which is very new and of exceptional quality. That eliminated a stringent economy drive, so fuel research was the only good possibility that was left that I could think of."

Washburn made a note. "I'll have those vents covered up, one way or another, immediately. And we'll stop carrying passengers in our test vehicles. Anything else?"

"I beheve not," Tibbs.answered. "Perhaps you'd tell me now what I can do for you."

Lonigan handed over a card which read. Department OF Justice, Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. Duffy also supphed one which bore the same identification. When that formality had been completed, Lonigan picked up the conversational ball.

"Mr. Tibbs, in Washington we have an unpublicized file on police officers all over the country who have special abilities. When we recently had need of a man who could speak fluent Yugoslavian, we located one promptly-^he was working vice in Cleveland. Do you remember meeting a man at one time whose name was Gottschalk?"

Virgil searched his memory for a few seconds. "Yes, a missile engineer.'*

Lonigan nodded. 'That's the one. I believe he was driving south through Wells when the local police stopped him for questioning-in connection with a murder you were looking into down there."

"Yes." Tibbs did not need to be reminded.

"He told the security people at the cape about it; he was quite impressed. That's how you first got into our files. We sent out a questionnaire on you, a confidential one of course, and a Captain Lindholm supplied us with some additional data."

Virgil showed some signs of discomfort. "I can't honestly thank him for it. He retired as assistant chief a short while ago."

Lonigan smiled. "I don't believe that he did you any harm. Now let's get down to cases if you don't mind. We are confronted by a very serious problem and we need some

help; in particular we want a local officer to tie in with us. How does that sound to you?"

"Fine, if Chief McGowan approves. But I don't have any special abilities to offer. I'm not fluent in any foreign languages and I certainly don't know anything about fuel synthesis. If the problem is narcotics, we have a number of people who are very sharp, you might want to talk to them. Basically I'm a homicide man."

Apparently that created no reaction. Duffy removed a sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket and pretended to consult it. "It states here," he said, "that among other things, you hold a bona fide black belt in karate. Who gave it to you?"

"Nishiyama."

"We know Mr. Nishiyama very well; a black belt from him is harder to get than Moshe Dayan pennants in Cairo. If you went through that kind of discipline for a period of years, you must have learned a few things about the Orient along the way."

"A smattering of Japanese," Tibbs admitted, "mostly the words commonly used in training. But not very much about Japan itself other than the customs and courtesies that go with the martial arts."

"And you have also studied aikido under Takahashi."

"For about five years."

"Black belt?"

"Not yet."

Very smoothly Lonigan took charge once more. "What I'm going to tell you now may sound melodramatic, but don't take it that way-it's deadly serious."

Tibbs nodded.

"Prior to World War II the Japanese, who were in a highly aggressive military posture at that time, systematically began to flood China with opium as a means of softening up the whole country for eventual conquest. It wasn't the first time that that device had been used. The campaign was so successful that in 1936 the Nanking Government passed legislation that required addicts to present themselves for a cure within one year or else face the death penalty. It didn't work; two years later one-eighth of all of the Chinese in Nanking itself were hopelessly hooked on narcotics. And it was steadily getting worse. It was a deliberate poisoning of a nation, and despite the enormous size and population of China, it was definitely successful."

"A little like Hitler's genocide," Virgil commented.

"Unfortunately, yes. But sixteen years later the situation was reversed. The Japanese had encouraged the growing of opium poppies and the Chinese had responded. There's a UN report that came out back in March of 1952 which established clearly that the communist Chinese were converting opium to heroin and smuggling it into Japan and the United States in quantity. And not for the profit involved. It was a deliberate attempt to weaken two potential enemies. Then, in 1969, the Republic of China supplied us with information concerning a systematic new campaign by the red Chinese to pump narcotics in increasing quantities into the United States and certain other free countries. Particular attention was given to those nations that had taken a strong anticommunist position, such as Thailand, South Korea, South Vietnam, and the Philippines."

"I understood that Thailand was an opium-producing country," Tibbs said.

"True, but the Thais don't ordinarily produce heroin, and that's what concerns us most." He paused, then walked over to one of the windows where he turned and gripped the sill with his hands as though he wanted to brace himself for what was to come next. "The war in Vietnam, and the presence of American troops there in strength, provided a ready-made opportunity to carry this policy forward. An intensive campaign was begun to get our service personnel hooked on drugs in one form or another. Large amounts of marijuana were left behind whenever the North Vietnamese or the Viet Cong abandoned an area. Other harder drugs were made easily available and all kinds of inducements were used to get our people to try them. In August 1970 Admiral William Mack admitted to a congressional conmiittee that the drug problem within the American military in Vietnam had become a very serious matter."

Lonigan stopped again and began to walk slowly across the room. "About the most threadbare words in the American political arena are ^communist plot,' but in this instance it's quite true. And while most plots, when there are any, are by their very nature expensive, this is one which pays almost fantastic profits to its promoters."

Washburn stirred in his chair.

"You said that you're a homicide man," Duffy said. "This is mass homicide-slow death by poison. And heroin is poison; take a little too much and that's it."

"All right, how can I help?" Tibbs asked.

At that moment the phone on Washburn's desk rang once softly. The executive picked it up, listened, and then nodded to Virgil. "It's for you," he said.

Tibbs walked over and took the instrument "Virgil," the j voice of Bob McGowan came over the wire, "I'm calling I you myself because no one else knows where you are. When i you've finished, come back as soon as you can. We've got i a killing and this one is far enough out to be right in your I line."