Assignment - Quayle Question Read Online Free PDF Page B

lost forever in this technological age. His psychology was marked by a haunting nostalgia for the past century, a nation illustrated by Currier & Ives, in which self-reliance, home rule, Bible precepts were the rules by which Americans should live. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” he insisted.
    Quayle’s enemies insisted that the man, one of the world’s wealthiest, could hardly five according to these simple virtues. They pointed to the incredible mansion he had built in the salt marshes of the South Jersey coast, set amid hundreds of acres of inlets, tidewater swamps, sand dimes, and islands. Quayle’s personal taste in earlier years had run to a kind of Venetian Gothic. Amid the channels and tidal flats of the shore, he had built a vulgar imitation of a Venetian palazzo, which he called Ca’d’Orizon. No one knew why. It was rumored that he had a priceless art collection there for his private edification, an army of retainers and guards, and a harem of gorgeous women to appease his appetites.
    Rufus Quayle was never seen there. Indeed, he was never seen at any of the penthouse apartments and villas he kept in London, Rio, Hong Kong, Johannesburg, or Beirut. He had a house in Bermuda, another in California. In view of his refusal to appear publicly, it was rumored that no such man really existed. That he was, indeed, only a myth. That he had died years ago and that Q.P.I., as a robot organization, kept going of its own momentum. Quayle never appeared to refute such rumors. But his editorials and his angry, pervasive voice continued to be heard—until two months ago.
    Quayle’s right-hand man, Martin Pentecost, who had married Quayle’s daughter, denied regularly that Quayle was ill, dead, or insane. On the other hand, he had offered no explanation for the cessation of Quayle’s editorials. Q.P.I. rolled on, in all its intricate corporate devices.
    Now Martin Pentecost had vanished, too.
    And his wife, who was Quayle’s daughter.
    And Q.P.I. was threatened by a shadow zaibatsu , a vast mercantile corporation that had devoured, by threat, coercion, and violence, a number of similar media chains all over the world.
    The dagger point of the movement was one Kokui Tomash’ta, the Red Lotus assassin. And Tomash’ta worked for Eh Plowman, a renegade from K Section.
    Durell said, “It’s too big for Plowman, sir. I don’t believe he could handle it. He’s very good at specifics, but to tackle a conspiracy of this size is just too complicated for him. What do we really know about this I. Shumata outfit?”
    “The Japanese government is usually clannish about protecting the zaibatsu . They include the Mitsubishi, the Mitsui, and any number of other trading corporations. I. Shumata does exist, but as far as we can determine, it is all a paper tiger.”
    Durell watched McFee tap on the desk with his walking stick. McFee said, “However, we have a place for you to start. A Mr. Yoshi Akuro, his wife, and three children, are in the States. Mr. Akuro is the nominal head of the I. Shumata Company.”
    “Hell,” Durell said. “Where?”
    McFee tapped the desk again. “He was in San Francisco to start with. It should be noted that Yoshi Akuro has only recently inherited the I. Shumata zaibatsu . Shumata himself was killed in an auto accident near Kobe two weeks ago.”
    “A legitimate accident?” Durell asked.
    “As far as we can tell. A trick of fate, perhaps. Akuro inherited control of the Shumata outfit—which, by the way, began last year as a very minor trading corporation with few assets and financing borrowed at usurious rates. Everything that happened to I. Shumata enterprises happened within the past six months.”
    “Why did Yoshi Akuro and his family come here?”
    “We don’t know. We think he meant to ask us for help. We think he innocently inherited the mantle of control of I. Shumata, discovered its enormous and peculiar aggrandizement, dug into it, and refused to operate as a