The Eilart Affair

By Paul M. Bergstrom

When the Irish Republican Army targets a ruthlessly ambitious United States Senator for assassination, a high stakes drama threatening an American presidency is ignited.
The murderous affair unfolds at cosmic speed on both sides of the Atlantic, unnerving and enraging governments as it defies solution by the world’s finest intelligence agencies. While the roots of The Eilart Affair lie in small towns in Oregon and Ireland, the drama quickly disrupts the major capitals of western Europe before culminating in a tension filled United States Senate hearing room.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 15, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465325341

Paul M. Bergstrom

Mr. Bergstom was born, raised and resides today in southwestern Pennsylvania. Like his father and grandfathers before him, he began his working life as a steel mill laborer. From the mill, enlistment in the U.S. Army took him to Korea in the early days of that conflict. Returning to civilian life, he began a career with a Fortune 500 company as a laboratory technician and eventually retired as a senior executive from its international operations. Today he remains active as co-owner of a company providing nationwide mobile medical services. Mr. Bergstrom and his wife Eleanore enjoy traveling and visiting their children and grandchildren who are happily scattered throughout our wonderful country.

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Copyright © 2001 by Paul M. Bergstrom.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

1 The Roots of Revenge

2 Fading Fences

3 Small Sacrifices

4 Finalizing Orders

5 The Bottom Line

6 Information Breaks

7 Committed to Success

8 Spreading the Net

9 Pieces of the Puzzle

10 The Beginning of the End

11 Opening Up to Questions

12 Out of the Darkness

13 Following Leads

14 The Rush to Washington

15 Just Rewards

16 The Truth and Nothing But

EPILOGUE

This book is dedicated to Eleanore, my wife whose love, patience and encouragement have made this and so much more possible.

Acknowledgments

To Adryan Russ, my appreciation and gratitude for her work in organizing and editing my early drafts. Without Adryan, there would be no book.

My recognition and thanks to John Gibbons for his one last look at the final draft and for the many comments and corrections that are now part of the book.

To my daughter, Dr. Karen Shackelford, for her constant encouragement and for using her artistic talent in designing and producing the book’s cover.

1 The Roots of Revenge

As Senator Durbin slammed down the gavel ending the hearing, the Chamber burst into a roar. Millions of people around the world watching on television saw the hearing room explode with people clamoring, pushing and shoving toward the witness table for a glimpse of Fred Eilart. Senate Committee members were shouting to one another as they scurried to the exits and away from reporters’ questions.

Mr. Eilart! a reporter from the New York Times yelled. Did you know your testimony would save the President?

Mr. Eilart, another from The Washington Post trying to reach him with his microphone, when did you find out you were involved with the leaders of two major international terrorist groups?

Do you have any comment on Mr. Samuels’ saying that you were the right man, in the right place, at the right time? the Los Angeles Times wanted to know.

How does it feel to be a hero, Mr. Eilart? a young reporter, who was standing beside him asked, smiling.

I’m not a hero, Frederick Eilart answered. Pure chance and a mess of crazy circumstances got me into this thing, and I’ll never refer to it as being in the right place or the right time.

The press crowded around him, blocking his every step, as they hungrily sought a quote that would translate into a headline.

Please, all I want now is to be with my children, he said, as he lowered his head and shoulders and struggled toward his waiting family.

As reporters raced to telephones outside the hearing room, Calvin Callie Arndt, Editor-in-Chief of Empire News, slowly stood up, a much wiser man. The pieces of the puzzle had finally come together. While it all had become remarkably clear, he was still unsure of the total significance of what would later be known as the Eilart Affair.

The hearing room was white noise as Callie walked out of the Senate chamber and headed back to his office. Mentally he began tracing the how, where and when of the events that had transpired.

Back in his cluttered office, he pulled out a well worn file containing several old newspaper articles. Near the bottom was a nearly two-year-old Empire News editorial with part of the answer. A portion read

. . . the Irish Republican Army has claimed responsibility for the bomb that exploded in front of a London department store yesterday. The blast has taken sixteen lives and has left at least forty others injured, many critically. The bombing is, unfortunately, just one of many in the IRA’s continuing reign of terror underway against a half dozen of England’s largest cities. unfortunately, those who lost their lives are innocent victims—people who very simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Callie recalled the conference call he had had a few days after the incident with Art, Jim and Lee Morrison, three brothers in Boise,

Idaho whose parents had died in the bombing. At the time he had been struck by their anger and vow to deal with those responsible.

Art Morrison, the oldest, had made the strongest impression on Callie. Our parents were two of the sixteen who died in this senseless slaughter. Out of the thousands who have been killed, two out of sixteen may not mean a damn thing to anyone else, but these two were all the world to us. They are more than statistics. They cannot and will not be forgotten.

The elder Morrison, a building contractor, had retired a few weeks earlier after working forty years to build a future for his children and grandchildren. Their mother had recently battled cancer and was doing well. London was the first stop on the only real vacation the two had ever taken. From London they had planned to go on to Paris and Rome. There would be one brief stop in Normandy to visit the beaches Norm Morrison had last seen as a young GI on D-Day.

Callie remembered that Art couldn’t get the terrorist out of his mind. That bomb was radio-controlled, Art had told him losing control of his voice. The bastard who did it must have been looking right at my mom and dad when he pressed the button.

At the outset, some of the Morrisons’ grief was relieved as anti-IRA protests and demonstrations were staged, investigations launched, and as solemn pledges were made by American and British authorities to pursue the perpetrators to the ends of the earth. Unfortunately, within months, the incident became yesterday’s news as new acts of terror made new headlines and the pledges to have justice done faded.

The Morrison’s grief turned to frustration as they underwent a transition in the eyes of the authorities they continued to call and question. Once sympathetic victims, they had become pathetic nuisances.

Within weeks of the bombing, the Morrisons had contacted several of the other victims’ families in an effort to follow the progress of the investigations. Several months later, the Morrisons came to a bitter conclusion If justice was to be done, the task was theirs. The brothers decided they would not allow their parents‘ killers to walk away unpunished.

Four months to the day of their parents‘ deaths, the Morrisons flew to London to host a meeting of eleven of the fourteen families who, with them, had lost loved ones. When the meeting ended, they had once again vowed the terrorists would be brought to justice.

No one was more committed than Art Morrison, who personally pledged to provide any funding needed. At the same time, he was a realist and understood the difficulty of the task and the small odds they could ever be successful. In his heart he doubted they would ever be able to identify the actual perpetrators of the bombing. Still, they had to try.

Before going to London, Art immersed himself in the history of the IRA hoping to understand the nature of the decades old conflict in Ireland into which they had been drawn. He was shocked by the dismal record of the British government in controlling the violence. The record was painfully clear. Through the years, few terrorists were ever apprehended while fewer still paid for their crimes. During his research Art had read an editorial written by Callie Arndt. The truth was disturbing

Sociopathic terrorists, operating outside the law with a complete disregard for the time, place and wantonness of their acts, have an almost insurmountable advantage over their pursuers, whose every action must be legally and morally defensible.

on the anniversary of the first meeting, only five of the original group came together for a second time in London—the Morrisons,

Irene Anson and Angus McLeod. When they sat down, McLeod, a Scotsman, asked that he be the first to speak.

McLeod had retired from Scotland Yard a few months before the tragedy. At the outset of World War II, he had been assigned to British Army Intelligence, beginning what was to become a forty-year career in various branches of Her Majesty’s Intelligence Services. McLeod’s last fifteen years had been with Scotland Yard as a Senior Inspector in its Criminal Investigation unit.

The bomb shattered McLeod’s life. His wife had taken their only grandchild to London to buy a birthday dress. They had been closest to the car when the blast occurred. The McLeods, only months before, had retired in Tunbridge Wells, close to London, rather than their native Scotland, just to be near the little girl who had become the centerpiece of their lives. At the first meeting, McLeod vowed that he would have revenge on the madmen who had destroyed his life. Like Art Morrison, he was haunted by the thought that the killer had hand-picked the moment and was the last man on earth to see his little angel’s face.

It was weeks before the initial trauma subsided and McLeod was able to begin his search for the killers. Day in, day out, morning to night, he went at it, relentlessly and methodically drawing on a lifetime of experience and hundreds of contacts. In the year following the first meeting, he collected, sorted and analyzed thousands of pieces of information. McLeod, the wear and tear of the past year clearly showing, stood resting his hands on the thick stack of files he had brought to the meeting.

We have our man, he told the others. "A year ago I took an oath before God to find a killer. With God’s help and that of many, many others, I have undeniable proof of the identity of the man whose hand set off the bomb.

The room was hushed as McLeod continued. His name is Regis Walsh."

McLeod’s effort might have all been useless had he not made one last round of calls to his old friends in MI6. He learned that they had narrowed their list of perpetrators to four, including Walsh.

McLeod, who did not have Walsh on his list, had already eliminated the other three. With the MI6 input and almost six weeks of night and day combing through his notes, checking and rechecking, he had slowly tied it all together. McLeod laid out the evidence. Finishing an hour later, he had established an irrefutable case. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. Regis Walsh—yes, our killer is the very same political refugee now enjoying life and raising money for the IRA in your United States.

Art Morrison was the first to speak. Angus, we all thank you. God bless you, you’ve done your part. We— he paused, correcting himself—I will do the rest. I’ll kill him myself.

Jim interrupted his brother. Hold on, Art. We all want him dead, but there are many ways to get it done. Why not turn Walsh and the evidence Angus has put together, over to the authorities? He’ll hang.

Lee shook his head. Jim’s right. We all want him dead, but none of us are murderers, and killing Walsh would put our lives and the lives of our families at risk. He’s cost all of us too much already. He’s not worth it.

Assassinating him is my choice, Irene Anson spoke up, and I’m willing to pull the trigger. He has taken care of all the family I had. Shooting him is the best way. He deserves it. It’s quick, it’s easy and it’s the only way we can be certain Walsh pays for his crimes. I don’t want to see him die a natural death in the courts or in prison, she added scathingly. Irene’s husband of just four months, an airline pilot, had suffered and died on a hospital operating table four hours after the explosion.

McLeod offered a compromise. I’ve thought about it. There are really only two solutions. We can attempt to return him to England for trial or as Art has said, assassinate him. Like Jim, I don’t think assassinating him is best. A trial can have other positive aspects that need to be considered. Let’s not decide too quickly.

When the meeting ended, the Morrisons agreed they would develop a plan for abducting Walsh and would act only when they were completely confident of success. They all agreed no outsiders would be involved.

McLeod insisted on staying involved. Once we have a plan and we’ve selected a location to turn him over to the authorities, I’ll use my contacts to make certain Mr. Regis Walsh is properly received. I want to be there when it happens. There is nothing left to my life that would give me greater pleasure.

As they said goodbye, McLeod cautioned the Morrisons, Walsh, whatever his outward appearance, is not an amateur. A small mistake in dealing with him might easily be fatal. Please, my friends, be very, very careful.

Walsh’s home base in the United States was a small combination office-apartment in Boston’s Roxbury District, which had been leased for his use by the Friends of a United Ireland. He spent little time in the office-apartment which was attended by an answering service that, not surprisingly, offered few answers to callers’ questions.

Within days of returning to Boise, the Morrisons had sketched out a plan to abduct and turn Walsh over to the British authorities in Bermuda. Observing McLeod’s admonition, they would be methodical and ultra careful and begin by learning all they could about Walsh’s habits down to the smallest detail.

The Morrisons were optimistic when they began tracking his movements. All too soon they realized that the hyperactive Walsh was constantly on the road traveling back and forth across the country. Walsh’s fund raising efforts and speeches were directed almost exclusively to college students and to Irish-American clubs and associations. From time to time, he met privately with individuals willing to write the large checks that made up almost half of the funds he collected. At every stop he made himself available for well publicized meetings with the local politicians and press.

Walsh was enjoying life as a political refugee. He liked the good food, fancy rental cars, designer clothes and the women, young and old, who turned up at every stop. Walsh particularly enjoyed his sessions with the television reporters and radio talk-show hosts. A born entertainer, his speeches were a rich mixture of history, humor and personal anecdotes that people seemed to enjoy hearing time and again. At every appearance, he closed with a plea for the funds needed to carry the great cause forward. The donations flooded in.

Walsh had no idea how long the good life would last. His only certainty was that he would make the most of it while he could. His sole concession to the future was setting aside and transferring a portion of the cash collected at each stop to a numbered bank account in Switzerland.

Tracking Walsh was frustrating. After two months the Morrison’s had literally nothing to show for the effort. The carefully drawn plan for abducting Walsh required his staying three or four days at a specific location. In the two months they tracked him, Walsh hadn’t stopped anywhere for more than two days.

Art summed it up. It’s hopeless, there’s no understandable pattern to his movements. His schedule changes at a moment’s notice. Whether he’s operating from instinct or a plan, Mr. Walsh is not going to wander into a set-up. He travels alone and makes his own arrangements and as we’ve found out, always at the last moment. Mr. Walsh is a very smart man.

There were no objections from his brothers when Art suggested they call it off. They shared his concern that the longer they tracked

Walsh, the greater the possibility Walsh would detect their presence. They reluctantly decided it was time to call Irene.

Something new was needed.

Two days after Art’s call, Irene Anson flew to Boise. She listened intently to the brothers as they took turns recounting the frustrations and difficulties they had encountered attempting to follow Walsh. It didn’t take long for Irene to make her decision.

So far, she said, I haven’t been involved. Now it’s my turn. I’ll get next to Walsh. Whatever it takes, I will get close enough to him to know his schedule.

Art tried to interrupt.

I am sure I can get closer to him than you’ve been able to, she said before he could protest. Somehow I’ll get him to notice me. Yes, whatever it takes, I’ll get it done. Too much time has already been lost.

Please, Irene, Art said. That could be dangerous.

To me, personal danger is not an issue. Night after night I see that bastard’s face and dream of killing him. From the day Angus McLeod proved he killed my husband, I’ve aimed a gun at him a hundred times at point-blank range and pulled the trigger. This is something I have to do.

Irene, Lee said, We don’t want to lose . . .

She cut him off. I’m not interested in debating. My mind is made up. I won’t rest until Walsh is dead. You have done your best. You have spent your time, your money—you’ve tried it your way. It’s my turn now. One way or another, Walsh’s tour will end. For Irene the meeting was over, she stood up to go. I’ll be in touch. I’ll be careful—I promise.

As Irene said goodbye to the Morrisons, she felt strangely relieved. She was sure she would succeed; she knew her strengths. Young, intelligent, of Irish-American ancestry and, above all, a very beautiful young woman, she was well aware of her effect on men. She would use all her charm on Walsh.

Long before Irene Anson met the Morrisons in Boise, Fred Eilart in Peoria, Illinois was hustling back to his office from a sales meeting that had dragged on too long. A few days earlier, he had returned from Saudi Arabia and, despite having stopped in London for a day on his way home, he was still suffering from jet lag. Stopping in the kitchen area for a cup of coffee he hoped would wake him up, he teased Eddie, the mail room assistant, for wasting his break watching television.

It’s Senator Fennelly sounding off, Eddie said. The guy is more fun than a circus. He never lets up.

While you’re laughing, don’t let him convert you, Fred joked. He’s a helluva politician. He’ll say anything when he’s on his soapbox. Fennelly’s got too much clout, too much money, and too much hair, Fred said as he caught his image on the glass door of the microwave and instinctively raised his hand to smooth the thinning strands on his head. Even without much hair Fred Eilart, at 62, was still a good looking man—lean and muscular, with striking blue eyes and the always ready smile.

Fred! Cal Olson, the company’s Chief Operating Officer, called as Fred stepped out of the mail room into the corridor. Heard you got back. Good to see you.

Hello, Cal, I was about to call you. We’ve got to talk.

I’m ready when you are. How was the flight back from Saudi?

They entered Fred’s office. Not bad, not bad, Fred replied, remembering the bumpy flight and the forty-five minutes circling the airport in New York before finally being cleared to land. Had a great day in London.

A long trip, but it can’t be all that bad up there in first class, Cal teased, knowing full well what the response would be.

Fred smiled. You know I don’t fly first unless it’s the only way to get to where I need to be.

Yeah, I’ve heard that story before, Cal smiled. I love hearing you marketeers downplay the high life. So, how are the Al-Khanis? Has Sheik omar turned the company over to his boys yet?

No, not yet. I don’t know if the old man will ever completely let it go. And as much as I like those two boys of his, I’m hoping it doesn’t happen while I’m around. The Sheik is quite a man. He got a bit more serious. Listen, Cal, I talked with him about the New Eden equipment package. It looks like we have the order. He just hasn’t signed yet. You know he’s not as fond of technology as his boys are, so instead of faxing or Fed-Exing contracts back and forth, I’ll have to go back one more time to get his signature and wrap it up.

Great, Cal said, standing. Do whatever you need to do. The Sheik is still the company’s all-time best customer. Let’s be sure we give him what he wants.

Thanks, Fred said, loosening his tie as he turned on his computer.

Don’t take any chances. The Sheik might come to his senses and see that you are not God, Cal kidded, "contrary to what he’s believed for . . . how many years now?

Cal was out the door. Fred, smiling, went back to work on a proposal he was pulling together for an old customer in Australia.

Fred Eilart had gone to work thirty years earlier for America’s Pride Machinery Corporation, one of America’s oldest and most respected corporations. The Company had opened its doors in Peoria almost a century before, where it grew, prospered and epitomized the enormous capabilities of America’s manufacturing industry.

America’s Pride sold and serviced construction machines in every corner of the world. over sixty percent of the equipment built in Peoria and the handful of satellite factories clustered in nearby mid-Western cities went into the international marketplace.

Unique among America’s great manufacturing concerns, one hundred percent of the materials that went into the machines were of American origin. The Company had long taken a special pride in the fact.

The Company’s beginnings were humble. It had opened as a one-man village blacksmith shop. Today’s 40,000 employees are scattered throughout 200 sales, service and manufacturing locations. Many represent the third generation of families enjoying the high wages and job security that came with the Company’s success. Fred Eilart’s father had served as production supervisor in the early days, and his mother had worked her way up from receptionist to personnel manager. America’s Pride employees met every challenge. They developed, built and delivered moon landing vehicles as well as the improbable machines that probe and mine ocean bottoms. Fred Eilart was proud to have had a hand in selling a lot of those improbabilities.

The road to the company’s prosperity hadn’t always been smooth. Along the way, it hit its share of bumps. Throughout the early years, America’s Pride, with benign and paternalistic management policies, had been union-free. The management style changed when control passed into the hands of the founder’s oldest grandson. Within two years, internal relationships that had been built and nurtured through two previous generations were destroyed. One by one, the plants were organized and inevitably the Company experienced its first and only strike.

When the strike mercifully ended eleven months later, it had taken a heavy toll in jobs, lost customers and the permanent closure of two of the Company’s factories. The value of the Company’s stock had plummeted, its credit rating had dissolved and some of its best suppliers were bankrupt. A year later, Wall Street saw America’s Pride as America’s preeminent industrial basket case.

The consensus was that it was a company with a great past and a dubious future.

Wall Street’s prognosis didn’t hold up. Much to everyone’s surprise, America’s Pride turned around. The newspapers hailed it as an industrial miracle. Credit for the Company’s resurrection belonged to two strong-willed individuals. One was Cal Olson, the other Marty Sturlich. During the strike, these two shouted at each other from opposite sides of the bargaining table, but in the end the unlikely duo came together to save the Company. At the time, Olson was Chief Operating Officer and Sturlich the newly elected President of the Company’s union. Fortunately , despite differences at the bargaining table, the two men shared one overriding common interest—the Company’s survival.

Fred was taking one last look at the Australian proposal when the phone rang.

Fred. It’s Marty. Welcome home, miracle man and congratulations. Cal just told me that once again you’ve swept our favorite Sheik off his feet.

There’s nothing to sweep, Marty. The Sheik has great taste. He loves our machines almost as much as you do.

"C’mon, c’mon, Fred, you and I both know who the Sheik really loves. Good job, old man.

Fred was surprised by Marty’s call.

To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? Fred asked anxious to wrap up the Australian proposal.

There was a pause. Nothing, Marty said. I just wanted to say thanks, because— Another pause. Because you’re still the best. Then he was quiet.

Fred felt a bit awkward. I appreciate it, Marty, he said. I really do. Especially coming from a guy who’s been cleaning my clock on the golf course.

Yeah, Marty said. And I’ve gotten in a few rounds while you’ve been vacationing, so bring your wallet next time. He laughed. Take care.

Okay. Say, I have a notice for a two o‘clock meeting in the large conference room. What‘s up?

Marty had already hung up. Fred shook his head and went back to the proposal.

Marty’s call left Fred with an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t sure why, but he found himself suddenly recalling the strike and the agreement Cal and Marty had made to save the Company. With the guidance of a semi-retired professor of industrial management from one of the Midwest’s land grant universities, they had adopted and implemented the Scanlon Plan throughout the Company. The heart of the plan was a unique profit sharing formula that opened the door to total employee participation. If the Company did well, the employees did too—every one of them.

It had worked. The plan was focussed on the customer and on individual accountability for the use of time, materials and producing quality products. From day one, the plan included every manager, salaried and hourly employee in the Company. The agreement, which has become legendary in American industry, was the key to creating America’s most productive work force. Olson and Sturlich always credited the professor for installing the plan. The reality was that the professor had managed to bring two hard headed antagonists together, in the interest of everyone.

Every year the Company’s Board of Directors presided over an awards dinner honoring the Company’s outstanding contributors. The awards went to employees at every level nominated and voted on by their fellow workers. When it came to sales, Fred had been recognized every year. While he appreciated the recognition, he always found it difficult to understand being honored for doing what he was well paid to do.

Let’s just say, Marty had once told him, "that you’re the best of America’s Pride. If the Directors ever get around to naming the company’s all-time top five employees, you’ll head the list.

The awards were one of the reasons it came as a shock when Fred went to the meeting he had tried to ask Marty about and found himself in the first group of two hundred let go in what was referred to as a necessary downsizing and restructuring of America’s Pride.

Fred got the news, along with the others, watching a twelve minute videotape featuring Raoul Danziger, the new owner of America’s Pride. As Fred listened to the words coming out of Danziger’s mouth, he felt he must be dreaming. In the auditorium with him were designers, engineers, secretaries, messengers and others, all as shocked and confused as Fred. Most were too numb to speak. When it was over, they wandered out of the conference room, some angry; others in tears. Fred, numbed, shuffled slowly back to his office.

Minutes later, Cal and Marty were on the phone.

Fred, it’s Cal.

I’m on the line, too, Marty added.

Marty went on. We just saw your name on Danziger’s separation list and we’re calling to tell you we don’t know what’s happening, but don’t pack yet. Someone’s made a mistake. We’re certain we can get it turned around.

Listen, Fred said, hearing his own words as if they were someone else’s. If it’s time to go, it’s time to go.

Don’t give us that crap, Fred, Cal interrupted. We ‘re going to find out what’s going on. Danziger has a history of cutting back everything and everybody he can when he takes over a company. But no matter what else Danziger might get away with, he can’t operate without good people.

Just keep working, Fred, Marty added, unable to hide his anger. "You still have thiry days. Someone‘s made a mistake.

There’s plenty of time to straighten things out."

Raoul Danziger had managed a quick, hostile and complete takeover of America’s Pride. The Company wasn’t in play when he made his move. Wall Street, corporate America, and the Company’s management had been caught off guard. It was over before management realized what had hit them. Without warning, Danziger had pulled together the three billion plus needed to gather the shares and proxies and make it happen. The takeover wouldn’t have been possible without the proxies Danziger had gotten from the founder’s long embittered grandson.

Danziger lost little time introducing himself. Overnight, although few of the locals had either seen or met him, he became the most hated man in Peoria. The town’s people had a chance to witness first hand how Danziger, in a few short years, had accumulated a personal fortune measured in hundreds of millions.

His press spokesman made it clear that the initial cut was only the first. Others would follow. Fred’s group was gratuitously singled out as dead wood and impediments to the future operation and profitability of the Company. Danziger hadn’t glimpsed any of the unfortunates; he didn’t need to. The restructuring team was responsible for the people decisions and for meeting Danziger’s goals in a process of cutting and slashing they repeatedly proclaimed worked best for everyone.

Callie Arndt had written about the takeover and denounced Danziger‘s takeover of America‘s Pride as having no understandable rationale. He bemoaned the fact that in the expanding world of takeovers and mergers, there were too few mechanisms for appeal available to the people and communities most affected.

Fred Eilart’s last day came sixty days to the day Danziger had signed final documents making Danziger’s International Group the sole owner of America’s Pride. Marty and Cal had hit a stone wall in their attempt to save Fred. As Fred prepared to leave the plant for the last time, he felt an urge to meet Danziger.

As he walked to the executive office, he remembered when he and Amy had first visited the Company in the late ‘50s, long before Fred got his job offer. They had liked everything about it. When the offer came, their prayers were realized.

While Amy sometimes resented Fred’s constant travel, she understood it was his job. She enjoyed the stories Fred told when he came home, about the Far East, Middle East, Europe and Australia. Almost every year, he found ways to take Amy with him, and several times had managed trips for the whole family. After Amy died, Fred spent many nights lying awake wishing he had traveled less and spent more time with her and the kids. Too much had been missed along the way.

As Fred entered the small building, memories flooded into his head. Danziger’s office was on the second floor of what had been the original Johann Hansen smithy. Walking up the ornately railed staircase which had been beautifully restored, he remembered the first visit with his father and how struck he had been by the elegant woodwork and the unusual cast-iron framing around the windows. He stopped as he caught his reflection in the windows. He was a few pounds heavier, the little hair that was left was graying, and for some reason he felt shorter.

In a flash Fred realized he had been recalling another world and time. Stopping before the door to Danziger’s suite, he hesitated for a moment, turned around and walked away. It was over. There was nothing to be done except to get on with the rest of his life.

Senator Patrick James Fennelly, fifty-four years old and midway through his fourth Senate term, gloried in the national political spotlight. For almost thirty years, he had single-mindedly employed a combination of brilliant political instincts, hard work, his family’s considerable wealth and influence and the machine politics of his home state to establish a remarkable political career.

From the time of his first electoral victory sending him to the u. S. House of Representatives, he had never forgotten his first priority was taking care of the voters back home. Known by many as the Prince of Pork, Fennelly mined an endless flow of Federal funds and projects for his state. The voters back home loved him. Running unopposed in his last campaign, it was clear his constituents wanted him as their Senator for life—that is, if he wanted the job.

Fennelly didn’t. His real ambition had long been known. The question was not whether he would run for the Presidency, only when. Year in and year out he used every opportunity to build a national political base needed for a successful presidential campaign. He travelled incessantly throughout the country and exploited the