The business was a dark art, and Baron von Hauser its undisputed virtuoso. Out of a sound, sound-proofed office suite on the thirty-fourth floor of a Prentice Standard subsidiary—a nameless glass-and-steel skyscraper in midtown Manhattan—he became the weaver at his loom. The threads were men's and women's lives, its tapestry a mighty deception. He felt more alive than he had in years. The additional ingredient, however, was not this or any form of violence, but subtle, refined use of psychological venom.
His initial directive was uncompromising: the Reverend himself should be regarded as beyond touch. "Amateurs aim at the king," von Hauser taught his hand-selected group of analysts, men plucked from the OSS and corporate espionage units. "It's grimy, it's volatile, and it draws attention. Professionals know you never touch the king; you gut his pillars so he's standing on thin air."
Their real target was not an individual, but a weakness. For days, the team worked around the clock in shifts, conducting an in-depth structural analysis of the civil rights group. They charted its hierarchy, its sources of funding, its communication networks. They created profiles not only of its leaders, but of its mid-level bureaucrats, its volunteers, its secretaries. They were trying to find the ideal pawn, the single loose rock upon which, when tugged, the entire wall's integrity would be undermined.
After three grueling days of scrutiny, they finally located him. He was James Peters, and his file was a profile of silent, honorable despair.
In public, Peters was an ideal militant officer. A mid-grade field organizer, he was fervent, articulate, and incredibly devoted. He worked, oftentimes without reward or minimal compensation, out of genuine belief in the righteous virtue of the movement. But behind the facade, there were found by von Hauser's analysts faint cracks where they were looking. Peters's wife had a chronic illness, and the bills were a sea of red ink mounting to devour his family. He had a gifted son whom he wanted to transfer to a better school district. And, above all, he possessed a professional pride which turned to rancor in dark moments of the night. There was an item in his personnel file dating from months previous, when he had lodged a personal grievance, accusing, in effect, the movement's top leadership of not seriously considering his strategic proposals for a voter registration campaign.
He was the perfect mark. He had a desperate, justifiable need for money, and a subtle, gnawing hunger for recognition. He was a good man backed into a corner—the ideal clay for a master sculptor like von Hauser to mold into the shape of a traitor.
The technique was a work of finesse, a slow-motion seduction. The bait was set by what seemed to be a chance meeting. One of von Hauser's most experienced agents in the field—a person called Corso, who had a facile manner and an uncanny talent for seeming absolutely trustworthy—by chance sat down beside Peters in a rundown Atlanta headquarters area coffee shop. Corso took on the guise of "Arthur Sloane," a man from some forward-looking European philanthropic organization highly impressed by what Americans were doing to fight civil rights violations.
They met four times in the following two weeks. Corso was a magnificent listener. He took Peters to lunch, commiserated over his poverty, and listened, rapt, as Peters, heartened by the interest of this worldly European, complained of not being appreciated by the movement's leadership. Corso complimented his ego. "Always the men in the trenches, men of real strategy like you, James, who get overlooked," Corso would lament, shaking his head sadly. "The men at the top have no time for speeches."
Then came the first hook, delivered with surgical precision. During their fourth meeting, Corso slid a plain white envelope across the table. "James," he said, his voice soft with sincerity, "my foundation believes that men of talent and vision should not be hobbled by mundane concerns. Consider this a... research grant. A small stipend to help with your personal expenses, so you can focus your energies on the important work you are doing for the cause."
In the envelope were five hundred dollars in cash—two months' salary or more for Peters. He gazed at it, tears of deep relief welling up in his eyes. He attempted to decline, but Corso would not have it. "Think of it as an investment in justice," he said.
A week afterward, now with Peters deeply grateful and indebted, Corso baited the second hook. "James," he started, "there's another way you can assist us. We have an intellectual group in Geneva who are analyzing the method of unarmed resistance. They feel you have a historical example in your movement. Would you be willing, in strictest confidence, to pen some concise reports on their behalf? Your personal assessment of the strategic planning of the movement, internal politics, logistic problems. Your firsthand insights would be extremely valuable to them."
The framing was perfect. Peters was not being asked to be a spy or a traitor. He was being flattered, offered the role of a valued, paid consultant whose wisdom would help spread the message of his cause across the world. His ego, starved for recognition, and his wallet, desperate for relief, could not refuse. He agreed immediately.
Peters worked assiduously to deliver the trap within a month. He began to turn in handwritten weekly reports, articulate and insightful analysis of upcoming protests, internal conflicts, and personality conflicts among members of leadership. Corso paid him frequent cash stipends, in return.
In the meantime, von Hauser's finance staff built the last, damning piece of the mosaic. The "grant" funds were funneled through a Byzantine network created to be simultaneously untraceable and perfectly incriminating. They began life in a Prentice-owned account in the Bahamas, were transferred to a shell corporation in Panama, another in Austria, before finally going to the very same East German trade mission in London pinpointed by von Hauser's staff in the Cambridge spy ring operation. There, the money was withdrawn against its documents and physically transported to Corso in the United States. An unambiguous, unmistakable trail of funds now linked James Peters, a respected civil rights organizer, to a documented Soviet-bloc intelligence front.
He was now, on paper, a paid informer to the Communists. A ghost was manufactured.
Baron von Hauser entered Ezra's study, carrying a leather-bound file of significant thickness in his grasp. He dropped it onto the mahogany desk with a gentle, emphatic thud. Therein lay everything. Bank statements from shell corporations. Surveillance photos of Peters conferencing with "Arthur Sloane." And, damning all, high-grade facsimiles of Peters's actual, handwritten reports, charting the movement's deepest secrets in his own, distinctive hand.
"We have our communist, Herr Prentice," stated von Hauser, a voice deep and rife with satisfaction. "Rock-solid evidence. Man in a position of trust, covertly informing on his organization's actions in return for frequent payoffs from a Soviet front group. He's now a ticking time bomb we have planted at the very center of the good reverend's movement. One of our own ghosts, waiting to haunt our enemies."