Chapter 3
The Rebel and the Yank
"There are two clauses in the Constitution which point directly and specifically to the Negro race as a separate class of persons, and show clearly that they were not regarded as a portion of the people or citizens of the government they formed."
Roger Taney, 1777-1864
After King departed, Laura and Mann relaxed on the couch with a second cup of coffee and talked. Mann was curious why white people like Laura and Henry would risk everything for Black individuals. Was it a sense of guilt, an outpouring of selfless Christian love, or merely an element of human compassion? Mann's reporter mind wanted to understand. One quality that had always distinguished his work from that of some of his peers was how he delved into the minds of the people he wrote about, rather than just their actions.
"Why are you following King?" he asked her before taking a sip of coffee.
Looking pensive, Laura set her mug on the coffee table and studied it for a moment, as if the answer could be found in the dark brew. She seemed to be searching for the right words, an answer that would make sense to Mann. Perhaps, Mann thought, she really didn't know the answer to his question herself.
"I don't think I'm following King, as you put it. I'm just doing what I feel is right. I don't care what any bunch of stupid laws say; Black people are as human as any white person. It's ridiculous to believe otherwise. Many of us feel it is un-American to condone slavery in this country, and it always has been. We don't think that was what the Founding Fathers had in mind when they wrote the Constitution."
"Yeah, I see what you're saying, but many of them owned slaves themselves."
Laura nodded. "Sure, but what would they say if they knew we still had slavery over two hundred years later? I think they would have expected more advancement from society. Besides, look at what slavery has done to whites."
"You mean the lack of entry-level jobs or low-level jobs in America?" Mann asked, unsure of her meaning.
"No," she said quickly, "more than just that. Perhaps since I'm a woman, I'm more perceptive to it, but look at our country. Allowing slavery has desensitized us to our own freedoms. I believe if slavery had ended with the Civil War, it wouldn’t have taken women until 1969 to win the right to vote. Even now, women are still, in reality, second-class citizens. You can't take away all the rights of some without infringing on the rights of all."
"Is that how our shadow, Henry, feels?" Mann asked, wondering about his motivations.
"Henry? He has far different reasons than I do. Did you know he's a Southerner? His great-grandfather was a colonel under Longstreet and died in the war. He loves the South and all that it stands for, but he feels the central government has betrayed him and those like him. Henry says the central government is just the old federal government under a new name. Sure, the states did win their sovereignty, but only to a point. Just ask those poor people in Puerto Rico. The true Confederacy that Henry's great-grandfather died for would have never allowed such a terrible slaughter of secessionists. He and others like him feel that the South won the war but lost the peace."
Mann smiled.
"You sound like a friend of mine from the North."
"It's true. When the war ended, the South should have seceded, just as they wanted to in eighteen sixty-one. But that's when the Northerners took the Confederacy's victory away from them."
Mann shook his head.
"Better to have one vast Confederacy of independent states than to have two separate nations, North and South, with differing values. Many on both sides believed that creating two nations would inevitably lead to a second war. Thus, it made sense to forge a greater Confederacy," Mann said, echoing what he had learned in grade school.
"Sure, that made sense, at least to the Yankees. After all, they fought to preserve the Union. Allowing the Northern states to join the Confederacy might have let the South impose its values on the North, but it also fulfilled the North's most crucial desire: a loose yet preserved Union. In this way, the Confederacy transformed from a collection of independent states asserting their sovereignty into a conquering power."
"True," Mann countered. "However, it was the leaders of the Confederacy who seized control. They had grand imperialistic ambitions even before the war began."
"Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."
"And you think your little movement will change the world?" he asked Laura.
"Maybe it will, and maybe it won't, but ending slavery would be a significant start. We believe the world is a powder keg waiting for the right fuse to ignite it. The Confederate States of America may not be the greatest military power on earth, but it is still a superpower. If the bells of freedom ring out here, who knows where it might lead? It could spark a second French Revolution with global repercussions. Even the German Empire is a giant of steel with feet of clay. Could the Germans suppress a revolt by all the peoples they rule at once?"
Mann could see tragedy ahead for such an idealist.
"And what if you're caught?" he asked.
"Then I go to jail or worse. For what I believe in, I'm willing to take that chance. Don't you see what slavery has done to the Confederate States of America? The CSA has become downright oppressive and as imperialistic as Germany or Japan. We have forced Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands to become states. Now we are extending our reach over protectorates like Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, the Philippines, and several other territorial grabs. I wouldn't be surprised if we invaded Mexico by the year 2000. The only thing stopping us is Mexico's friendship with the German Empire."
"I don't know," Mann said, looking at her. "You may be right. Maybe if the Confederacy were different, the world would be a better place. But who knows what it would be like today if the Union had won the war? All I know is that, given our current situation, I'm glad to have you with me."
Laura froze as her lofty political thoughts vanished like the morning mist. She met Mann's gaze, and they shared a gentle kiss. With her right hand, Laura began to unbutton the top of her blouse. At least for now, the world could take care of itself. This night was theirs.
It was early—really early—when Mann thought he heard the cricket-like chirp of the phone on Laura's nightstand. He felt her smooth, naked body leave his and roll away.
"Hello," Mann could hear her answer, almost as if in a dream. Then he heard a series of short “yeses” before Laura said, “Hold on. I'll get him.”
With one hand, Mann stretched the long cord across the bed to Laura as he took the phone. "Yeah, this is Mann," he whispered groggily.
"Thomas, Jesus, am I glad to get you," it was Simon Wakefield's voice on the other end, filled with urgency. "Who's that with you?" Wakefield asked.
The tone of the editor’s voice jolted Mann into a higher state of consciousness. He knew Simon well enough to recognize that something was very wrong.
“A friend,” he replied quickly. Then he added, "What's up? You never sound this excited at..." He squinted at the glowing blue numbers of the Southern Electric digital alarm clock. "At six twenty-four in the morning."
Wakefield paused for too long, and Mann instantly knew it wasn't going to be good news.
"It's that friend of yours from the bar, O’Rourke. He was murdered last night right in his place."
For a few seconds, Mann was speechless, his mind rejecting what Wakefield had just said as too horrible. But suddenly, he knew. He realized it was because of Attenwald. Every fiber in his being screamed that the bastards had killed O'Rourke because of his meeting with Attenwald. What had they done? What had he done to his friend?
Finally, he managed to ask softly, "How?"
His voice was as dry as autumn leaves on a dusty road. Laura looked into his face, wondering what was being said. She knew it was bad.
"He was found early this morning," Wakefield explained. "When he didn’t come home from the bar last night, his wife called the police. They found him shot to death in the middle of the barroom floor. Tom, I’m sorry, but—” Wakefield paused, “he was shot twenty-one times.”
"What!?" Mann was even more stunned. "Did they kill him with a frigging machine gun?"
“No. The slugs were from a 9mm handgun. The cops say he was shot to death slowly, as torture. All the bullets were in non-vital parts of the body, probably delivered one at a time. O'Rourke eventually just bled to death."
Mann glanced at Laura and then dropped his eyes back to the phone. She could see the rage building in them.
"God, Simon, the poor son of a bitch didn't tell them a damned thing. He died keeping his mouth shut to save my sorry ass."
"How can you be so sure he didn't tell them you talked to Attenwald?" Wakefield asked.
"Because if he had, they would have ended it with one fast slug right between the eyes or clean through the heart. No, if Mike bled to death, he held out until the end."
"Tom, I want you to come back to New York. This is too damned dangerous—first Attenwald and now Mike. Oh, and there’s more. You know that Detective Harris at the ninth?"
"Yeah," Mann said, brushing his left hand through his hair. He remembered him from a couple of murder stories.
"Well, I called him about Attenwald to see if he could find out how the investigation was going. He owes me a few favors for planting false stories for the police or holding other stories back during sensitive investigations."
"He told me they found a private investigator..." named Lasher in his own office. Someone had tied him to a chair and cut off four of his fingers with a wire cutter or pruning shears before they slit his jugular down to the backbone."
"So," Mann said, "what's the punch line?"
"The punch line is, Tom, Harris checked Lasher's files. Guess who he did some work for?"
"Christ, not Attenwald?"
"You've got it. We're in way over our heads on this one, Tom. I want you back here. We'll get the Central Bureau of Investigation to look into it."
Mann thought, The CBI? Hell, as far as he knew, they could be the ones running the whole show. They killed Mike, and for that, someone was going to pay dearly. Either that, or they would have to kill him, too.
"Simon, you can fire me if you want, but I'm going to keep pursuing this until the end, one way or another. Those bastards are going to pay for Mike."
Wakefield's voice was pleading. "I can't protect you from anything this serious, Tom, and you know it. Come home. Maybe if we just drop it entirely, they'll back off and forget about it."
Mann looked at Laura, compassion and strength shining in her eyes. "Don't worry. I've made some good friends here. I'll be okay."
"I hope so," Simon replied, his voice filled with concern. "Watch your back."
"You should watch yours, Simon. These creeps might come after you, too."
"All right, Tom, just stay in touch."
"I will," Mann promised before hanging up. He turned to Laura. "A poor guy named Mike O'Rourke just got gunned down because he was my friend."
Laura wrapped her arms around him, unsure of what to say. "I'm so sorry," was all she could offer in that moment.
"Not as sorry as whoever is behind all this will be. Can you get me a gun?"
"Sure. Who are you planning to shoot?"
"I don't know yet, but war has just been declared. Let’s start looking into Taggart's slave camps."
The drive from Washington took Mann and Laura about three hours down I-95. As they approached Richmond, they diverted to the inner loop, which took them around the west side of the expansive city. Serving as the Capital of the entire Confederate States of America, Richmond had grown into a massive city in both political power and physical size. Its skyscrapers towered against the sky in the distance, standing thirty miles apart as Mann drove the rental car. When they reached CS 360, they exited the loop and drove down to a town called Scotts Fork, which was fifteen miles outside the capital.
While they were getting gas at a local station, Mann paid the Black clerk and then gave him a two-dollar tip. The man smiled, thanking Mann genuinely. Few people ever bothered to tip a slave, including those who pumped gas.
"Hey, maybe you can help me," Mann asked. "Is there a slave camp around here owned by a man named Lawrence Taggart?"
The smile faded from the clerk’s face, and he studied Mann’s expression with a hint of fear. "Yes, sir," the clerk replied nervously, "about two miles out of town down that road." He pointed tentatively.
Mann pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, holding it between his thumb and index finger. "Do you know much about the camp? Ever been there or know any slaves who have?"
The clerk hesitated, glancing at the ten-dollar bill, visibly conflicted. Mann extended the bill a bit further until it started to pull a twenty along with it. "I might," the clerk finally said, skittish, "but it ain't none of my business."
"I didn't say it was," Mann countered. "You won’t be in any trouble if anyone asks. In fact, my friend and I have already forgotten all about you. Isn't that right, Laura?"
"That's right," she replied. "We never saw you."
The clerk leaned closer to the car window, his eyes darting around. Mann could smell chewing tobacco on his breath. "Look, man, I'm doing okay here. I've got a master who treats me right, a nice cabin to live in, and I've even been given a good woman. I don't want to screw that up, you know what I'm saying?"
"As I said, we’ve forgotten you already."
"Some crazy stuff is going on at that camp," the clerk continued. He glanced around again, but Mann could tell this was something he had wanted to talk about for a long time.
"What kind of stuff?" Mann asked.
"Well, for one thing, a lot of brothers and sisters die over there."
Mann nodded. "We've heard that. Go on."
"About three weeks ago, a bus came through town with a load of brothers bound for the camp. They usually don’t stop; hell, they don’t even slow down. But this one blew a tire and pulled right up here, near where you're parked now. We don’t stock bus tires, mind you, so my master called our supplier.
"While we were waiting, the driver let the brothers off the bus since it was getting hot inside. I started talking with one of them. His name was James Gary. He was a young guy in good shape, if you know what I mean. He said some steel mill in Pittsburgh had owned him, but out of the blue, this Taggart guy bought him and wanted him delivered to the camp. He said he had to go through all kinds of blood tests and examinations before Taggart would buy him. He laughed, saying he was in better shape than he thought."
Mann glanced at Laura, then back at the clerk. "Have you seen him since?"
"No, sir, I haven’t, because he’s dead."
"Dead?" Mann asked, now intrigued. "How did he die?"
The clerk shrugged. "I don’t know for sure, but rumor has it he died of a sudden heart attack."
"A heart attack! Isn’t that a little strange for a young, strong man?"
Laura leaned over to Mann’s ear. "It’s been known to happen; uppers and all that crap."
"I know Laura, but that's just among white athletes trying to compete. It's hard enough for a slave to get any drugs, let alone be using them."
She snapped her fingers. "Maybe that's it. What if Taggart is running some kind of human experimentation on slaves? The risks could be significant, and many black individuals could die. Then, since it wouldn't look good to put 'killed by new wonder drug' on the death certificates, they might fake the causes of death. The slave and animal rights groups would raise hell about that."
"It could all be true," Mann commented with frustration, "but we have nothing without proof."
By now, the slave at the gas pumps was nearing panic. Hearing two whites discuss such matters in front of him was more than he wanted to know. Noticing his discomfort, Mann slipped him thirty dollars and waited until he retreated to the attendant’s shed before driving away.
Down the road, they came to a side road that, according to the directional sign, led to the Scotts Fork Slave Holding Area. After driving a couple of miles through beautiful Virginia horse country, they arrived at a long stretch of straight road with the slave farm to the left.
Just the look of it told Mann that something important was happening at the farm. Very few masters ever put their slaves behind high wire fences or under guard towers. Since the punishment for a slave trying to escape was extreme and the recovery rate was quite high, escaping slaves were not typically a significant problem in the Confederate States. Their only hope would be to make it to Canada or Mexico, and both borders were heavily guarded—especially Mexico.
Most who tried had chosen Mexico, until then-President Ronald Reagan had pushed for the Anti-Immigration Law of 1983. Since Reagan had been governor of California, he desperately wanted to stop illegal immigration. The law allowed for tight control of the Mexican border, and military bases were relocated along the Mexican-American border. Three army divisions now supported the beefed-up border patrol and slave control units in their tasks. Mexico protested but achieved little success since the Confederate States disliked their ties with the German Empire in the first place. Mexico City called it a prelude to a future invasion, and they may very well have been right.
"Well," Laura asked, "how do you want to play this?"
Having already formulated a plan, Mann drove right up to the front gate. "Let's just ask them if they mind if we take a little look around their beautiful concentration camp. It must be a big tourist attraction around here."
Laura laughed. "Oh, the direct approach. That's what I like—a man who gets right to the point."
Pulling off the blacktopped road, the tires of the rental car crunched their way along the graveled drive leading to the front gate of the holding area. Ahead, nestled beneath a large oak tree, stood a small guardhouse.
When they were about fifty feet away, the guard—a tall man in a typical rent-a-cop uniform—came out of the booth. Mann quickly noticed the man's demeanor and walk were purely military, perhaps even that certain cocky 'I-kill-your-ass-if-you-mess-with-me' stride of someone from Special Forces.
Mann rolled the car to a stop, and the guard leaned toward the window with a half-smile of exaggerated politeness, which was likely standard protocol when dealing with strangers visiting the compound.
"May I help you, sir?" the guard asked.
"Yes, my name is Thomas Mann, and this is my assistant, Laura. I'm a reporter for the New York Times, and I'm writing an article on how slaves are treated humanely in Virginia. You know, presenting the other side of what the liberal press portrays as cruelty. If possible, I'd like to tour your facility for some background on my story."
Maintaining his smile as if it were cast in wax, the guard shook his head. Mann noticed that the guard rested his right hand on his sidearm.
"I'm afraid that is only possible if you have prior permission from our corporate headquarters."
Expecting as much, Mann pressed on. "I see. How would we acquire such permission?"
"You'd have to visit our corporate offices in Richmond, sir. One moment, please." The guard went to his booth and returned. "Here’s a card with the address on it."
Mann took the card and noted that it was for the main office of Taggart Enterprises. He dropped it into his pocket. "Thank you," Mann said to the guard, "you've been very helpful."
After they turned and began to drive away, Laura glanced over her shoulder. The guard was already back in the booth on the phone, likely to report their inquiry.
"So much for plan A," Laura said. "What's plan B?"
"You see that low hill over there above the camp? We're going to drive behind it and start a stakeout. We probably won't see much from this distance, but by luck, we might catch something."
Once the car was out of sight of the camp, they crawled up to the crest of the hill.
"God," Mann complained. "Do you see any poison ivy?"
"Plenty," Laura replied playfully, "but not around here."
"I've been living in the city too long. My idea of the great outdoors is Central Park. Crawling through the underbrush isn't exactly my favorite pastime."
Laura remembered the word "crawling" and decided to play along. "The poison ivy is nothing to worry about compared to the deadly snakes."
"Snakes! Oh great! I'm either the guest of the week on one of those wild animal shows or the victim of the week on one of those emergency services shows. I always wanted to try the television media."
They finally reached the top of the rise, where Mann pulled out a small pair of binoculars. He focused on the compound.
"Not a bad view. Even after dark, I'll be able to see plenty as long as those sodium vapor security lights are on. I'd bet they never turn them off until dawn."
"Anything interesting going on?" Laura asked, trying to see what she could without the aid of binoculars.
"No, just some slaves out in the yard exercising."
"Some masters insist on that," Laura interrupted. "Just like some large corporations have mandatory physical fitness programs for their employees. It keeps them in good shape."
A white panel truck approached the main gate, was cleared by the guard, and then entered the compound, rolling toward a large white square building with no windows.
"Now here's something," Mann said.
"Could be a delivery for the kitchens or something," Laura suggested.
"Could be, but I don't see any company logo on the truck. Most food suppliers advertise on their vehicles. Let's see what they unload." But they didn't. As the truck approached the white building, a metal roll-up door opened, and the truck disappeared within. The door shut behind it.
“Is it just me, or does it seem like they don’t want us to see what’s in that truck?” Mann asked.
The sound of a barking dog echoed up the hillside from the direction of the camp. Suddenly, a pair of quail burst from the brush to their immediate right.
Mann and Laura quickly hunched down.
Heading up the hill from the compound were two guards, M-16 rifles slung over their shoulders, with a German shepherd on a leash between them.
“Shit,” Mann said, folding his binoculars back into their case. “I think it’s time for us to make an exit.”
Laura was already moving down the opposite side of the hill.
When they reached their rental car, they wasted no time getting back on the road, putting distance between themselves and the camp.
“What now?” Laura asked.
“Now we drive back to Richmond, find a hotel, and call Taggart Enterprises to schedule an appointment,” Mann replied.
“At least we learned one thing today,” Laura said sarcastically.
“On the contrary, we discovered quite a bit. We found out that something is definitely happening at that camp. Have you ever heard of a slave camp with a perimeter patrol? The place is run like a military base. And we also learned that something important is going on in that white building.”
The following morning, at eleven, Mann and Laura arrived at the world headquarters of Taggart Enterprises. The impressive marble structure, occupying a corner on Monument Avenue, resembled a monument itself. Large relief letters in polished brass declared it to be TAGGART ENTERPRISES over the main entrance.
Inside, the lobby was a bustling hive of activity, with men and women in business suits crossing in every direction. Mann had never realized just how large the slavery business was in the Confederate States until he saw Taggart Enterprises. He doubted any large computer or communications company had better headquarters.
At the main reception desk sat a sharply dressed, blue-eyed blonde. She looked up expectantly as Mann approached her.
“Welcome to Taggart Enterprises,” she said, her voice so perky it could have belonged in the Magic Kingdom at Disney World. “How may I assist you?”
Her tone was nearly mechanical, as if she had been programmed.
“I’m Thomas Mann, and this is my assistant, Laura Dane. We have an 11:30 appointment with Mr. Hudson.”
The blonde’s fingers danced gracefully over her computer terminal keyboard. She located the relevant information on the monitor and looked back at them, a manufactured smile blossoming on her face. "Yes. That'll be room 418 on the fourth floor. Please wear these at all times while you are visiting us and return them to me when you leave."
She handed them two clip-on guest passes, which they attached to their jackets.
"Take the visitor elevator, number five, and someone will meet you when you reach the fourth floor," she instructed.
"Thank you," Mann replied as he left with Laura.
When the elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, a well-dressed young man met them as promised.
"My name is Leonard," he said courteously, gesturing with his hands. "Please follow me."
As they walked behind Leonard, they arrived at room 418. Leonard knocked lightly and then opened the door without waiting for a reply. The three of them passed two secretaries busily working at their terminals, then went directly to the large office at the end of the suite. The secretaries didn’t even bother to look up.
"Mr. Hudson," Leonard addressed a man sitting behind a large oak desk. "Mr. Mann and Miss Dane are here to see you, sir."
The man looked at Mann and Laura and stood up.
"Ah, yes, I’ve been expecting you. Thank you, Leonard; that will be all."
As quickly as if by magic, Leonard disappeared. "Mr. Mann," Hudson said, "I understand you want to visit one of our slaves holding camps to do a story. Is that the case?"
"Yes. That's pretty much it in a nutshell."
Hudson folded his hands in a way that suggested he was facing a difficult decision. He then offered a polite smile.
"I would love to grant your request, Mr. Mann, but I'm afraid I cannot. It goes against company policy, as it would disrupt operations at the camps. I'm happy to answer any questions you may have here, but that’s the best I can do."
"I see," Mann replied, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "I was hoping it would be possible. It's really in the best interests of your company, Mr. Hudson. I’m writing an article on the humane treatment that slaveholders like Taggart Enterprises provide to their assets, to counter some of the recent attacks from the more liberal Yankee press."
"I certainly want to support your cause, but unfortunately, company policy prevents it," Hudson said.
To signal that the conversation had reached its end, Hudson sat back down at his desk and glanced at his calendar for the next appointment.
Suddenly, an unexpected voice came from the door behind Mann and Laura.
"Of course it would be possible, Mr. Mann!"
This startled Hudson, causing him to rise to his feet as if he had been shocked.
"Mr. Taggart, sir, I didn't realize you knew Mr. Mann," Hudson stammered, sounding almost tongue-tied as he repeated "sir" like a buck private addressing a four-star general.
"Why, Hudson, I certainly recognize Mr. Mann. His reputation precedes him, reaching all the way from New York City and the Times to Richmond," the newcomer said.
He extended his hand, dressed sharply in a two-thousand-dollar gray business suit, complemented by a luxurious red silk tie. On his lapel, he wore an American flag pin, with each of the fifty-two stars in the blue bars crafted from small diamond chips.
"Hello, I'm Lawrence Taggart. I own this little operation. Is Hudson here giving you a hard time?"
Hudson looked as though he might throw himself out of the closed window in his distress.
"Yes," Mann replied, "I've heard a lot about you. But what do you mean regarding my reputation? I hope it's all positive."
Taggart smiled broadly.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Mann. In fact, it is quite exemplary. You are recognized as a reporter who treats all sides of the slavery debate fairly. I would be honored to give you a personal tour of one of our camps myself."
Hudson looked as if he were about to faint.
"That is very generous of you, Mr. Taggart," Mann said.
"Oh, please, just call me Larry, and I'll call you Tom and Laura. Mr. Taggart was my father. And it's not altruistic at all; I've grown quite tired of the seditious liberal press claiming how appalling the conditions are in our slave camps. They allege that slaves are beaten and starving."
Taggart laughed, "That would make me a very poor businessman, wouldn't it, to destroy my own merchandise? I want you to see how well we take care of the enslaved people in our camps."
Mann wanted to see what insights he could gather. Even a lie can reveal truth if interpreted correctly.
"What exactly is the purpose of your camps, Larry? They don’t seem very productive. Compared to most companies, you hardly manufacture or grow anything there."
Taggart grinned.
"They're only nonproductive if you miss the point about what our commodity is, Tom. We sell slaves, not bushels of tomatoes. Have you ever purchased a used car?"
"Yes," Mann replied. His current car was a two-year-old lease vehicle when he bought it.
"It's a similar principle. A used car dealer either buys a used car or gets one in trade. But before he resells it, he cleans it up and reconditions the engine so it looks and runs well, fetching a higher price."
"Well, that’s exactly what my camps do across the country. I buy slaves in perhaps not the best condition and then care for them, exercise them, and teach them until they are much more valuable. Only then do I sell them for a profit. A basic manual laborer may fetch only a few hundred dollars, but if he is intelligent enough to learn a specific skill, he could command four or five times that price at auction. Any businessman will tell you that quadrupling your investment in a couple of months is not something to sneeze at."
"That sounds good on paper," Mann said, trying to sound sympathetic to Taggart. "How many camps are you running now to recondition slaves?"
"From Maine to California, a total of thirty-six. We also have two special camps in Puerto Rico where we educate and accommodate new slaves."
Mann was shocked by the admission. "Are you saying you admit to buying new slaves from the holdings of the German Empire? Wouldn't that violate the trade blockade with the Germans?"
Taggart smiled. "Tom, you don't fully understand what the outside world is like beyond these Confederate States. We have Negroes who sell themselves into slavery from African territories and some of the poorer Caribbean islands. Compared to their homelands, being a slave in the Confederate States of America is like passing away and going to Heaven. If we didn't turn them away, we'd be overwhelmed by more slaves than we require, and the market would decline drastically. My dilemma is not acquiring prohibited slaves from overseas. Oh no, quite the contrary; it's keeping the inventory restricted to maintain the price."
Mann kept a polite smile on his face, but he thought he had just heard the biggest load of nonsense he had ever encountered. He knew the scam: Negroes would sell themselves to Taggart's agents, but they believed it was more of an indentured servitude than outright slavery. The general deal was that if a Negro came to the Confederate States as a servant for ten years, he or she would be granted freedom and citizenship. The poor, ignorant individuals in the African bush had no idea that it was legally impossible for a Black man to become a CS citizen. Oppressed by the German provincial governments, they found any opportunity that sounded like Paradise appealing. Once they found themselves in the hull of a freighter bound for Savannah, Charleston, or Baltimore, it was too late to change their minds.
"Well, Larry, when can we see one of your camps?"
A wide grin spread across Taggart's face, the kind of grin a spider might have when a fly fell into its web. "I was planning to visit our local camp for some business anyway. We have a camp at Scotts Fork."
At first, Mann was going to say he hadn’t known about Scotts Fork, but then he realized Taggart probably already knew they had spoken with the guard at the gate. He didn't want Taggart to catch him in an outright lie.
"Yes, Larry, we went out there but were stopped at the gate. You do have good security."
"Have to," Taggart replied. "We need to keep our product secure. Let's say you both meet me here at nine o'clock sharp."
"Done," Mann said, looking at Laura. Taggart followed Mann's gaze.
"You will be bringing your charming associate; won't you?" Taggart smiled at her.
She smiled back, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
As Hudson showed Mann and Laura out, Taggart gave them a friendly parting nod. Once the three of them entered the elevator and left, Taggart slammed the door to his office. The Confederate flag on his wall fluttered with the sudden rush of air, its stars swirling within its bars. He angrily punched the numbers on his touch-tone phone.
On the other end, a Southern accent answered.
"Creed, you Southern-fried moronic son of a bitch, do you know who just paid me a visit?!"
Taggart's rage took Alexander Creed aback, and he couldn’t find the words to respond. He knew Taggart well enough to understand that he would need to let his anger run its course before speaking again.
"I'll tell you who," Taggart continued, his voice rising. "That reporter Thomas Mann from The New York Times—that’s who! He was here inquiring about my slave camps. Now, do I have to remind your mint julep-marinated brain who Attenwald talked to?"
The gravity of the situation hit Creed like a ton of bricks. He realized he had seriously messed up.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Taggart. I'll fly down to Richmond tonight on the red-eye and take care of the problem."
Furious, Taggart had to count silently to five before he could respond. He thought Creed was a single-minded idiot.
"You will do no such thing, Creed. You've already wiped out half of New York City without solving our problem. I don't want that happening here in Richmond, in my own backyard. Besides, I'm sure his paper knows everything he knows and exactly where he is. All we need is for him to die abruptly. If you hadn’t given Attenwald credibility by eliminating him, none of this would be necessary. If anything happened to Mann, the entire staff of the New York Times would be snooping around my camps forever. I don’t want him killed. Do you understand?"
"I have a better plan," Creed replied. "You get back down here, and I’ll just play the good host and give Mann a special guided tour of the Scotts Fork camp. Hopefully, I can answer all his questions, and the whole thing will blow over."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Taggart. I'll catch the first flight to Richmond tonight."
Taggart looked at the oil paintings of Presidents Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee on the wall. He understood that men like Creed were a necessary evil. They were the soldiers who carried out the general's orders, but at times like this, he wished it weren’t so. Creed was a merciless brute of a man who pretended to be a gentleman. Even Taggart had to ask himself what had become of the great Confederacy.
"Oh, and Creed," Taggart added.
"Yes, sir," came the quick reply.
"I do have one limited task for you when you arrive. I’ll explain it to you when you get here."
Taggart sat at his desk and began to write a letter.
As promised, at exactly nine the next morning, a long Davis Continental stretch limousine pulled up in front of the hotel where Mann and Laura were staying. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door to the car.
"Tom and Laura, good morning!" Taggart's voice was cheerful. "I'm so glad you could make it."
The pair climbed into the huge automobile, which felt as if it could accommodate a bowling alley. Taggart was enjoying eggs Benedict on toast with coffee.
"I hope you don't mind my eating while we're on the road, but I try to organize my day as efficiently as possible to save time. I do a lot of eating and calling while in the car."
"Not at all; we already ate at the hotel," Mann replied.
"That's too bad! I had my chef make plenty for all three of us." The eggs smelled delicious.
"Well, maybe just a little," Laura said, taking a plate with a guilty expression on her face. "There goes the figure."
Mann could only grin at her.
The ride passed quickly, and as they approached the camp, the militaristic guard saw Taggart's car and waved them through. He watched stone-faced as the car passed his post.
"Larry," Mann said softly, "why do you have so much security for this camp? I thought escaping slaves weren't really a big problem in the Confederacy."
"It's not. The security is more to keep others out than to detain escaping slaves. We've been receiving quite a few threats from liberal radicals who want to end slavery and set all the enslaved people free. They are capable of anything, even blowing up camp buildings and harming the very people they claim they're trying to save."
For a moment, he glanced in Laura's direction. Mann wondered if Taggart knew she wasn't really his assistant.
"And," Taggart continued, "there have also been some issues with industrial espionage. I'm not the only slave owner in America, and many of my competitors would love to uncover some of my secrets. As you will see, I condition and sell some of the finest enslaved people in the Western Hemisphere."
Gently, the limousine came to a stop in front of what was signposted as the main administration building. Taggart ushered them out of the car and then led them through the entrance.
"This is a state-of-the-art operation. It looks like a small version of the control room the Germans used to send the first man to the moon."
The room beyond the entrance was impressive to say the least. Six rows of computer memory banks occupied one side of the room, while technicians worked at consoles on the other side. Overhead, security cameras scanned everything.
"What is all this for?" Laura asked.
"Since this camp is the closest one to our main headquarters, I use it as the pivotal point of our operations. Essentially, what you see around you is the most comprehensive database on every enslaved person in the entire Confederacy. Here, we record their names, numbers, owners, training, ages, medical conditions—you name it."
"For what purpose?" Mann asked, looking at a printout rolling off a laser printer.
"That is the key question, Tom,” Taggart said. “Knowledge is power. Let's revisit my previous analogy regarding used cars. Imagine a man could chronicle the circumstances and performance of every car in the Confederate States. He would undoubtedly know which cars have intrinsic value and which do not, giving him a significant advantage in his business. If a car came in on a trade, he could look up its vehicle identification number and access its complete performance history."
"So, you do all this just to measure the performance of slaves?" Laura asked.
"Oh, Laura, it's far more than that. You see, no matter how well they’re made, you can't breed cars. But you can breed humans. My dream is simply this: to create a more suitable workforce. We also track genetic traits on these computers so that one day we can make them smarter, stronger, and overall better laborers of higher value."
An unsettling thought crossed Mann's mind. "Aren't you afraid of making them better than whites?"
A fleeting look of disdain crossed Taggart's face, revealing his deep-rooted prejudice against Black people. It was clear to Mann that he could hardly even conceive of such a possibility.
"I hardly consider that would be possible, but we have prepared for such a scenario. We are also seeking genetic traits that promote submissiveness and a distaste for violence. These will assist in the creation of the perfect slave."
Though personally repulsed by Taggart's grand scheme, Mann managed to put on an appreciative smile.
"Sounds like a really good idea," Mann exclaimed to both Taggart and Laura, fully aware that it made both him and Laura feel uneasy.
"Come," Taggart said proudly, "let me show you the rest of the complex."
As they were leaving the building, Laura glanced at a manual lying on one of the operators' desks. She memorized its contents without anyone noticing her.
Outside the computer building, the three of them arrived at an exercise yard where a dozen individuals were working out with free weights. Taggart gestured to one of the men standing by, watching as others pumped iron.
"James," Taggart called to him.
James immediately ran over.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Taggart," he replied enthusiastically.
"James here is one of my top trainers. He's my permanent property and will not ever be sold."
"How do you like it here?" Taggart asked James.
"I like it just fine, Mr. Taggart. You are a good master to have. You treat us well, and you're always fair to us, sir."
James stood with his eyes slightly cast down, waiting for some sign of approval from Taggart.
"You see, Tom, my slaves know that I treat them well. They are probably better off here than where they came from, and some are treated better here than where they are going."
After showing them one building after another, Mann had to admit that everything looked just as good as Taggart had claimed. Finally, they arrived at a large white building where Mann and Laura had seen the panel truck arrive.
"What's in here?" Mann asked as he headed toward the building.
"That's our medical research facility," Taggart replied.
They went inside, and the interior was just as impressive, filled with medical equipment, as the hardware in the central computer room. Mann couldn't understand how such a significant investment in medical apparatus wouldn't yield some payoff.
"And what purpose does all this serve, Larry?" he asked.
"This is the other part of our operation," Larry explained. "In this room, we learn more about the physical characteristics of Black individuals every day. Think about it. Someday, we'll be able to breed Black people to exact specifications for various tasks—strength and lower IQ for menial labor jobs, or agility and higher IQ for factory production lines. The possibilities are limitless."
As he searched the room for clues, Mann decided to take a direct approach. He asked a straightforward question, "Larry, there have been reports, I'm sure you realize, of Black individuals being used for medical experiments. You're not doing that here, are you?"
"Tom, you can rest assured I won't have any part in that kind of nonsense. Not only would it be bad for business, but think of the uproar it would cause with the neo-abolitionists. It would also affect my workers' morale. No, I'm afraid I'd have more to lose than gain from such experimentation."
"Besides, you're barking up the wrong tree. If you want to investigate who is involved in slave experimentation, you should look into some of the major pharmaceutical and cosmetic companies. That’s where you’ll find the real culprits. Just because cosmetic companies print 'non-slave' or 'not tested on animals' on their perfume bottles doesn’t mean they adhere to those claims.
As for my operation, I must say that accusation is one of those unfounded and dishonest charges made by neo-abolitionists when they have nothing more substantial to argue.
In one corner of the laboratory, Laura noticed a large freezer unit. She understood refrigeration units, but she wondered why tissue samples needed to be frozen.
"What’s the freezer for?" she asked.
Taggart glanced casually at the unit. “Oh, that one. We store dry ice in it to preserve samples for transport to other laboratories.”
Without hesitating, Taggart began to walk back toward the entry door, signaling that part of the tour was over. Mann had the distinct impression that Laura’s question had made Taggart momentarily uneasy.
As they opened the door, a group of Black children was playing outside. One of the armed guards, with his M-16 slung over his left shoulder, was tossing a plastic ball to them as they kicked it back. Mann would have bet his retirement that the whole scene was staged for their benefit.
“You see,” Taggart boasted, “how content my people are here. The young ones even play with the security guards.”
He turned to the guard.
“Hello, Brandon,” he greeted him with the demeanor of a kindly old grandfather.
The guard, who looked as if he could shoot all the children without hesitation, waved to Taggart with a smile.
“Hello, Mr. Taggart. Just having some fun with the little ones.”
"That's fine, Brandon," Taggart said. "You go right on playing with them. They need their exercise if they're going to grow up capable and strong."
Mann almost burst out laughing. If the whole unsettling situation weren’t so sick, it would have been truly comical. Stepping away from Taggart and Laura, Mann approached the children. A bright-eyed girl, about ten years old, caught his attention.
"Hi," Mann said to her. "My name is Tom. What's your name?"
The girl looked up at him, fear evident in her eyes as she searched for a sign of approval from Taggart.
"That's all right, honey," Taggart affirmed with a warm smile. "You can talk with this nice man. He won't hurt you."
Mann patiently asked again, "What’s your name?"
"Alana Jones," she replied in a near whisper.
Mann nodded, and images of a little girl in Puerto Rico and Jenny came to his mind.
"Alana, that's a pretty name. Are you here with your mommy?" he asked.
He inquired only about her mother, as it was common for the father of a slave to be absent, typically used only for breeding purposes.
Alana looked frightened again but answered anyway, trying not to glance at Taggart or Brandon. "No, sir. I was taken away from my mommy when I was brought here."
"I see," Mann said, nodding again. "Are you happy here without your mommy, Alana?"
The girl peeked at Taggart, who shot her a quick glare.
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I'm happy here. They all treat me just right."
Mann noticed how nervous Alana was and didn’t want to make her any more uncomfortable in Taggart's presence. She was cute, and Mann wished he could buy her on the spot to raise her with real kindness or smuggle her out of the CS.
"Thank you, honey," he said to her before standing up. Mann walked back to Taggart and Laura.
"What's her price tag?" Mann asked Taggart. "I have a friend who is looking for a playmate for his daughter."
"Alana! No, she isn't for sale. I want to keep her and eventually breed her."
"By law, you have to wait at least another six years," Mann exclaimed, knowing Taggart was lying. "You certainly have the gift of patience, Larry."
"In this business, Tom, you have to," Taggart said with a gracious smile. "It's the name of the game."
After Taggart had brought them back to Richmond and gone on his way, Mann and Laura had a chance to talk.
"I think he's full of it," Mann said candidly, watching the limousine drive away. "He has a lot more medical equipment than he needs for a few tests, and that computer system, which tracks every slave in the C.S., is positively Orwellian. He’s up to something big."
"This may help," Laura said with a grin. "When we were in the computer room, I noticed an open book next to one of the operators. It was just a list of days and words. Since today is already Wednesday, only the last three entries for the week are useful, but I think I know his computer access codes for the next three days."
Mann reached over and kissed her, still holding her. "You, my dear, are a genius. Do you happen to know anyone with a computer and a modem?"
She smiled. "Now that you mention it, I do. A man named Glen Peterson lives about eight blocks from here. He's in our group and is one hell of a hacker. He’ll do all he can to help."
As they headed toward the parking lot where the rental car was parked, Mann motioned to Laura with his arm. "Come on, what are you waiting for?"