The Omega Command

Chapter 7

“The space shuttle Adventurer?”

Sandy Lister couldn’t believe what a nervous T.J. had just told her. She had spent the balance of the morning reviewing the information he had gathered and passed on the previous day concerning Krayman Industries. Little of his research would stand up in court, but it was accurate with one point irrefutable: Krayman Industries had channeled vast energies and resources into gaining control of different segments of the media and all spheres of telecommunication in general. The corporation was the controlling force behind twenty-seven local television stations nationwide, skirting FCC ownership regulations by forming new companies to control subgroups of stations in different regions. Holding all of them together and serving as an umbrella unit for Krayman’s vast holdings in the media, electronics, transportation, and computers was Communications Technology International. Tens of billions of dollars were involved. COM-U-TECH had become the ultimate consortium in the telecommunications field. But why? Men like Krayman did not move randomly. So what was he after?

“It’s something called an orbital flight plan,” T.J. continued, fidgeting nervously in the chair before Sandy’s desk.

“That’s all your air force friend was able to tell you?”

“We ain’t friends anymore, boss.”

“Lunch wasn’t pleasant?”

“Lunch never happened. Coglan just dropped the disk off like it was burning his fingers and pointed me in the FBI’s direction.”

“Obviously, he had a good reason for wanting you to get rid of it.”

“Sure. How does high treason grab you?”

Sandy started to laugh but quickly stopped when she saw T.J.’s sullen expression. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Not unless Captain Coglan was, and he didn’t seem to be in a joking mood.” T.J. sighed. “After the Challenger explosion, it was the Defense Department that saved the shuttle program and now furnishes virtually all of its funding. In typical Defense Department fashion, everything’s very hush-hush, and even if it weren’t, possessing a computer program made up of the last flight of a shuttle lost in space wouldn’t be looked at too kindly by the authorities. To put it bluntly, they might crucify us. So if you’re ready to go to the FBI, I’ll drive.”

“What happened to the gung-ho journalistic bravado from yesterday?”

“Deep down, I’m a coward.”

“Is that why you haven’t bothered speculating on why a murdered Krayman Industries employee would have an orbital flight plan disk in his possession?”

“Look who’s making the connections now. …”

“It would be hard for even a celebrity interviewer to miss them. Kelno worked for Krayman, he had the disk, I’m about to start a story on the man himself when a dying Kelno slips it into my purse. Sounds like a progression to me.

“You gonna take this to Shay?”

Sandy hedged. “Not yet.”

“Because you want it to be your story?”

“Because I haven’t got enough to take to him yet. Right now we’ve got two leads: Kelno and the disk. Your job is to dig up everything you can on Kelno while I find out exactly what good an orbital flight plan would be to anyone other than NASA.”

“How?”

“Your friend Captain Coglan. If lunch didn’t work, I’ll try dinner.”

McCracken began stripping off his dirty clothes as soon as the door to his room in the St. Regis on Fifty-fifth Street was chained behind him. It felt good to be out of them and he called down immediately to the hotel valet service to have his sport jacket and slacks cleaned and pressed. Yes, they assured him, the job could be done within an hour. An extra fee would be required, though. So what else is new? Blaine thought.

He took a long hot shower, steaming the grime away, ordered up a turkey club from room service, and after finishing it dialed Andrew Stimson’s private number at exactly four o’clock.

“Stimson,” came the Gap director’s voice.

“It’s Blaine, Andy.”

Silence filled the other end.

“Andy?”

“Hell of a mess you made outside Madame Rosa’s,” Stimson said sharply.

“Thought I’d warned you.”

“You damn near blew up the whole street. It’s a can of worms, Blaine, and if the truth comes out about your involvement, it’s gonna get spilled all over my lap. Every agency in the book is up there trying to piece together what happened … and I mean literally. There isn’t much left standing.”

“What about innocent bystanders?” Blaine asked reluctantly.

“Some hospitalized, none critical. Relax, your record’s intact. The essential point now is that it won’t take the Company and Bureau boys long to put together that a pro was responsible up there and that might lead them to my doorstep. They won’t like what they find inside. Remember, this whole assignment exists only between you and me.”

“I know.”

Stimson sighed. “I won’t tell you to go easy because I know I gave you a job to do. I would suggest that under the circumstances you leave New York.”

“Not until I find out where Sebastian fits in. Any luck finding him or it on your software?”

“It’s a he and he’s somebody else’s property.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the FBI’s been on to Sebastian — alias Don Louis Rose, alias J. D. Sabatini, alias Dominque Derobo — for some time. He’s a trafficker.”

“Drugs?”

“Some,” Stimson said. “But he specializes in people.”

“Ah, an old-fashioned white slaver …”

“Except Sebastian’s as black as they come and he deals in meeting orders for men and women, boys and girls of all makes and models. Most of his business comes from high-fashion whorehouses like Madame Rosa’s, but he has quite a few private clients as well.”

“The twins,” Blaine muttered.

“What?”

“The twins. Madame Rosa told me Easton ordered them special. She must have put me on to Sebastian because she knew he was the only other person who knew the twins’ delivery date, and not from the stork either. Where can I find Sebastian, Andy?”

Stimson hesitated. “I think you better steer clear of him.”

“Uh-uh. There are too many loose ends he can tie up. He had to tell somebody about the twins and that somebody set up the hit on Easton.”

“Blaine, the FBI’s got Sebastian eyeballed twenty-four hours a day. You walk in and they’ll have you eyeballed as well.”

“I’ll be subtle.”

“Sure.”

“Look, Andy, whoever infiltrated Madame Rosa’s would have known everything except the date of delivery for Easton’s twins. Only Madame Rosa and Sebastian would have known that and since the madame maintained the ultimate in discretion, that leaves us with Sebastian. Where is he?”

Stimson didn’t hesitate this time. “FBI reports indicate he moved out of his Manhattan penthouse two days ago. Since then he’s been holed up in a freighter he owns. It’s docked in New York harbor.”

“Two days ago. … Interesting.”

“I thought you’d like that. And there’s more. Sebastian’s got an army guarding his ship, almost like he’s expecting a siege.”

“The question is by whom?”

“If you’re set on looking for the answer,” Stimson cautioned, “make sure you do it without attracting attention from the FBI. If they ID you …” The Gap director let his voice trail off at the end to illustrate his meaning.

“Don’t worry, Andy, I’ve already got a few ideas.”

“And no repeat performances of Eighty-sixth Street.”

“One a day’s my limit. Anything on the carolers or Santa Claus?”

“Freelance muscle, as near as we can tell. Pros, for sure, as you suspected, but all without links to any major group. Looks like they were hired for this one job.”

“Or two,” McCracken corrected him. “Lest we forget Easton.”

“The two who nailed him were black.”

“As was the Santa Claus.”

“A pretty thin connection.”

“I don’t think so, Andy. How many black Santa Clauses have you seen ringing money bells in posh sections of Manhattan?”

“None with acid in their cups, if that’s what you mean.”

“It goes deeper. I can feel it. I assume there’s nothing new with the microfiche.”

“The computer’s working overtime, but the fiche was burned worse than we thought originally. My people assure me we’re still close to something.”

“Which brings us to Chen, Andy. What’d your people turn up on him?”

Stimson cleared his throat before answering. “Our records are inconclusive.”

“What do they show, Andy?”

“Blaine—”

“What do they show, Andy?”

“CIA. They show Chen’s on the Company’s payroll.”

Sebastian’s freighter, McCracken learned, was called the Narcissus and was docked at West Twenty-Third Street on the Hudson River. Blaine decided to make his appearance after dark, ruling out commando tactics since Sebastian’s private army would significantly reduce the chances they would succeed. Something more subtle was called for, something that would keep the FBI off his back at the same time. The answer came to Blaine quickly and might even allow him to have some fun in the process.

What wasn’t fun was considering Chen’s link to the CIA. It was certain that he had infiltrated Madame Rosa’s for the express purpose of executing her if she became a threat. But why would the Company want her dead and, more, want Easton dead? It made no sense any way he looked at it. Sure, there was competition between the various intelligence groups, some of it heated. Never, though, did one agency go around murdering the operatives of another. More likely, Chen had been doubling during a lag in his Company duties. Doubling for whom, though?

Around sunset McCracken changed back into the sport jacket and slacks returned by the hotel valet service and hired a limousine to pick him up outside at seven o’clock sharp. Then he walked two blocks to a men’s store and purchased an expensive camel’s hair overcoat to complement the modest deception he was planning.

He was really running up an expense account on this assignment, but it didn’t matter much. Since Gap and Company agents seldom maintained permanent addresses, bills for credit cards and the like all ended up at a central location to be dealt with in-house. Personal expenses were deducted directly from salaries. It was simpler that way.

The limousine arrived right on schedule. McCracken paid the driver in advance and gave him the address.

“You sure you got that right, pal?” the driver asked him in a gravel voice.

Blaine said he was.

“Usually people go down there, they do it in fast cars to make fast exits, not in tanks like this.” The driver shook his head. His face was creased with scars and his nose was permanently swollen. He looked like a boxer who’d fought on well past his time. Blaine noticed his knuckles were callused as he gripped the wheel hard after restarting the car. “You ask me, the goddamn Port Authority should build an electrified fence around the whole fuckin’ complex, keep the damn foreigners from shitting up the city. Know what I mean?”

Blaine just shrugged.

“I live in the city all my life,” the gravel voice continued, pulling into traffic now. “Fought Carlos Monzon twice and he busted my nose both times. But he didn’t bust it good enough I can’t smell the stink rising from where you’re headed. I got a piece stashed at my place. You want for a few extra bucks we’ll stop over and I’ll watch your back.”

“Just watch the road.”

“Suit yourself, pal. But if I hear shots from inside that boat, don’t expect me to stick around and find out who caught the lead. Name’s Sal Belamo by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said McCracken.

The Narcissus had the look of a ship long out of love with its own reflection. The freighter was a giant, long and wide, a whale of a ship whose flesh was rotting with death and decay. Barnacles hugged her hull, which was rife with fresh repair patches and plenty more spots in need of the same. The letters proclaiming her name were cracked and peeling, the dot of the i missing and the final s with only a lower half. She held on to the dock the way elderly people dying alone and unwanted grip the handrails of their cold beds.

Blaine saw the first of Sebastian’s guards when the limousine was thirty yards away from the Narcissus’s darkened slot on the pier. Four of them stood in a spread before the wooden planking leading onto the ship. They showcased their automatic weapons openly, as if a different set of laws applied down here on the docks, and Blaine supposed to a great extent it did.

“Holy Christ,” moaned Sal Belamo. “You ask me, we shoulda stopped and grabbed my piece. What the hell’s going on?”

“Pull up slow,” McCracken instructed him. “Act like their presence here doesn’t bother or surprise you.”

“Their fuckin’ presence has me shittin’ in my pants, pal.”

“I’ll spring for a new pair of undies, Sal. Just do what I tell you.”

Belamo obliged, but his hands tightened hard around the steering wheel.

Blaine knew he was in the FBI’s sights right now and had to hope visits to the mysterious man on board the Narcissus were not unheard of. He hoped his modest disguise would eliminate the need for further investigation on the Bureau’s part. A well-dressed man arriving in a limousine should appear to be just another of Sebastian’s exclusive customers.

Belamo pulled the limousine to a halt just before the dock. McCracken could see the guards at the head of the walkway stiffen, hands starting to slide toward their rifles.

With a deep breath Blaine started to open the door.

“You ask me, pal, you’re makin’ a big mistake. Lots of people come down here end up as fish food and nobody gives a shit. Know what I mean?”

“Thanks for the comfort, Sal. Just keep the engine warm.”

“Blazing, pal, blazing.”

Blaine stepped out and closed the door behind him. He moved slowly and calmly forward, then stopped in front of the four guards. They watched him with cold intensity, eyes as black as their flesh, all layered with muscle thick as shoulder pads.

“I’d like to see Sebastian.”

“He ain’t here,” said one of the men, and Blaine was honestly not sure which.

McCracken fingered his beard, edged a little closer so that the top of the plywood walkway complete with rope handrails was visible. More guards were up there standing watch over the gunwale.

“He’ll be here for me,” he said calmly.

“Write what you want to tell him in a letter. I’ll make sure he gets it,” said the shortest black with a chest the size of a beer keg. The man showed his rifle.

“Look, boys, I got business with the man. If he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll climb back in my car and beat it out of this rat hole, but I want to hear it from him first.”

“You might lose your balls in this rat hole, shit for brains,” the shortest guard charged, and his gun came up farther. An M-16, Blaine noted. The guard had the look of a man who had used one plenty of times before.

“You want to play with guns, friend, do it after you tell Sebastian that Madame Rosa bought it today and there’s a spot on the farm waiting for him unless he sees me.”

“Sebastian knows what happened to the old bitch.”

The voice came from the top of the walkway and McCracken turned toward it along with the guards.

“Sebastian knows everything,” the voice continued.

Blaine couldn’t make out the speaker’s features clearly in the misty darkness but did see him rest his hands on the rail.

“It’s all right, Henry,” said Sebastian, “send him up. But search him first and make sure he’s clean inside and out.”

Blaine submitted to the shortest guard’s rough, callused hands without complaint, all the time wishing he had his Browning or even Sal Belamo’s piece to poke down his throat like a tongue depressor. Finding no weapon, Henry led him up the plank walkway, where Sebastian was waiting at the top in the center of a half-dozen more guards.

“Let’s take our business inside,” he said. “I been out long enough for one night.”

The dapper Sebastian looked clearly out of place among his butcherous legion. His Afro was finely sculptured and rode just over the tips of his ears in slight ringlets. His skin was coppery light; his eyes were caramel brown and definitely scared. He was wearing a silk shirt and a pair of obviously expensive trousers. Chains, bracelets, and rings chimed and glowed everywhere about him. His fingernails were neatly manicured.

“This way.” Sebastian beckoned, and Blaine followed him down a narrow staircase into the bowels of the ship with three guards and their guns shadowing his every step. Two more stood in front of a doorway and the larger held the door open when Sebastian approached. Blaine followed him inside, ducking his head a little under the low frame.

The light stung his eyes and then the setting itself made them widen. Sebastian’s private quarters on board the Narcissus had been converted into a luxury apartment done in colonial woods and rich brown fabrics with a touch of nautical styling tossed in for good measure. A couch was bordered on both sides by end tables layered with coarse seaman’s rope. Sets of leather-bound books were held up in three large wall units by various gauges that might once have occupied positions on some captain’s bridge.

The door closed behind them and Blaine was surprised none of the guards had entered. Sebastian seemed to read his mind.

“If you try anything,” he warned, “you’ll be dead before you finish it.”

“Your men that fast, Sebastian?”

“This is,” the black man said, revealing a derringer he had been palming the whole time. “Two bullets loaded with hollow-point grains. Especially effective at close range. Please excuse me for holding it on you while we speak.”

“Be my guest.”

“Pull up a chair. Or would you prefer the couch?”

“A chair will do fine.”

Blaine pulled one up. Sebastian crossed his legs on the couch.

“You’re a well-protected man, Sebastian,” Blaine opened, not worrying about the gun pointed at him.

“So was Madame Rosa and they got her.”

“But you let me up.”

“Because you’re not black. When they try for me, the man will be black. Besides, I’m heading for Europe tomorrow at dawn. The ocean’s got lots of hiding places.”

“And, of course, you’ll be filling more special orders once you reach land again.” McCracken could not disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

Sebastian leaned forward. “I don’t know who you are, but if you’re aware of what happened to Madame Rosa, I figure you’re as marked as I am and maybe you know something that might be able to help me. Now I’m realizing there’s nothing that can help me so long as I remain in the States.”

“Then you don’t plan on returning. A lot of kinky assholes will just have to go wanting, I guess.”

Sebastian squeezed his features together. “Mister, things are gonna start changing pretty fast in this country before long, and I don’t want to be around for it.”

Blaine felt a stirring in his stomach. Sebastian was scared, all right, but of more than just the threat to his own life.

“Who are you anyway?” he demanded. “What’s your connection with all this?”

“I’m going to tell you the truth, Sebastian, because I see no reason to hold anything back. My name’s Blaine McCracken and I’ve been called in to replace Tom Easton on his current mission. You remember Easton, don’t you? He got sliced up by a couple of machine-gun clips along with a pair of twins you got special for him.”

The last lines seemed not to reach Sebastian. “If you’re replacing Easton, then you’d be smart to head for the oceans too.”

“Sure, let’s head out together. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The humor was lost on Sebastian, but he smiled anyway. “You don’t know what you’re on to yet, do you?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me there. You fingered Easton for the hit team, didn’t you?”

“I had no choice,” Sebastian said, suddenly defensive.

McCracken glanced around him, locking finally on the door. “For a guy who’s got a goddamn army of chaperons, that sounds pretty strange.”

“I got the army after they came the first time.” Sebastian’s stare grew distant, his grip slackening on his derringer. “They knew Easton was a patron of Madame Rosa’s and that he required special orders to be filled from time to time. Since I was Madame Rosa’s exclusive supplier, they came to me. I told them about the twins, when they were due in. The men seemed satisfied.”

“You set those kids up along with Easton,” Blaine charged. “You’re as guilty as the men with the Mac-10s.”

Sebastian stood up, trembling with rage. “Spare me your moralizing, McCracken. When I found those children, they were living in the streets of Athens and picked fruit to earn a penny or two a day.”

“So you rescued them. And I always thought Jerry Lewis knew no equal. …”

“I provide a service, McCracken. I supply products to people who would otherwise be unable to obtain them. And ninety percent of the time everything is respectable, everybody comes out ahead, and nobody gets hurt.”

“But then there are those other ten percent, right? And I’m not talking about just Easton either. You’ve probably gotten lots of innocent kids killed, Sebastian. But they’re better off being tortured in some weirdo’s bedroom than picking fruit, I suppose.”

Sebastian’s lips squeezed briefly together. “I don’t plan to argue ethics with a hired killer, which is all you are. You’re no match for who’s behind all this. My advice is to run before they find you like they found Easton.”

“Before who finds me?”

Sebastian hesitated. “The PVR.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Where have you been, out of the country or something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Tell me about this PVR. Why have they got you so scared that you’ve got an army protecting you above the water and divers protecting you below it?”

Sebastian’s eyes flashed fear. “What divers?”

“I saw air bubbles rising on my way up to the deck.” Sebastian was shaking horribly now. “I don’t have any divers!”

McCracken rose to his feet. “Then who …”

As if both men had realized the answer simultaneously, they rushed toward the door together, linked by the terrible certainty that they were going to be too late. They bolted up the stairs with a set of befuddled guards right behind them and had reached the deck when the explosion came, shattering the stillness of the night. Heat singed the air and buckled Blaine’s flesh an instant before the world was yanked from under him. He reached out to grab something, anything, but it was all floating away.

Blackness came mercifully before impact, so it seemed he was still floating into a tunnel up ahead, and he tumbled into it falling, falling …

Chapter 8

When captain Alan Coglan first saw Sandy Lister enter the restaurant, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It came as quite a surprise when she approached his table.

“Captain Coglan, I’m Sandy Lister.”

Coglan rose to greet her. “Yes, I know,” he said, starting to feel suspicious now.

“Please sit down, Captain. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time and I’m sorry if I interrupted your dinner.”

T.J. Brown had learned that Coglan ate dinner regularly at this small Italian restaurant near his station post, and Sandy had come with the intention of prying more information from him. Rarely did she take advantage of her celebrity status. It was great for avoiding long waits in restaurants or airports, but generally it was a burden to be shrugged off. Often during interviews her mere presence made people eager to please and under those circumstances they often revealed more than they intended. She was hoping for similar results tonight.

Coglan hadn’t quite settled himself back in his chair when Sandy spoke again.

“T.J. Brown works for me, Captain.”

Coglan’s face stiffened. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea that we speak, Miss Lister.”

“What’s an orbital flight plan, Captain?”

Coglan leaned across the table. “Miss Lister, please. By all rights I should have reported that T.J. had the disk in his possession, but for some reason I didn’t. Your questions might force me to change my mind.”

“I don’t think so, Captain, because then you would have to explain why you waited so long. Your people might also somehow learn that you had dinner here with me, a television reporter. I doubt very much they’d appreciate the timing of that,” Sandy warned, her threat spoken gently.

“Miss Lister, the information you’re asking for is top secret.”

“Not anymore, Captain. The disk was passed on to me by a civilian who died for the effort. Murdered, more specifically.”

Coglan hesitated. “Everything I say will be considered off the record?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll forget about this meeting ever taking place?”

“It never happened.”

Coglan pulled his chair farther under the table and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The shuttle program is not my field, but I do know some basics. To begin with, the onboard crew under normal conditions has little control over the shuttle once it attains orbit. Everything is controlled and monitored by computers in Houston talking to computers one hundred and eighty miles above Earth. Through disks, Miss Lister. The disk T.J. brought me was one of the most important of all because it contained the preprogrammed space orbit Adventurer was to follow: when and where the shuttle would be at every instant of its orbit, barring malfunction, of course.”

“And did any malfunction occur on the flight?”

Coglan shook his head. “No. Everything was running green.”

“Just like Challenger …”

“No,” Coglan said defensively, “not like Challenger at all. The final transmission …” His voice trailed off.

Sandy’s eyebrows rose. No final transmission had been released to the press. “What transmission?”

Coglan backed off. “Miss Lister—”

“The shuttle was deliberately destroyed by someone, wasn’t it?”

Coglan hedged, then nodded slowly. “Or something. It’s been sealed tight under something called a Space-Stat alert, the space equivalent to a situation of war.”

“What happened up there, Captain?”

“All investigations have been sealed, as I said.”

“But there must be talk. There’s always talk.”

“Just rumors.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

“Off the record, right?” Coglan asked, needing the reassurance.

Sandy’s nod left no doubt.

Coglan sighed. “Drone satellites have just returned with pieces of the wreckage. It’s like nothing anyone’s seen before. The shuttle wasn’t just blown up, parts of it were totally vaporized.”

“Jesus …”

“The real anomaly lies in the fact that Houston’s radar board showed green the whole time Adventurer’s sensors were screaming bloody murder. Even when … whatever it was came into view of the astronauts, there was no evidence of it on any board back on Earth.”

“That doesn’t seem possible.”

“There are plenty of scientists with million-dollar salaries claiming the same thing. A few are actually theorizing the attack came from outer space, as if we finally had strayed too far into someone else’s territory.”

“You believe that, Captain?”

“Absolutely not. I’m a military man, Miss Lister, and I don’t buy passing off every unexplainable occurrence to some empire’s death star. A human finger pushed the button that destroyed Adventurer, and I’ve got a feeling whoever owns that finger isn’t finished yet.”

“A mess!” the President raged. “A goddamn raging, stinking mess!” He turned from the window of the Oval Office and faced Andrew Stimson. “Permission for you to use McCracken was revoked after the Paris incident. What in hell gave you the right to call him in on your own?”

Stimson found himself wishing fewer lights were on in the Oval Office so the fury on the President’s face wouldn’t be so obvious.

“Tom Easton gave me the right, sir,” he said plainly. “He was my man and somebody sliced him to bits. McCracken was my best bet, my only bet, to find out who did it and why. I felt his skills were the ones that were needed.”

“Skills that have brought the French to the verge of breaking off intelligence relations with us after his little escapade in Paris,” Barton McCall snapped.

“What about the three dead terrorists? Or doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Oh, it counts for plenty when the shooting was done on foreign soil by an agent who hasn’t had kill clearance for five years.” McCall paused, then raised his voice. “Plenty of embarrassment! And if that weren’t enough, he pulls a repeat performance on the streets of New York this afternoon. The streets of New York, Andy! If only that explosion had killed him once and for all …”

“What was McCracken doing on that boat in the first place?” the President asked.

“I explained that. Sebastian was connected with Madame Rosa. He set up Easton.”

“Then you knowingly let McCracken intrude on a Bureau operation?”

“I had to. There was no choice.” Stimson’s eyes flashed between the President and McCall, finding no support from either.

“The Bureau doesn’t share your view,” the President told him. “They’re steaming over this. Six months of surveillance and investigative work went down the drain.”

“Thanks to the bomb, not McCracken.”

McCall lit his pipe. “And what about this famous microfiche McCrackenballs miraculously discovered? Has it yielded anything yet?”

“It will,” Stimson said, not sounding as sure as he had tried to.

McCall puffed away. “You know, Andy, we could have avoided all this if you had kept closer tabs on the personal … tastes of your agents. Twins, Andy? I mean, really.”

“And what about Chen, Barton? Or is it routine for you to station your men in whorehouses to murder madams?”

McCall yanked the pipe from his mouth and held it out like a gun. “I had no knowledge concerning this man Chen until you informed me of his involvement this afternoon.”

“Maybe it’s you who should keep closer tabs on your agents.”

“Chen was freelance. On retainer with the Company but he filled plenty of other orders as well.”

“Enough, gentlemen!” the President broke in. “I’ll accept what’s happened because I have to. The question now is, how do we pick up the pieces? What’s McCracken’s condition, Andy?”

“He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness since the explosion. Moderate concussion and numerous bruises and lacerations. Nothing broken though. He’ll be duty-fit within a few days.”

“Then he’ll also be fit enough to be pulled out,” the President said flatly. “He’s become too much of a liability. As soon as he’s ready to travel, Andy, I want him brought down here to face a proper board of inquiry on the fiasco over in Paris so a determination can be made about his future.”

“Retirement, sir?” Stimson asked, his meaning clear.

“Normal retirement. I want him buried so deep he’ll never become a thorn in our side again.

“In a desk job, sir, or a casket?”

Sandy Lister met with T.J. Brown in his office first thing Thursday morning. She began stripping off her coat as he looked up from his computer terminal.

“Benjamin Kelno is clean as driven snow, boss,” he reported, punching up the results of his labors on the monitor screen.

Disappointed, Sandy sat down before it. She had hoped something in Kelno’s background would offer some clue as to where he came into possession of the orbital flight plan he died planting on her.

“He spent the last twelve years of his life with the COM-U-TECH division of Krayman Industries,” T.J. began, highlighting the information displayed on the monitor, “in the research and development areas. He was instrumental in creating The Krayman Chip, but as so often is the case in these matters, he received no credit.”

“Disgruntled?”

“Not openly. His salary was six figures, he was promoted four times, and he left a loving wife and family. As near as I can tell, he turned down numerous offers from Krayman competitors in Silicon Valley, but there’s no evidence he ever even interviewed with any of them.” T.J. stopped and leaned back. “Now it’s your turn. How’d it go with Coglan?”

Sandy moved away from the monitor screen. “Adventurer’s destruction was no accident, that much is for sure. And whoever blew it out of the sky would have needed to know its orbital flight plan.”

“Kelno’s disk,” T.J. muttered. “Krayman Industries …”

“I’m not ready to make that connection yet.”

“Sure, boss. But if it’s true, and they killed Kelno because he tried to bring the story to you, it’s not hard to figure who they’ll be going after next.”

“Calm down. Your own research doesn’t show a damn thing that supports that conclusion. Krayman Industries is after control of the media. Destroying space shuttles doesn’t fit there anywhere I can see. Who knows what Kelno might have been up to in his spare time?”

“We going to Shay with this yet?”

“Give me a couple more days.”

“For what?”

“You’re the one who said Krayman Industries and Randall Krayman were one and the same. My first interview is scheduled for tomorrow with a man who’s got good reason to drag mud through the Krayman Tower. If something’s going on there, he just might know what it is.”

Chapter 9

Francis Dolorman looked nothing like the stereotype of the chief executive officer of a multi-billion-dollar consortium. As the man who succeeded the great Krayman upon his withdrawal five years before, he craved little attention and received even less. Anyone passing his small, thin figure on the street would never give him a second look and barely even a first.

Though Francis Dolorman was powerful and prominent, he did not throw lavish parties. He did not wine and dine political officials. He did not dream of his picture on the cover of Time, Newsweek, or People, and would have refused such a request if it were ever made of him. He preferred to lurk in relative obscurity. Public invisibility was a godsend because it permitted movement.

Dolorman had lived by that credo for the five years he had managed Krayman Industries and for many years previously. That such a seemingly meek, almost shy man could have risen to such a position would have been impossible if not for the calculating soul that lurked within. For as long as he could remember, Dolorman had thrived on others’ underestimation of him. To be able to surpass a rival before he even considers you a threat is a great gift, especially in the world of business. Dolorman took tremendous pride in that advantage and saw no reason to change things at so late a stage in his life and career.

Similarly, he took pleasure in the fact that he could enter the Krayman Tower in Houston and move to his private elevator without drawing so much as a glance from his own employees. Only those who saw him arrive in his limousine, the one luxury he allowed himself, might gawk briefly or stammer out a greeting. Dolorman would smile back but never stop for a hello or, God forbid, a conversation. The less people knew about him, the better.

The limousine pulled to a halt before the main entrance of the Krayman Tower Thursday morning and Dolorman eased himself gingerly out. He had been on a destroyer sunk by a Japanese kamikaze in World War II and his back had suffered the brunt of the damage. The pain seldom let up, and like everything else in life, it was just something you got used to.

Because Dolorman could swallow his emotions as deftly as his pain, the anxiety he felt this morning showed not the slightest trace on his features. His skin was conspicuously pale, as usual, and his white hair cropped close enough to resemble a solid sheath. He made a straight, solitary path toward his private elevator and rode it to his office on the fifty-third and top floor. His mind recited the various management facilities of Krayman holdings as he passed them floor by floor with the flashing of different numbered lights.

His secretary eyed him subserviently as he moved lightly from the elevator. The pain in his back made Dolorman’s steps seem a glide rather than a walk.

“Mr. Wells and Mr. Verasco are waiting in your office as instructed, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Dolorman entered and closed the door behind him. Wells and Verasco rose out of respect, a study in contrasts. Verasco was a short, squat, olive-skinned man who chainsmoked cigars everywhere except within Dolorman’s chambers; he knew Dolorman couldn’t tolerate smoke of any kind. His roles with Krayman Industries were many, but none more important than overall coordinator of Omega; he had nursed the project almost since its inception. Verasco’s appearance, like Dolorman’s, was deceiving. At first glance he looked sluggish, even dimwitted. But his mind was quick and agile.

Wells was something else again. He was chief of Krayman Industries’ Special Operations Force, a title which could not be found on any door but nevertheless gave Wells responsibility for preventing covert activities on the part of rivals and orchestrating these same activities against rivals when necessary. He was a front-line security man for the consortium, and Dolorman felt the job couldn’t be in better hands. Wells stood a half-foot over six and continued to wear his hair in a stubbly crew cut long after his tenure with the army had come to an abrupt end. His considerable bulk more than filled out his frame and his neck was so layered with knotty muscle that it seemed a mere extension of his head.

Dolorman’s glance toward Wells was typically short this morning; lingering looks were only for the strong of stomach. Wells’s left eye was sealed tight by scar tissue that covered the better portion of that side of his face. An eye patch would have covered the bulk of the damage, but Wells disdained it in favor of maintaining an appearance that intimidated his enemies and sometimes his own men. His disfigurement extended up to a hairless patch on the left half of his scalp and down to his lip, so that side looked always to be cracked in a sinister grin. The only bothersome factor to Wells was the missing sight from his closed eye because it made him vulnerable from the left.

Luck had never been much on Wells’s side. He had been bounced out of the Special Forces in ’Nam after a fellow officer ratted on him. They sent him home to a wife he didn’t miss and a post as a drill instructor for elite recruits at Fort Bragg. A year into his tenure he caught his wife sleeping with a captain. He tore the man’s throat out with his bare hands and was heading for the front door when his wife tossed a pot of boiling oil into his face. Wells turned away in time to save one half, but not the other. The pain was indescribable, but he fought it down and tore out her throat as well.

He was ripping at her chest, trying for the heart, when the MPs arrived. It took a whole squad of them with blackjacks to subdue and then hospitalize him.

The case of the mutilated war hero received little attention nationwide but a brief newsclip reached Francis Dolorman, who saw a rare opportunity. In Dolorman’s world there was often need for a man with Wells’s … temperament. The problem was finding one trustworthy and loyal enough. Dolorman pulled every string he could to win Wells’s release, and then hired him. Wells had been enraged that night in the bungalow but his madness was far from permanent. He wanted very much to live and as a dedicated soldier swore lifetime allegiance to the man who had saved him from certain execution. Actually, it was far more than allegiance.

Over the years Dolorman had made considerable use of Wells’s cruder skills, as well as his planning abilities. Wells was a master of shrewd commando tactics and, from training and instinct, was able to organize carefully planned strikes on rivals when they suited the needs of Krayman Industries.

Of course, if Dolorman had sent Wells to handle the incident in New York, he would be faced now with one less pressing problem to occupy his immediate attention. He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and rotated his gaze to Verasco and then briefly to Wells.

“There are three issues we must deal with today,” he began, systematic as always, “so let us take them in order of occurrence for progress reports. Wells, what is the latest on Kelno?”

“Our people in the New York police department have been especially cooperative,” Wells replied. The left side of his mouth lagged a bit behind his right, leading to a slight slur of his speech, as if he spoke always with a small mouthful of food. “Unfortunately, their efforts have not produced the missing disk. It was not on his person and subsequent checks of his office and home have turned up nothing.”

“Could he have mailed it or used a safe deposit box?”

Wells shook his massive head. “Impossible. Our people insist he had it on him when they made their move.”

“Failure is not becoming to you, Wells.”

Wells took the criticism without emotion. “Public executions are often interrupted by the unexpected. Such was the case in New York. Kelno was able to disappear into the subway before our men could finish him.”

“With the disk, of course.”

“Apparently. They caught up with him at the headquarters of the television network.”

“Where Sandy Lister enters the scene. Problem number two…”

Wells made the semblance of a nod. “We know he whispered something to her, and it is quite possible he somehow slipped her the data. As of yet, though, we have no evidence that she has reported its presence or that it is in her possession.”

“She’s a reporter, Wells. She wouldn’t part with it easily or advertise its existence.”

“I’ve considered that and I’ve also considered this story she’s proposed for her newsmagazine Overview. I don’t think you should keep that interview with her next week.”

“If I cancel it at this stage, Wells, it will serve only to raise her suspicions, and we must avoid that under the circumstances. Your own reports indicate we’ve been keeping tabs on her movements and that there’s nothing to indicate Kelno said anything that links us directly to what he uncovered.” Dolorman shifted uncomfortably in his chair and faced Verasco, who seemed a dwarf next to Wells. “And that, of course, brings us to the disk itself. What damage can its contents do us in Sandy Lister’s or someone else’s hands?”

“Next to none,” Verasco reported surely. “Even if they’ve managed to learn what’s on the disk, there’s nothing that can possibly produce any link to us.”

“Except in Lister’s case,” Wells reminded him. “Kelno worked for us and that is connection enough — too much. I suggest allowing me to set the wheels in motion for her elimination.”

“I find that hardly the safest strategy to pursue at this time,” Dolorman countered. “Her story on Randall Krayman is in the most preliminary stages and her investigation of the disk, if she has it, will not even reach that level. Besides, she is an interviewer, not a reporter. Investigative prying is not her specialty. But if she dies mysteriously, people she works with who do specialize in it might ask questions that will eventually lead to us. We can’t have that.”

“Agreed,” Wells said just loud enough to hear. “For now.”

“I am more concerned,” Verasco started, “over our inability to learn the means by which Kelno obtained the disk and who he was working with.”

“The disk was replaced with a dummy at COM-U-TECH here in Houston and relayed to Kelno in New York,” Wells reported.

“For delivery to Lister?” Dolorman asked.

“If so, she wasn’t expecting it. Kelno sought her out only after learning of her coming story on Randall Krayman. The real issue is who else Kelno was working with within our own organization.”

“I’ve suspected a sublayer of resistance for some time,” Verasco advanced. “A group that has latched on to the essence of our Omega operation and has committed itself to disrupting it. They sought out Lister in an attempt to gain access to the media through which to expose the operation.”

Dolorman nodded, his tight features squeezed even farther together. “Yes, if Kelno had lived long enough to tell Lister everything he knew, Omega would have been compromised.”

“The point is he didn’t,” Wells said.

“You miss my point. Kelno is out of the way, but the people behind him, this layer lurking directly beneath us, is still active. They might seek out Lister again, guide her, help her.”

“All the more reason for her elimination.”

“I would prefer cutting the cancer out at its source, Wells. We must learn more about our enemy within. We must destroy them.”

“They have withdrawn,” Wells told him, “gone even further underground. They know we are watching for them. That probably explains why they have yet to make contact with Miss Lister again.”

“Then we must keep the pressure on,” Dolorman told him, “increase it. Time is on our side. Activation of Omega is barely a week away. The sublayer will begin taking risks before much longer. That will enable us to destroy them.”

“I don’t think they’re very large in number,” Verasco theorized. “But their potential to do us harm must still be respected.”

“We are in the process of retracing all of Kelno’s movements for the past two months,” Wells reported. “The process is long but necessary. Eventually it will lead us to the other conspirators.”

Dolorman nodded and felt the stiffening along his spine. “I am satisfied that everything possible is being done in both these regards, but there is also problem number three to consider.”

Wells nodded, sliding an eight-by-ten black and white photo from an envelope on the edge of Dolorman’s desk. “We now have positive confirmation that this man was the one outside Madame Rosa’s as well as on board Sebastian’s ship.” Wells handed the picture across the desk to Dolorman. “His name is Blaine McCracken.”

“Yes,” said Dolorman, inspecting it. “And he survived both the attack outside the brownstone and the boat explosion?”

“Yes. Details on the latter are sketchy, but apparently he was the only survivor of those who were on board at the time.”

“That doesn’t seem to surprise you. Do you know this man, Wells?”

Wells stared blankly forward. “I know him. From Vietnam. He and that Indian …” Wells’s voice trailed off, as if he were lost in a memory. Then he stiffened. “I know where McCracken is now: Roosevelt Hospital in New York. His condition was just upgraded from serious to fair. I’m afraid we can’t rely on God to get him out of the way for us.”

“Then perhaps we should ignore him,” Verasco suggested. “After all, one man …”

“McCracken is not just one man,” Wells snapped suddenly. “He must be killed and fast while we hold the advantage. More than anything else we’ve discussed, he poses a threat to Omega.”

“A hospital,” Dolorman muttered. “We have someone we’ve used in similar situations before, I believe. Scola, wasn’t it?”

Wells nodded halfheartedly.

“Then make the proper calls, Wells.”

“Scola’s not the right choice for this job.”

“You have a better suggestion?”

“Me.”

“We can’t spare you on such routine matters.”

“McCracken’s anything but routine, and Scola’s no match for him. Only someone who exists on his level can deal with him.”

“We’ll use Scola, Wells,” Dolorman said firmly. “Clear?”

Wells grunted his acceptance.

Dolorman started to rise painfully. “Then if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, these new developments must be reported. I’ve got a phone call to make.”

“Where are my flowers?” Blaine McCracken asked as Andrew Stimson walked into his hospital room Thursday afternoon. “You could have at least brought a box of candy.”

“Dipped in poison, if Washington had its way.”

“I take it our little ruse has been blown.”

“Exploded would be a better way of putting it.”

“But of course you’re not considering pulling me off.”

“Damn right,” said Stimson. “All I have to do is figure out a way to keep the CIA and all other interested parties off my back.”

“Give me one more day’s rest and I’ll handle them myself. The wounds aren’t as serious as they look. A few bruises, a concussion, and a rocky stomach from being fed through the arm.”

McCracken shifted about uneasily in his bed. Just about his entire body hurt, and negotiating around the IV setup was no easy chore to begin with. Outside the window a light snow had started up, draping a peaceful shroud over the grinding of tires struggling to stop and start.

“Do they know you came up here personally?” Blaine asked.

“I doubt they care very much. Too busy planning your funeral.”

“The reports of my death are soon to be greatly exaggerated.” McCracken paused. “Someone saved my life at the docks, you know. Someone pulled me out of the water. I’d be singing with the angels now if it weren’t for him.”

Stimson checked his watch and moved to the foot of the bed. “I haven’t got much time, Blaine. I’ve got to get back to Washington before I’m missed by the wrong people. Did you learn anything from Sebastian?”

“Bits and pieces. He was scared shitless, I can tell you that much. Said he was gonna head his freighter into the open waters come dawn.”

“Apparently someone didn’t want him getting away.”

“Somebody called the PVR. That mean anything to you, Andy.”

Stimson’s face paled. His hands circled the bed railing and grasped it tightly. “The People’s Voice of Revolution, a subversive group the Gap’s been watching for some time.”

“A subversive black group?”

“Yes. Still making something of that?”

“It’s already made, Andy. Think for a minute. Two blacks hit Easton, that Santa Claus with the acidic coffee was black, and Sebastian said the only reason he let me up was because I was white. The PVR is the clincher. Seems we’ve got a pattern here. Sebastian also said he was leaving the country because things were going to start changing very fast and he didn’t want to be around for it. That fit the PVR pattern?”

“Not up till now. Their methods have always been nonviolent, or at least nonconfrontational. But the potential’s there for sure.”

“Membership?”

“Big and getting bigger. The People’s Voice of Revolution is blessed with true charismatic leadership in the person of a fanatic named Mohammed Sahhan. Remember him from that election a few years back?”

“Vaguely. I was overseas at the time. French papers weren’t always loaded with news from the home front.”

“Anyway, Sahhan rose to prominence by openly insisting that a national conspiracy was committed to keeping blacks the doormat of American society. Ninety-nine percent of the population, blacks included, figured he was crazy and just tuned him out. But, as they say, there’s always that one percent. Sahhan developed quite a fanatical following, dedicated to rebuilding society from the ground up.”

“Doesn’t sound very nonviolent to me,” Blaine noted. “The connection’s there, Andy. The PVR got what they needed from Sebastian and then paid a visit to Madame Rosa’s at the right time to ice Easton because he was on to their true nature. Everything fits. All we need now is for that microfiche to confirm it.”

Stimson sighed. “For the time being, the confirmation will have to come from somewhere else. We’ve pulled everything we can off the fiche, and besides lots of blank spaces, this is what we’ve got.” Stimson groped in his jacket pocket and came out with a piece of paper. “See what you make of it.”

He handed it over to Blaine, who inspected it eagerly:

Listed below that heading was a dozen or so foods-tomatoes, turkeys, bread loaves — all with numbers preceding them.

“It looks like a shopping list,” McCracken offered. “Maybe Sahhan’s planning a big bash on Christmas Eve.”

Stimson was not amused. “Our top cryptographers are running it through the computers over and over again. We figure it’s got to be a number/letter sequence combination, but we may have lost too much of the fiche to find the proper keys. There’s a message in here somewhere, but we don’t know how to put it together.”

“Easton use anything like it before?”

“Not that we’ve been able to find.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have killed that Santa Claus,” McCracken muttered. “After all, he’s the expert on Christmas Eve. Maybe the PVR’s got a plot afoot to murder elves or kidnap Rudolph.”

“If they do, only one man can tell us why,” said Stimson.

“Mohammed Sahhan,” said Blaine, while outside on the street below, a PA mounted atop an ancient Chevy repeated its taped message over and over: “Get your shopping done! Only seven days left until Christmas!”

Chapter 10

“Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for our landing in Billings, the captain has turned on the no-smoking sign. …

For Sandy Lister, following the trail of the elusive Randall Krayman began late Friday morning with a journey to Billings, Montana, to interview Alex “Spud” Hollins. Hollins had lived on top of the business world for a brief period after his company developed a new ultra-density microchip that effectively antiquated all similar products of the competition. The chip made life far easier in electronic switching stations used in telecommunications. Sandy did not pretend to understand the specifics of what she was dealing with here. What interested her more was the fact that it was Hollins’s company that Krayman had first bankrupted and then bought out when the invention of the famed Krayman Chip by COM-U-TECH rendered the Hollins version obsolete. Hollins hadn’t gone down without a fight, though. His battles with Randall Krayman made front-page news in The Wall Street Journal for weeks on end, battles he was destined to lose since the Krayman Chip would be manufactured at a cost one-third that of his own.

Still, there was no reason to shed tears over the fate of Spud Hollins. Already a rich man, Krayman’s buy-out of his company had made him a multimillionaire and allowed him to pursue his true dream of raising horses on a vast Montana ranch. He had achieved that dream now, and it surprised Sandy somewhat that after so many years out of the public eye he would consent to an interview on a subject as touchy as Randall Krayman. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Krayman could do no more to hurt him than he had already. Perhaps, too, Hollins was motivated by a desire for revenge, in which case Sandy would have to sift through his words carefully.

She hoped that Hollins might be able to shed light on Krayman Industries as well as on Krayman the man. She came to Billings more excited about a story than she had been in years. The incidents in New York had her wondering what really went on within the Krayman Tower. Surely she should have gone to Shay with the new developments, but she had stubbornly resisted because he would have taken the story away from her. Randall Krayman was hers, which meant Krayman Industries was too. She had never tired of personality journalism, but here was a story that called upon her mind as well as her smile. The change was refreshing, the challenge welcome. She felt like she was reliving the early years of her career, when she had to scratch and claw for every interview. The rewards had been fewer but the satisfaction greater.

Sandy descended the jet’s steps into the frigid air of Billings, and her flesh seemed to freeze on contact. She had forgotten to put on gloves, and her fingers were already numb when she raised them to shield her face. She had known eastern winters for all thirty-three of her years, but nothing she had ever felt prepared her for such sub-zero cold. She stuffed her hands into her overcoat pockets and tucked her carry-on bag under one arm. Besides that there was only one other suitcase she had to retrieve inside the terminal.

At the baggage claim area several passengers asked her for autographs but most kept to themselves. Finally seeing her suitcase rolling toward her on the conveyor belt gave her an excuse to beg off. She was reaching for it as it passed, when a large hand cut in front of hers and grasped the handle.

“I’ll take that for ya, Miss Lister,” a voice drawled.

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Hollins sent me out here to fetch ya, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle ya none.”

“You didn’t. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting anyone to pick me up.”

The man, who was big and broad, in his fifties, with a wind-carved face, yanked off his cowboy hat. “Yeah, well, a storm blew in last night and dumped more ’an a foot on the roads. Plows don’t always make it up to our spread and Mr. Hollins didn’t want you drivin’ some rented Ford into a gully.” He smoothed his hair, replaced his cowboy hat, and led her toward the airport lobby, suitcase in hand. “Mr. Hollins also told me to issue ya an invitation to stay over at the ranch if you’d like.”

“I have a reservation at the—”

“Nothin’ beats good ol’ Hollins hospitality, ma’am.” They were almost to the exit doors. “Come on, ma’am, got your limo parked right this way. Name’s Buck, by the by.”

The “limo” as it turned out was a four-wheel drive Chevy Blazer with the license plate SPUD 6. Buck had left the engine running to make sure the inside remained warm for her, a gesture which was not lost on a city girl who knew anyone doing the same at Kennedy or LaGuardia would end up one car poorer for the effort.

Buck hoisted her suitcase through the open tailgate as Sandy settled herself on the front seat. It was quite a climb from ground level, and one of her high heels almost didn’t make it. Obviously she was not dressed appropriately for Billings weather. A gush of frigid air smacked her as Buck slammed the tailgate closed. A few seconds later he pulled himself up behind the wheel.

“Where’s all the cameras, ma’am?”

“What? Oh, you mean for when we film the interview. I’ll come back with those after we put the story together, after it’s approved. First I’ve got to learn what Mr. Hollins has to say.”

“Sorta like an audition, right?”

“Not far from it, I suppose.”

“Kinda gives ya a jump on the guy you’re puttin’ the story together on, don’t it?”

Buck pulled the Blazer out into the road that circled the airport. Sandy could see the snow piled high along the sides, pushed there by powerful plows.

“That’s the nature of the business, Buck,” Sandy said.

“Yeah, well, I been hear’n ’bout news media types slantin’ stories and rearrangin’ them to say what they want ’em to say. Can’t say I take a fancy to that.”

“Neither do I.”

“See, the way it is, ma’am, there’s lots of us work for Mr. Hollins hate to see him hurt. Know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

They drove north on I-87, heading toward the outskirts of Roundup and Spud Hollins’s ranch. Buck’s frankness had Sandy wondering what kind of man it took to inspire such loyalty. She looked forward to meeting him all the more.

“That there’s the Musselshell River, ma’am,” Buck announced, thrusting a finger across her toward the right. “That’s where we get the water from for our ranch. Damn thing’s frozen solid by this time of year. Been a bad winter so far and winter ain’t even shot its biggest load yet. Could be the worst since sixty-two, when …”

Buck droned on for five more minutes until they came to the entrance of the Hollins ranch, a simple gate with one word burned in wood over it:

“Here we are, ma’am,” Buck said, spinning the wheel. “Five thousand acres of the prettiest land you ever did see.”

Buck followed the winding road for what might have been a mile over snow that seemed more packed down than plowed. It didn’t seem to faze him. And he was right about the land; it was postcard perfect, especially with the snow-covered mountains standing watch over it all beneath the crystal blue sky.

Finally the Blazer reached the semi-circular driveway that fronted the two-story mansion built of dark-stained natural wood, its roof covered with a coat of snow. Buck hurried around the Blazer to help Sandy down and then set about collecting her tote bag and suitcase. The heavy double doors at the front of the house opened as she approached them, and a striking middle-aged man stood smiling before her with his hand outstretched.

“Spud Hollins, Miss Lister. Pleasure to meet ya.”

Sandy said that the pleasure was all hers and she meant it. Her research put Hollins’s age at fifty-nine, but he looked a good dozen years younger. His straight, silvery hair, showing no sign of thinning, hung over his ears and forehead. He wore faded jeans, a denim shirt open at the collar to reveal a bandanna, and scuffed cowboy boots. His flesh was wizened and creased, coppery from the mountain air and the winter sun. Hollins’s deep eyes, the same color as the Montana sky, watched Buck tote her bags inside.

“She accepted your invitation, Spud,” he said.

“Ain’t that nice,” said Hollins, and Sandy smiled tightly, not recalling that she had actually accepted at all.

Hollins closed the double doors. “Wanna talk first or get freshened up?”

“Talk,” Sandy said eagerly. “I’ve been traveling too long for freshening up to do any good.”

“A pretty lady like you don’t have much call for that anyway, I reckon. Let’s go in the den. Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Buck,” Spud said, “have the kitchen mix us up a couple cups.”

Then the two of them moved down a short hallway into a large room with a fire crackling in a central hearth.

“Wow,” was all Sandy could say.

“Yup, it’s my favorite room too.”

“It’s beautiful,” she added lamely, enchanted by the natural wooden decor and the view provided by the large expanse of glass on one wall.

Hollins’s gaze grew distant. “Sometimes, well, I just sit here and wonder what took me so long to get out of the real world and into this one. I guess it was just stuck in me like a drug. I wanted to get out, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. Guess I owe Randy Krayman a debt more than anythin’.”

Sandy’s eyes danced at that. Interviews came much easier when the subject broached the issue at hand first. Sandy now determined she would not use tape and take no notes while they spoke, intent on doing nothing that might disrupt the natural flow of Spud Hollins’s thoughts. She found herself captivated, enthralled by this man. He was like one of those politicians you can’t take your eyes off when they come into town. Perhaps he had missed his true calling. No, more likely Spud Hollins was just a man who could stand tall because he had escaped the constant pressures that weigh on so many in the business world. He looked like a character out of a Ralph Lauren aftershave commercial. In fact, he looked like a crusty, country version of Ralph himself.

“Let’s sit on the couch, Miss Lister,” he offered, and as they did, Sandy noted a mantel lined with pictures of his various children and grandchildren. His wife, she knew, had died some years before, when the Krayman battle was reaching its head.

“I think maybe I’m doing a story on the wrong man, Mr. Hollins.”

Hollins laughed. “Call me Spud. I left all that kind of stuff behind me ’long with my seat on the stock exchange. Your ass, if you’ll excuse my word choice, takes on a funny shape when you sit in business too long. Nope, Krayman’s a much better choice for a story than me. He probably ain’t got much of an ass left by now.”

A maid entered and put two steaming cups of coffee along with generous helpings of cream and sugar on the table in front of the couch.

“Not many people are willing to talk about him on the record, Spud,” she said, adding two spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream.

“Can’t say I blame them, Sandy. People are scared of old Randy Krayman because he’s been known to chew a few up over the years.”

“Like you?”

Hollins smiled but didn’t laugh. “Well, most of the chewin’ in my case was done by me. Krayman added a couple bites here and there.”

Sandy sipped her coffee. It burned her tongue but tasted wonderful.

“Bites is an interesting choice of words, Spud, considering it was over the computer kind that the two of you went to war.”

“Business ain’t war, Sandy. In war you take prisoners. In business you take shit. I got out ’cause I didn’t have the stomach for the shit anymore.”

“And you sold out to Krayman.”

“If I had kept fighting him, I would have been selling out period. Like I said before, old Randy did me a favor. Made me a damn good offer. Had good reason to also.” Hollins crossed his legs and reached for his coffee. “How much do you know about what went on between us back then?”

Sandy wished she had her notes to consult. “Most of it concerned an ultra-density memory chip. Your company got one into production first, then COM-U-TECH developed a better one and undercut the price by two thirds.”

“Yup.” Hollins nodded. “They did at that. You know what this ultra-density microchip did, Sandy?”

“Not specifically.”

“Way it was, see, all computer chips used to be placed side by side. The ultra-density chip could be stacked one on top of the other so you’d end up with a job done in a fraction of time since the information had lots less space to travel. The discovery revolutionized lots of industries, mostly oriented ’round communications. What with cable startin’ to boom and the explosion of live satellite feeds, there was need for new micro-switching equipment capable of doing things quicker and cheaper than ever. Radio was the same way, telephone, too, maybe most of all. Way I hear it, the chip revolutionized the whole airline industry as well. Whole damn telecommunications industry had to rethink and retool almost from scratch.”

“All because of one chip?”

Hollins smiled faintly. “Hold up your hand, Sandy. See your thumbnail? That’s the size of the chip we’re talking about.”

“And you had it first, didn’t you?”

Hollins’s smile became even more faint. “I suppose you could say that.”

“But it was Krayman who made millions on the chip, a fortune.”

“That’s what you’ve heard, ain’t it?”

“That’s what everybody’s been hearing for a decade.”

“It ain’t true.”

“What isn’t?”

“Krayman didn’t make no fortune off his famous chip. Matter of fact he lost money. Sold the buggers at less than half his cost.”

“How can you know that?”

Hollins returned his coffee to the table and almost spilled it. “ ’Cause there never was no such thing as the Krayman Chip. He stole it from me.”

It took a few seconds for Hollins’s words to settle in.

“Wait a minute,” she managed, “are you saying that the famous Krayman Chip was just a version of yours?”

“Nope, not a version. It was mine lock, stock, and barrel with a few cosmetic changes thrown in for good measure. Sort of like retyping Gone with the Wind and publishing it under a new title.”

“But how—”

“Believe me, Sandy, there haven’t been many days over the years when I haven’t asked myself that same question.” Hollins glanced around him. “Least until I got here. Anyway, computer espionage makes what goes on between the Russians and our boys look like playschool. The real cold war is a circuit war and it’s bein’ fought right here in the U.S. of A. Always has been. I don’t know how Krayman got hold of my design. Guess I never will. Fact is he did, though, and brought it out into the market ’bout a year after I did with a new name … and different price.”

“But if what you’re saying is true, he must have lost the same fortune he was reputed to have made.”

“And don’t ask me why neither. First I thought he had some vendetta against me in particular. Maybe he didn’t like somebody ’sides IBM diggin’ in the same yard as he was. Maybe it was worth all that money to him to get me out of the way. Lord knows he could afford it. Then I figured it was a pretty expensive proposition to carry out just for pride. ’Sides, if that was what was on his mind, why’d he buy me out for sixty mill when my stock was about to hit rock bottom anyway? Nope, it made no sense then. Still don’t.”

“Some part of a larger picture perhaps?”

“Way I figure it, the whole deal ended up costing him a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty million dollars and the loss sheet ain’t been balanced yet. Pretty expensive picture.”

“Did you tell anybody this when it was happening?”

“Sure, lots of people. Nobody wanted to hear about it. And them that did, well, something made them change their minds pretty quick and a few seemed to just vanish. Most gave me the courtesy of listening and said they’d check things out.” Hollins snickered. “Maybe they’re still checkin’.” His face grew somber. “Can’t say I blame ’em, though. It’s like you said before ’bout nobody wantin’ to talk on the record about Krayman now even though he ain’t been seen in five years. Imagine what it was like then when he was makin’ newspaper headlines every day.”

“You could have sued.”

“I did. Case stayed in the courts long enough for me to realize I was fighting for something I didn’t want anymore. I’d spent too much time up here raising horses in God’s country to go back to all that. I figure I made out pretty good on the deal. Got everything I ever wanted. There are days up here where the phone don’t ring at all and I like that just fine. Yup, if you ask me, Sandy, I made out lots better on the deal than old Randy. A just Lord gave him his due. He pulled up stakes and ran like I did, ’cept the difference is he’s hidin’ and I’d wager he ain’t got half the space I got even if he’s got ten times the land.”

Sandy found herself totally transfixed by a man who had openly come to love his life. Through all his words, all the painful rehashing of his hardest times, his voice had not so much as wavered. Emotion was absent, contented acceptance clear, as if the past had happened to someone else. And maybe it had. Alex Hollins had become simply Spud.

“What about the effects of the Krayman Chip on the rest of the computer industry?” she asked him.

“Well, Sandy, now we come to the real fun part of the story. See, the ultra-density chip makes computers work so fast that they can talk only to computers that are wired the same way. So I guess you could say it revolutionized the entire production industry, too, and Randy’s got himself a monopoly on the ultra-density market. It’s too damn specialized for anyone to challenge him, ’specially after what he done to me. The whole goddamn telecommunications industry is probably wired by now with chips that oughta have a little S for ‘Spud’ tattooed in their corner. Why, you can’t turn on a TV, fly in an airplane, use one of them automatic teller machines, or even make a phone call without bein’ affected by Randall Krayman.”

“So maybe a one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar loss was worth it, after all.”

Spud Hollins’s expression stayed chiseled in stone. “Depends on your perspective, ma’am.”

After the interview was complete, Sandy used the need to freshen up as an excuse to dash upstairs and try to capture all of the salient points of Hollins’s comments on her notepad. It wasn’t easy. She wanted to remember each and every word he said, each colorful expression, and ended up confusing things and having to reconstruct the conversation in her mind from the very beginning. When she had finished, twelve pages were full of scribbling and almost two hours had passed. Dinner would be coming up shortly and she didn’t want to burden Hollins’s hospitality by being late.

Still, she had to check in with T.J. He would be expecting a call and she wanted to learn if anything new had turned up regarding the computer disk. He answered his phone on the second ring.

“It’s me, T.J. How’s—”

“I’m scared, boss. Oh, God, I’m scared.” His voice sounded frantic.

“Slow down. What’s wrong?”

“The orbital flight plan. It’s … gone.”

Chapter 11

Friday night Scola moved stealthily down the corridors of Roosevelt Hospital, hiding her face as well as she could behind the cart she was pushing. Amazing how busy the place was during the daylight hours, but once night fell, a shroud of somber silence seemed to enclose it. So far no one had said a single word to her. They seldom did when she donned her nurse’s disguise to carry out a mission.

Being a woman was a great aid to her in her work as an assassin. She was able to get into dozens of places men couldn’t and the possible disguises were endless. Somehow targets didn’t feel threatened by women. They let them get too close and often that was when Scola struck. The nurse’s guise had always been one of her most effective. So often over the years when others had failed to carry out their assignments, wounding the target instead of killing him, Scola was called in. She wasn’t sure of the precise circumstances surrounding her target in room 434, nor did they concern her. All that mattered now was that she was totally prepared, her instrument of death stored openly on her nurse’s cart.

Scola had worked for a time with the CIA, quite effectively in fact. Then, though, drugs had entered in. This was hardly unusual in the case of active field agents, especially assassins, so the Company was well equipped to deal with it; that is, so long as the subject could be considered a soft case rather than a hard one. Five months after her cocaine habit began, Scola found her file upgraded from soft to hard and she was out of a job. The Company wanted no part of an addict. The odds of a slipup were simply too great. Scola fumed briefly, then plunged into the free-lance market, where the pay was exorbitant, the hours better, and no issue was made of her habit.

The wheels of her cart squeaked a bit as she headed toward the elevator. The sound soothed her. Yes, returning to a hospital for a mission was like coming home. These buildings were all the same, and she had never failed in one yet.

The elevator doors opened and Scola shoved her cart in ahead of her.

Blaine McCracken accepted the pain-killers only at night to help him sleep. He knew he needed his rest if he wanted to make a quick return to duty. He’d leave it to Stimson to sort out the political complications. He was concerned only with healing his own body or at least making it functional. For this he needed sleep but for sleep he needed the painkillers.

Blaine had always hated them. He’d seen lots of young boys in ’Nam become addicts after only a few injections of morphine in the field and since then had avoided any drugs at virtually all costs. But this was different. More than twenty-four hours had passed since his meeting with Stimson and the inactivity had begun to gnaw at him. He was restless and sleep was virtually impossible without chemical help. The two pills he had taken an hour before were just starting to reach their full effect. He felt himself starting to float into the darkness of the room.

In the final moments before consciousness left him, Blaine focused on what information the fiche had yielded: Christmas Eve dinner for 15,000 and the list of foods with numbers preceding them beneath it.

Stimson’s computers had gotten nowhere in their quest to break the code. Nor would they ever be able to if too many alphabetical and numerical components were missing. Without the complete text, no patterns could be found, and without patterns Easton’s cipher would continue to elude them.

But what if such alphabetical and numerical patterns weren’t important? There was something Blaine wasn’t considering, something the computers couldn’t. In his half-sleep he could almost reach out and touch it.

It looks like a shopping list. …

McCracken’s mind had locked on that thought, when sleep overcame him.

Francis Dolorman held the receiver to his ear as he punched out a private number. His line was “swept” daily to insure no tap or recording devices were in place, nothing that might betray the frequent discussions that were so crucial to the success of Omega.

“Yes,” responded the man on the other end.

“There are further complications, sir.”

“I’m listening, Francis.”

“We confirmed that Kelno delivered the disk to Sandy Lister and now we have it back in our possession.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Miss Lister, sir. This development makes her a grave risk to us at this stage.”

“But with Omega only five days from activation, eliminating her remains even more risky. Without the disk she has no proof and you’ve already assured me there was nothing on it that could in any way lead back to us.”

“Unless more of Kelno’s accomplices link up with her. Wells is making no inroads toward learning their identities. If they reach Lister, it could be disastrous.”

“Except, Francis, to do so they’ll have to surface, which is just what we want. Make sure Wells is ready at that time. They’ll show themselves before long. The pressure’s on them, not us. Now, what about the McCracken business?”

“It’s being handled this evening, sir. I expect no complications.”

“With men like McCracken there are always complications. Get back to me when it’s finished.”

Scola eased her cart around the sharp corner and headed toward the bank of private rooms on the fourth floor. She could already tell that no guard was stationed outside room 434. This would make her job even easier than she had been led to expect it would be.

The nurses on duty at the central station were chatting and giggling, so Scola was able to move smoothly by without having to announce herself. An orderly eyed her as he passed, but Scola smiled routinely and kept going. Room 434 was just up ahead.

Scola could feel her heart beating hard now. This was partially due to the cocaine she had ingested only an hour before. The drug sharpened her senses and made her feel as though she could accomplish anything. Failure was out of the question.

Scola opened the door to room 434 and dragged the cart in after her. The door closed softly.

She stepped into the darkness.

McCracken felt himself come drowsily awake. He wasn’t sure what had stirred him from his rest, and his mind was too slowed to utilize its normal reasoning powers. There had been a sound and something else, something that had come to him in his sleep.

Christmas Eve dinner for 15,000 …

He had found the answer in his sleep! His body must have stirred for fear he might lose his grip on it during the long hours of the night. Blaine fought with his dulled mind, fought with it to yield the answer sleep had revealed.

So simple, so damn simple …

It was this slight sharpening of his senses that allowed him to feel the presence of another person in the room. He could feel the intruder closing on him. No, not feel — hear. There was a squeaking sound that suddenly stopped.

For an instant Blaine drifted toward sleep again, then struggled back.

By that time in the darkness Scola had removed her target’s IV pouch from its hook and replaced it with one from her cart, the contents of which would lead to a quick, mysterious death. All she had to do now was reinsert the needle in her pouch.

Blaine felt the slight tugging on his arm and shifted his eyes lazily to the side. They were slow to respond to the near total blackness of the room, broken only by a slight spill of light sneaking through a crack in the Venetian blinds.

The spill caught something white moving at his side.

Blaine knew it was a nurse, knew her presence here was all wrong. Adrenaline surged through his veins, reviving him, providing the thrust he needed to regain motor capacities.

Scola’s needle dug deep into the IV pouch and a clear liquid began flowing out immediately, heading straight for her target’s veins.

The suddenness of his movement shocked her, but she thought it was more a spasm than an action until she saw he was clearly reaching out for her. Scola recoiled and slammed into her cart.

Blaine had almost made it from the bed when the numbness grasped him. It seemed to start in all his limbs at once, leaving his brain frustrated and confused. The white figure was hovering back over him now and it should have been so easy to reach up and choke the daylights out of her. But when he tried to reach, there seemed to be nothing to reach with, as if his mind and body had become two separate entities.

He tried for a scream, but all that emerged was a muffled rasp. Then, as if to preclude further effort on his part, the white figure threw something down upon him — a hand, that was it, a hand over his mouth, and Blaine felt his head rocking helplessly back and forth. With an incredible effort he shook the hand from his mouth and, using the last reserves of his strength, twisted the arm bearing the needle that was killing him violently enough to strip it from his flesh.

The white figure groped for it while Blaine flailed with a heavy arm for the nurse’s call button. He had almost reached it when the white figure snatched his arm and pinned it to the bed. He tried to roll free, tried for anything, but his motions came one frame at a time, which was how he saw the white figure grasp the pillow and lower it toward him.

Help, somebody, help!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blaine had screamed the plea only in his mind. The pillow was over his face and it took a few seconds before his dulled brain registered that he couldn’t breathe. He tried to use his arms, but they were heavy and slow. Consciousness skipped and darted but strangely he felt no pain, just emptiness.

There was a sudden smack in his ears, followed rapidly by two more, a pause, and then a last. The pressure eased up on the pillow and Blaine realized he could breathe again. Then the pillow was yanked from his face, exposing his eyes to sudden stinging light. They closed reflexively, then opened slowly again to find a familiar face looming over him wearing a half-smile.

“That makes it two you owe me, pal.”

And Blaine caught the wink of Sal Belamo.

It was two hours later before he came fully around and faced the chauffeur who had driven him to Sebastian’s boat in the harbor.

“It was you who pulled me out of the water,” Blaine said in what had starred out as a question.

Sal Belamo nodded, the light emphasizing that bent nose. “You ask me, this whole assignment was weird from the start.”

“You were almost too late tonight.”

Sal’s eyes tilted toward the bloodstained floor, where earlier the fake nurse’s body had been. “Fucking bitch locked the damn door. I had to run back and grab a key. Her name was Scola. Used to work for the Company.”

“Stimson set this whole thing up?”

Sal Belamo got up from his chair and stretched. “He didn’t send Florence Nightingale with the poison bedpan, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean you.”

Belamo nodded. “He had a watch put on your phone line at the hotel two days back. When you called for a limo, he figured he might as well take the opportunity to provide some backup.”

“Why not tell me?”

Sal shrugged. “You got me on that one, pal. I was just followin’ orders. Maybe he didn’t want you behavin’ any different ’cause I was around. Tonight he figured someone would try to whack you, and I had orders to keep you safe and sound. ’Course, that brings us to the next stage of the plan. You ask me, it’s a little much, but orders again.”

“What?”

“Boss wants to make sure you’re dead.”

“You mean, it’s supposed to look like Scola was successful,” Blaine realized after a few breathless seconds.

“And got offed herself in the act,” Belamo acknowledged. “Should give you room to move around, stretch your legs a little.”

“I gotta hand it to Stimson.”

“Yeah, like I said, he knew somebody’d be coming to finish the job the explosion started. The thing was, I had to let them make the attempt. You ask me, it got a little close. I mean, if there’s no one with keys at the nurse’s station …”

McCracken sat up a little more in bed. Twin sledgehammers went off in his head.

“We gotta head down to Washington, pal. You okay to travel?”

“Give me till sunrise and I’ll be fine. Right now I want you to get Stimson’s private number for me.”

Belamo’s cold eyes showed he didn’t approve. “You’re supposed to be dead, remember? Hospital lines are open, pal, and corpses don’t talk much.”

“Stimson will understand. I’ll take the responsibility.”

“Damn right you will.” Belamo moved reluctantly to the phone on Blaine’s nightstand. “I just do what I’m told. You ask me, life’s a lot simpler that way.” He pressed out the proper series of numbers and handed the receiver over to Blaine. “It’s your neck, pal. Be a shame if he chops it off after I just saved it.”

“Stimson,” came the Gap chief’s groggy voice after four rings. Obviously the call had reached him at home. It must have been later than Blaine thought.

“This is your wake-up call, Andy. Coming straight from the Pearly Gates.”

“Blaine! I left orders with Belamo not—”

“Pipe down and get your pants on, Andy. You’re gonna want to get right down to the office after you hear what I’ve got to tell you. The computers couldn’t figure out the fiche because you sent them in the wrong direction. It’s so simple we almost missed it. I had it right from the beginning and I didn’t even know it.”

“Am I dreaming all this?”

“Yup, and it’s a nightmare.” Blaine paused. “Christmas Eve dinner for 15,000—the fiche is a goddamn shopping list. But not for food, Andy. The list is for weapons. Each food represents a different armament. I’ll give you the specifics later, but according to the menu, Sahhan’s got enough to outfit an army of, you guessed it, fifteen thousand or so.”

Chapter 12

Sal Belamo drove McCracken to LaGuardia an hour past dawn on Saturday. At the hospital they made use of service elevators and exits, so that no one would see Blaine leave. Meanwhile, a John Doe that had shown up the night before was being given Blaine’s name, chart, and fake death certificate. The apparent hospital murder would be sealed tight, but Belamo would make sure enough leaked out to reassure Scola’s employers that Blaine McCracken had indeed perished. Belamo, in fact, had set up the whole ruse in the last hours of darkness before they left. He was far more clever than his beaten-up exterior and gravel voice suggested. Blaine should have figured Stimson would never have left him to visit Sebastian on his own, let alone leave him vulnerable at the hospital.

“Be seeing ya, Sal,” he told Belamo at the airport, where he’d be taking a private Learjet to Washington.

“First let me get over the cold I got from jumping in that water.”

“Deal.”

The flight to Washington was smooth and short and, as arranged, McCracken climbed into a cab with the designated license plate outside Washington National Airport. Andrew Stimson was waiting for him in the backseat.

“ ’Morning, Andy.”

Stimson’s face was pale and his eyes were sagging. “This is everything we’ve got on Mohammed Sahhan and the People’s Voice of Revolution,” he said gruffly, flopping three stuffed manila dockets onto the seat between them. “Go over it carefully. There may be something in there that can help you.”

“Was I right about his army?”

Stimson sighed. “Not that we can prove, but that doesn’t mean a thing. You’re right. Everything fits together this way, and for now we proceed on that premise.” A grim nod. “In which case, a fanatic radical has fifteen thousand troops at his command. …”

“And plenty of weapons,” Blaine added.

“We don’t know he has them now,” Stimson said hopefully. “He may not have taken delivery yet.”

“Maybe not total delivery, but the amount of armaments we’re talking about here would have to be smuggled in and distributed gradually, over a period of months even. And don’t forget that Easton’s menu was for Christmas Eve. That’s only four days from today.”

Stimson’s features whitened still more. His head slipped backward a bit. “My God, a Christmas Eve strike …”

“Like it or not, that’s the indication. It’s a little crazy if you ask me. Where’d he get all those men? Fifteen thousand’s an awful lot of people to inspire to take up arms.”

“Not when you consider there’d still be twenty-five million blacks on the same side of the fence as us,” Stimson explained. “Not a surprising ratio, is it? There’ve probably been plenty on the other side all along. It just took someone like Sahhan to motivate and organize them.”

The cab negotiated through the early morning rush hour traffic.

“That’s where this mess breaks down, Andy: with organization. Armies need lots more than motivation to make their guns work.”

“This isn’t an army in the traditional sense. Most of what they need to know could have been taught to them in small groups, or even privately.”

“But sooner or later they’d have to link up.”

Stimson shook his head. “Not really if Sahhan’s done his homework. The Gap, Company, and Bureau have several recent studies on how many organized terrorists it would take to throw the entire civil order of the country into utter chaos if the timing was right. The numbers we considered were all substantially lower than fifteen thousand.”

“Then you must have considered possible tactics and strategies as well.”

“And all of them are right up Sahhan’s alley. Terrorists wouldn’t have to knock out the whole country, just the major urban centers — say the top thirty. That would mean five hundred per city — organized, well armed, and acting totally with the element of surprise on their side.”

“And striking on Christmas Eve, when all police and reserve units operate on skeleton crews.” Blaine suddenly felt chilled. “With the firepower Sahhan’s got, based on that shopping list, we could have martial law by Christmas morning.”

“Precisely why I’ve already contacted an old friend of mine, Pard Peacher, commander of the Delta Force anti-terrorist commandoes. He’s sending small crack squads undercover into all major cities to locate the individual terrorist cells, a kind of search and destroy mission.”

“So long as word doesn’t get around about their presence,” Blaine pointed out. “Sahhan’s men would only retreat further underground. We’d never find them.”

“Peacher’s a pro and his men are the best, all trained by the Israelis. They know what they’re doing.”

Blaine’s mind had returned to another track “But the key is still weapons, Andy, not men. Assuming Sahhan’s taken delivery of his arsenal, chances are distribution of that kind of firepower is being held to the last minute. So if we can latch on to his supply channels and trace the chain to his storage dumps, we could prevent distribution and stop the bastard in his tracks. No guns — no revolution.”

Stimson’s eyebrows flickered. “I like your thinking. And there’ll be no need for a firing squad now because for all intents and purposes you’re already dead.”

“Does Washington know about your contacting Peacher?”

“No, it’s just between us. I explained the situation to Pard and he agrees. The element of trust doesn’t exist anymore, if it ever did. They did us a favor by trying to take you out in New York. Now we’ll have Washington off your back, as well as Sahhan.”

Blaine hesitated. “Assuming he was the one who hired Scola.”

“Who else would have?”

“I don’t know. But something stinks here and all the smells don’t lead back to Sahhan. Take Scola for example. She doesn’t impress me as the kind of assassin he’d hire or even have access to. But there’s more. I can’t put my finger on the reasons, but I know there’s someone else involved here, Andy. Sahhan’s just a part of what’s going on, connected to something even bigger.”

“We’re talking about a goddamn civil war in five days, Blaine. How much bigger can you get?”

“Plenty. Let’s backtrack. Let’s assume that Easton uncovered what Sahhan was up to, that and nothing else. We know it was Sahhan’s people who set him up through Sebastian and two blacks did carry out the hit. But that’s where the PVR connection breaks down. Chen wasn’t theirs, the carolers weren’t theirs, and neither was Scola.”

“You’re saying that Sahhan has got some sort of silent partner.”

“Someone who also has something to gain from civil unrest. But who? And why?”

Stimson pointed to the date displayed on his watch. “Today’s the twentieth, Blaine. Christmas Eve’s Wednesday. That doesn’t give us a whole lot of time to find the answers.” Stimson pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to McCracken. “Sahhan is giving a speech at George Washington University this afternoon. Here’s a ticket to it along with an invitation to the reception following. Might give you some insight into the man we’re dealing with here.”

“I can’t wait.”

Sandy Lister had been over it a dozen times with T.J. Brown, so once more couldn’t hurt.

“You say you left the disk on your desk?” she asked.

“No!” T.J. shouted into the phone. “I put it into my top drawer and locked it. I’m sure I did. I put the disk back in its storage case and locked it away.”

“Did anyone see you do it?”

“For the last time, I didn’t notice. How could I? My office isn’t exactly isolated. Anyone who wanted to could have seen me. Look, I didn’t sleep at my apartment last night. I didn’t even go back there. I’m scared. I think someone’s … watching me. I’ve got this awful feeling that the people Kelno stole the disk from have it back now. That means they know we had it—I had it. And they killed Kelno for the same reason. They killed him!”

Sandy knew there was no sense trying to calm T.J. down. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Call Shay,” he snapped back. “This is all way over my head, yours too. Get him to help us.”

“All right,” Sandy said. “I’m leaving for Texas in a few hours. I’ll call him from there. Just let me get straight what I’m going to tell him. Now, what have you got for me on Simon Terrell?”

“The address in Texas you asked for. Got a pen?”

When Sandy descended the stairs for a late breakfast in the Hollins kitchen, she found her packed bags waiting for her.

“Where you headed next, ma’am?” Spud Hollins asked her as they moved into the kitchen.

“Texas, on the trail of Simon Terrell.”

“Krayman’s assistant until old Randy elected to pull up stakes?”

“The very same.”

“Well, you come back and see us again real soon.” Hollins winked at her. “And don’t forget to bring your camera.”

Sandy stopped just before they reached the table. “Can I ask you one last question, Spud?”

“Fire away.”

“Why are you willing to go on camera about all this after so many years? You’ve got everything any man could ever want, and by your own admission Randall Krayman did you a favor. Yet you’re willing to go public again, risk recrimination, follow-up interviews, even lawsuits. Why, Spud?”

Hollins smiled, but Sandy could tell the gesture was turned inward. “ ’Cause what Krayman’s done ain’t right and I got me a feeling he ain’t finished yet.”

Mohammed Sahhan’s lecture was scheduled for two o’clock in the afternoon in the Lisner Auditorium on the George Washington campus. McCracken had been on the advance security team for countless heads of state over the years and the precautions taken by Sahhan rivaled most. The only feature his thirty or so bodyguards lacked was the tiny earphones that characterized the Secret Service.

Blaine was able to snare a seat in the VIP section with the help of Stimson’s pass. He had a clear view of the podium, and if he had come here to assassinate the radical, he couldn’t have hoped for a better angle.

He had spent the better part of the morning going over the vast files Stimson had provided on Sahhan. The PVR leader was taking fanaticism and making it almost respectable. He was seen pictured with diplomats, congressmen, foreign leaders, important businessmen. One press clipping reported in depth the story of a predominantly black work crew walking off the job in an Alabama factory. Things got violent in a hurry. Sahhan made peace and kept it long enough for him to work out a new contract with the company which was substantially better than anything the striking workers had reason to hope for. In another instance, when a major urban electric company up north shut off power to poor families in the ghetto who couldn’t pay their bills, Sahhan not only paid the bills for them, he did it by personally delivering an individual check directly to each affected family.

Sporadic clapping began in the front rows as the leader of the People’s Voice of Revolution strode out onto the stage without benefit of introduction. The applause picked up as soon as the remainder of the audience saw him. Sahhan smiled and raised his hand to the crowd as he approached the podium. The spotlights’ glare bounced off his dark sunglasses.

Blaine was not at all impressed with his physical appearance, utterly unlike the prepossessing stature of a Malcolm X or Louis Farrakhan. Sahhan was small and thin. His hair was worn in a tight Afro over skin of a dark copper shade. He wore a medium gray, finely tailored and obviously expensive suit. His hands had barely grasped the microphone and torn it from its stand, when his thick voice filled the auditorium.

“Brothers,” he began, and paused immediately. “That’s right, I address you all as brothers. I wear these glasses so I won’t be able to tell the exact color of your skin and expression on your faces. I assume because you’ve come here today that there is something in your hearts that cries out for justice. Brothers and sisters, I hear those cries and have heard those cries. I’ve traveled this country and seen the pain and the hardship of so many blacks and whites too. I’ve shed tears, but the tears wash away. I’ve changed from a man of prayer to a man of action. I’m a general, brothers and sisters, and I come here today hoping you will find it in your souls to join my army.”

McCracken felt a chill at Sahhan’s fateful metaphor. How many in this auditorium suspected the truth? What thought was the PVR leader trying to plant in their heads?

Sahhan moved slowly to the front of the stage and then moved around it as he continued.

“Brothers and sisters, there is a conspiracy in this nation, a conspiracy so large in scope that it threatens to choke off the life blood of an entire people. I am speaking of us, brothers and sisters, the blacks of America. Those in the audience whose flesh is not black, search your hearts for pain and injustice. You are here because you, too, have been hurt and cheated, unrighteously stripped of something precious that belongs to you. You may stand against my words and my cause, but beware someday that you are not a victim of the same offenses I have come here to speak of today. For these offenses and cruelties and injustices are not limited to race or culture. They are spreading and soon, very soon, color will no longer divide us.”

Sahhan raised his free hand, as if to God. “Yes, there is a conspiracy and my people have fallen victim to it. Those who have walked these roads before me, men like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, were all struck down for their words and deeds, for speaking the truth. They were men of peace and they offered a hand of friendship to the society that scorned them only to be destroyed.” He pulled his hand from the air and balled it into a fist. “I will make no such offer. The time for extending unilateral friendship is past. We must make a stand and refuse to accept the awful conditions under which we have been forced to live.”

Sahhan moved back toward the podium and slammed his fist down upon it. The room shook from the pressure of the echo coming through the speakers.

“Do not listen to their lies!” he screamed into the microphone. “Do not think for one moment that urban renewal or affirmative action have made a difference. They are merely screens put in place by the conspirators to distract your attention from the truth. And the truth is that there never was any such plan as the Great Society. I was there those many years ago when all the papers were signed and promises made. But the promises wilted and the papers gathered dust and the Great Society became just another screen.” He lowered his voice and seemed to relax a little. “So where does that leave us, brothers and sisters?” Sahhan asked from behind his dark glasses, hesitating, as if he expected someone to answer. “It leaves us living on the outskirts of society with no hope of ever being allowed in. The roadblocks will be in place permanently, always impeding our way, denying our hope. The roadblocks will remain forever … unless we take steps to move them ourselves.”

Applause splintered the end of Sahhan’s words. Blaine heard a few screams and whistles of support, but also noticed more than a few members of the audience rising to leave. He realized for the first time that Sahhan was speaking without benefit of notes or prepared text, which added all the more fire to his presentation.

“And so who do we count among the guilty, brothers and sisters? Who do we take as the enemies we must strike down? Look at the Shylocks who own the heatless buildings we share with rats. We pay them rents we can’t afford and they return the favor by selling their roach-infested buildings and sending us out into the street when it serves them better financially. They own the banks, and the newspapers, and the television stations. They carry politicians in their back pockets and those politicians insure that the roadblocks remain in place. They …”

Blaine was beginning to understand how truly dangerous Sahhan was. For the audience he was a mirror of their deepest frustrations. For most the feeling would not linger. For others these radical preachings would be hard to shrug off. For a few, by far the smallest segment of all, action would be demanded.

These were the ones Sahhan had come here to reach.

“So, my brothers and sisters,” he went on, “we remain a people without a home of our own. In this world of the few over the many, we must draw our line and stand firm. It is not just the landlords and bankers who stand on the other side, of course, but countless others who think and act against us. All of them, too, are our enemies. All of them, too, must be shown that we will take no more pain and injustice. …”

Sahhan continued to spout off his rapid-fire teachings at a machine-gun pace. To Blaine he seemed to be repeating himself now, rehashing old ideas. McCracken let his eyes wander along with his mind. He wasn’t expecting to find anything in particular and was thus quite surprised when he caught a glimpse of a fat black man standing just in front of the backstage area Sahhan had first emerged from.

The man’s name was Luther Krell.

And he was an arms broker.

Chapter 13

Blaine had known Luther Krell during his tenure in Africa in his last days of good standing with the Company. Krell had brokered deals for various revolutionary groups, arranging shipments, transfers, and all the rest for an exorbitant fee. Krell played no favorites, and politics mattered to him only so far as it could fill his pockets. Liberal or conservative, reactionary or radical, it mattered not at all.

A growing reputation as a double-crosser had forced Krell to flee Africa for South America. Then he dropped out of sight. But rumor had it he had always remained available to the right party at the right price to broker arms deals. Mohammed Sahhan was certainly the right party, and the random violence promised by the PVR was right up Krell’s alley. If he was in with Sahhan, he should know where the guns and armaments were. Seize them and Christmas Eve would stay peaceful.

The problem was how to confront Krell while he was alone and vulnerable. Blaine was considering the best way to make his move when Sahhan’s speech abruptly ended after forty-five minutes. In the course of it, Blaine estimated, a good third of the audience had lost interest. The remaining 400 or so applauded Sahhan as he exited slowly, some with levels of enthusiasm so high that their hands threatened to snap from the effort.

Sahhan’s bodyguards immediately fronted the stage to keep everyone back. That ruled out this moment for approaching Krell and left Blaine with only the reception as an option.

George Washington University was located in the heart of the capital, bordered by Pennsylvania Avenue on one side and Virginia Avenue on another. The entrance to Alumni House was just down from the Lisner Auditorium on Twenty-first Street. Blaine waited outside, watching people enter, before being satisfied there was a sufficient number to hide himself among. He climbed the steps and displayed his invitation to the uniformed guard, who eyed him warily.

The reception was being held in a suite of rooms usually reserved for the most exclusive alumni functions. The furniture and decor were surprisingly extravagant. For the moment Blaine could spot neither Sahhan nor the fat arms broker. Women in black and white outfits walked around balancing trays bearing champagne glasses and various hors d’oeuvres. For those guests who preferred something other than champagne, a pair of bars had been set up at the end of the spacious room.

There was a stirring in the rear and McCracken didn’t have to see him to know that Sahhan had arrived. The white guests, campus and local officials probably, lingered noticeably back while others flocked to congratulate Sahhan on the success of his speech and catch any further words he might utter.

Still no Krell. This kind of gathering had never been the fat man’s cup of tea. Blaine would have to draw him out, and that meant taking the offensive. Ordinarily such a move in such an atmosphere would have been out of the question, the risk of exposure to the enemy hardly worth the bother. But Christmas Eve was too fast approaching to save anything for tomorrow, so Blaine started across the room toward Sahhan with no real idea yet of what he was going to do when he got there.

He managed to down a pair of champagnes on the way to the group surrounding the PRV leader as he politely answered questions. A pair of monstrous bodyguards flanked him. The sunglasses, of course, were still on, and he was holding a glass of what looked like soda water in his hand. Sahhan made a weak joke and the group laughed almost on cue. Blaine was the only white among them, and when the black leader rotated his concealed eyes around, they locked on him long enough to provide the opening Blaine needed.

He stepped forward. “I enjoyed your speech very much, Mr. Sahhan, but I do have one question.”

Sahhan looked surprised. His head tilted a bit to the side. “Please.”

Blaine didn’t hesitate. “Do you honestly believe that crap about a conspiracy of landlords and bankers, or do you just use it as propaganda to give your followers a concrete enemy?”

With that there was dead silence broken only by a single champagne glass sliding to the carpet. The huge bodyguards looked first at each other and then at Sahhan uncertainly. Other guards, sensing trouble, approached from the doorways.

Sahhan held them off with a wave of his hand and cracked a slight smile which broke the tension. “An insolent question, sir, but one I suppose I am obliged to answer. Who asks it, though?”

Blaine edged a bit more forward. “Sam Goldstein of the Associated Press.”

Sahhan’s smile vanished at that. He eyed Blaine like a boxer sizing up his opponent before the opening bell.

“Yes, Mr. Goldstein,” he said smoothly, “I believe everything I said to be based in truth.”

“ ‘Based in truth’ or true? There’s a difference, Mr. Sahhan.”

“None that I can see.”

“Then you must not be looking too hard.”

Silence spread through the rest of the room. Other guests approached slowly, forming a circle around the two verbal combatants the way kids do for a schoolyard fight. Blaine knew the crowd was against him and didn’t care. He needed to keep the conversation going until Krell made his appearance among the rest.

Sahhan closed the gap between them to barely a yard, with his two bodyguards riding every step. “Let me tell you what I see, Mr. Goldstein. I see black unemployment standing at nearly twenty percent, more than three times that of whites. I see continually successful attempts by Congress and the judicial branch to take back what little we gained in the sixties. I see civil rights cases now decided before a trial ever takes place. Tax exemptions are granted to schools that discriminate and we have lost ground with the Voting Rights Act instead of gaining it.”

“All true and all unjust,” Blaine agreed, “but hardly conspiratorial.”

“But I’m not finished, Mr. Goldstein.” Sahhan knew he had the crowd now and worked it. “Look out the window and I’ll tell you what you’ll see. The proportion of black families headed by women has increased to almost fifty percent. One out of four black babies today is born to a woman nineteen or younger and nearly ninety percent of these mothers are unmarried. Hundreds of thousands of blacks every year are cut off from food stamps, and the school lunch program is dwindling to nothing. People like you are filled with questions and challenges, but would you pose them after witnessing a baby die from rat bites? Or a family of eight bundled up in motheaten blankets in front of a kitchen stove in the middle of winter? I could list more examples, hundreds more, but I know you wouldn’t hear them because you’re still not listening. No one ever listens … until they are made to.” Then, to his bodyguards, “Remove him from here. He reeks of everything we despise, everything that has caused our desperation.” Sahhan thrust a skeletal finger in McCracken’s direction and returned his attention to the crowd. “It is his kind who will soon know a day when we will fight them on their own terms. Their chances have been exhausted. Their fate is sealed. Remove him!”

Blaine felt the powerful hands of the two giant bodyguards grasp him at the shoulders and begin shoving backward. He was able to hold his ground against them long enough to utter one last sentence.

“Merry Christmas, Sahhan.”

Their eyes met through the dark sunglasses, and Blaine could feel Sahhan’s panic. The fanatic had grasped his meaning. His mouth dropped, but before he could respond, if he had meant to, the huge bodyguards had yanked Blaine toward the rear exit. McCracken guessed there would be a beating in store for him outside and had to decide how much of it to take before putting the two men down.

Not much, he decided after they had tossed him down a set of steps in the back of Alumni House. He was rising slowly from the cement, when a familiar voice froze him.

“I got orders to take over from here.”

The bodyguards held their ground. A fat man passed down the steps between them, followed by a pair of men who seemed smaller but just as deadly. He stopped on the second step, so as McCracken stood up their heights were equal, and Blaine found himself staring into the yellow eyes of Luther Krell.

“Hello, Krell. Long time no see.”

Krell motioned Sahhan’s bodyguards back inside. They retreated subserviently. “I knew I’d get my shot at you if I was patient, McCracken.”

“You’re still waiting, Krell. Today’s not your day.”

The fat man smiled. The men behind him on the steps showed their guns. The area was surrounded by large buildings deserted for the Christmas break, so passersby were not a concern.

“Today is my day, McCracken.”

As if on cue, a black Cadillac sedan pulled around the corner of Alumni House and stopped just before them.

“We’re going for a ride,” Krell said. “You’re on your way to hell.”

“What are they wearing there this time of year?”

“Try something tropical.”

Then Krell’s men were upon him, shoving him against the car and searching him thoroughly. When they found nothing, the fat man seemed disappointed.

“Not carrying today?” he teased.

“I was expecting metal detectors at every door. Didn’t want to go and cause a scene. …”

Blaine had barely finished the sentence, when he was pushed into the backseat between Krell’s two men. The fat man climbed into the front along with the driver, who started the big car around the other side of Alumni House and then swung right onto Twenty-first Street.

“I hear you’ve fallen on bad times, McCracken,” Krell said. “You’ve become a joke in the field. I’m surprised they let you back in the States.”

Blaine fixed his eyes on Krell’s. “I’ve got friends in low places.”

“Someone sent you to assassinate Sahhan, didn’t they?”

“Not at all. It’s you I was after, and I’m going to do you a favor. Have these clowns pocket their pistols right now and talk to me and I’ll let you live. Otherwise, you’ll be leaving me no choice.”

Krell swung enough of his hefty frame over the seat to lash a backhand across McCracken’s face.

“Why, you cocky son of a bitch!” he snarled, eyes glowing.

Blaine felt the blood dribbling from his mouth. The Cadillac turned right onto G Street. “Using big words and everything, fat man. Wouldn’t be going respectable now, would you?”

“You’re in no position to ask questions, McCracken. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“Last chance, fat man …”

“It’s going to hurt, McCracken. I’m going to make it hurt.”

Blaine swept his tongue over his back teeth and freed a crown-size capsule that had been lodged in a molar.

“Just promise you won’t sit on me, all right?”

Krell had leaned forward to strike him again, when Blaine bit down on the capsule and fired its contents forward. To the two guards it looked as if he were simply spitting at the fat man and, in fact, the capsule’s contents were projected in saliva. Once they reached air, though, the contents turned into a gas similar in effect to the mustard variety outlawed in World War I. The gas struck the fat man’s face and he howled in pain, clawing for his eyes and mouth. The agony forced his head to slam back, and he smacked solidly into the driver.

The Cadillac careened out of control down G Street. Other cars spun to avoid it as it skidded sideways, tires screeching.

The guard on Blaine’s left was struggling to steady his pistol, when McCracken grabbed his wrist and slammed the steel barrel into his face. He felt the cartilage and bone give at the same moment his other hand shot out and forced the second guard’s gun up as it fired. The bullet cut through the heavy steel roof, filling the small compartment with the sharp smell of sulphur.

The second guard was going for another shot when the Caddy crashed into a row of parked cars on G Street, pitching all of its occupants forward. The driver struggled to regain control, but it was much too late. The Caddy shoved a whole line of cars up onto the sidewalk and then came to a rubber-ripping halt against them.

Blaine saw the first guard’s gun on the floor and grabbed it just as the second guard was recovering his bearings. Blaine pumped two bullets into his head. Blood splattered against the windows. Krell was still screaming. The driver started to reach into his jacket for something, and McCracken didn’t wait to find out what. One bullet tore out the back of his skull and slammed him up against the windshield.

Then Blaine lunged through what remained of the rear door of the passenger side and yanked Krell out after him through the front. He dragged him down the G Street sidewalk until they reached a collection of dormitories off to the right. He pulled Krell onto a narrow cement walk running between two dorms and thrust him to the ground. The fat man was writhing, puking, still clawing for his face. Blaine made sure he saw the gun in his hand.

“Anything,” Krell begged between rasping breaths. “I’ll tell you anything.” Spittle and drying vomit caked the corners of his mouth.

Blaine pressed the pistol against his temple. “What do you know about Sahhan’s army?”

“Nothing!”

Blaine dug the gun’s barrel home until he broke flesh. “Christmas Eve, Krell, tell me about Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t know. I’m just a middleman. I relay orders, arrange shipments.”

“Of arms?”

“Yes.”

“Through who?”

“Deveraux,” Krell rasped. “In France.”

“Deveraux?” Blaine said, more to himself than to Krell. Deveraux was the most successful, respected arms dealer in the world. Why would he be mixed up in something like this? “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“It’s the truth! Nine major shipments so far. One left to go. I coordinate all the activity between Deveraux and Sahhan so there’s no direct link between them.”

“Did Sahhan set all this up?”

“Not at first. … You’ve got to let me live! I’m telling you everything I know!”

“Just answer my questions. Who put you on to Sahhan?”

“I don’t know their names. They sent me to him and handled all the financial arrangements. I was just a middleman, I tell you!”

“Were they black or white?”

“What?”

“The men who approached you, were they black or white?”

“White. All of them. They stressed that Sahhan was never to be implicated in the dealings. I was told to get the best from the best. Price didn’t matter. I went to Deveraux.”

“And Deveraux handled the shipments. …”

“But he didn’t realize to who. I had dealt with him before. He thought the weapons and explosives were bound for South America.”

“How was payment handled?” Blaine realized his hand was going stiff from the pressure of holding the gun against the fat man’s temple.

“Cash, always cash. Delivered in leather attache cases. Sums too impossible to believe … I’m telling you everything!”

“Where were the weapons shipped?”

“I don’t know.”

Blaine shoved the barrel harder against him and Krell tumbled to the side. McCracken kept him pinned there, one side of the fat head squeezed against the cement.

“I swear I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. Deveraux handled all that. The weapons were gathered in central warehouses, where Sahhan’s men distributed them. The process has been going on for months. Armories have been set up in every major city, all well hidden.”

“Where are these armories? Which cities?”

“They never told me. I never asked. That wasn’t my department. You’ve got to believe me!”

Blaine did believe him. He glanced around. No one was near. The sirens were still blaring. He had little time left before the police would be everywhere.

Krell swallowed hard. “I’ve told you everything I know. You’ve got to let me go.”

Blaine said nothing, just started to tighten his finger on the trigger. Krell had to die.

“You promised!”

And in that moment of hesitation, Blaine knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not now, not like this. Krell was a dead man anyway. He had talked and that meant someone else would be along to do the job.

McCracken pulled the gun back and lifted Krell up with one powerful arm.

“Get out of here, fat man! Disappear! They’ll be taking numbers to burn your ass before long.”

Krell looked back just once, shocked but grateful, then stumbled around the corner and was gone.

Andrew Stimson met McCracken in the backseat of another cab ninety minutes later, accepting the details of McCracken’s report with grim reserve.

“You’ve certainly lived up to your reputation, Blaine.”

“You get what you pay for, Andy. There’s no time to fuck with these people. This is the only way I know to get the job done.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I know what we’re dealing with here.” Stimson hesitated. “But I can’t say I approve of your exposing yourself to Sahhan.”

“It got me to Krell, and that made it worthwhile. I’m not worried.”

“I gather your impression of Sahhan wasn’t favorable.”

“He’s a fanatic, Andy, and all fanatics with a following as large as his are dangerous. When it comes to organizing this Christmas Eve business, though, he’s had lots of help. Somebody’s using him and that same somebody set up Krell as a middleman for the arms deals with Deveraux.”

“Our friends who hired Chen and Scola?”

Blaine nodded. “The very same. The one thing out of place is Deveraux. He sets the standard for respectable arms dealers, the ones who don’t operate out of a garage. A couple of yachts, a villa in the south of France. Definitely the good life. He’s sold lots of bullets.”

“Know where to find him?”

“He conducts all his business from Paris. I’ve got contacts who can bring me the specifics.”

A look of concern crossed Stimson’s face. “Be careful who you talk to, Blaine. This is a one-man game you’re playing.”

“Right. What’s the latest from General Peachtree?”

“It’s Peacher. His teams are starting to move into the cities. It’ll take some time before he has anything to report.”

“Then I guess I’d better get to Paris fast.”

“Just try not to leave too many bodies in the streets,” Stimson warned. “I won’t be able to cover for you with my people over there. You’re totally on your own.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”