The Omega Command

Chapter 19

The figure ran through the thickening snow, a furtive eye cast to his rear at regular intervals as if expecting a great beast to pounce upon him. He had run often since coming to these woods years before. His route was never the same, no concrete destination or purpose. He ran mostly when memories of the hellfire grew too near, ran as if to widen the gap separating him from them.

But today was different. Today he ran from a sense of wrongness, a feeling that something was out of balance. He was a huge man but his feet made only the slightest impression in the hard-packed Maine snow and his steps produced barely a sound. The old ones had taught him that anything was possible if one achieved balance, that of the spirit as important as that of the body and the world about. The three existed as one, none set into place unless all were. Today all were not.

Because something was coming. Not a great beast with dagger teeth and razor claws; something less defined but equally deadly. He could liken this feeling only to that which often preceded an ambush in the hellfire. He had survived on those occasions by heeding the sense of imbalance when it came, slight tremors which warned him when Charlie was about to spring from one of his innumerable tunnels.

But there was nothing slight about what he felt now. It reached out for him from the shadows, only to dart back when he swung around. Soon, though, he knew it would show itself.

And he knew he would be there when it did.

“It’s been a long time, Wells. Last time we met I think you had your whole face.”

Wells shoved him hard and all at once a half-dozen men with rifles enclosed McCracken. A van skidded to a halt. One of the men threw open the back doors.

“Get in,” Wells ordered.

Blaine started to, but then turned back to the guards.

“Has Pretty Boy here led you on any massacres lately?”

It went back to ’Nam in 1969. Wells and McCracken had been in different divisions of the Special Forces. Blaine had known the war was unwinnable from his first month in. The Viet Cong had built tunnels under the whole country. Troops appeared out of nowhere and disappeared the same way. Traps, mines, ambushes — it was a guerrilla war, the Cong’s war. But Blaine went about his business nonetheless with as much dignity and honor as the circumstances would allow.

His division had come upon the town of Bin Su in early March, and to this day the sight haunted him. The entire town — women and children included — had been slaughtered. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere, obviously there had been torture and, most hideous of all, a collection of heads had been staked to fence posts, where they had been used for target practice. Every code of ethics had been violated. Someone had to pay.

Blaine was warned to back off and told the adjutant to stick a Huey up his ass. The Cong was the enemy, but they were also people and there were rules in the field that had to be obeyed. Forget them and something far more important than this war would be lost. It took a month, and the help of a crazy lieutenant who happened to be an American Indian, but he tracked down the unit responsible for Bin Su. It was under the command of Vernon Wells.

Then Blaine made his only mistake. He should have killed Wells instead of turning him in. Or have let the lieutenant scalp him, as he had begged Blaine to let him do. As it was, the whole incident was covered up. The guilty unit was broken up, and Wells himself was discharged to the States. The Indian had never let him live that one down. Blaine seethed, but quietly. He had done everything he could.

The van was moving. Wells handcuffed McCracken’s wrists and made sure all four guards held their weapons trained on him. Light in the van was sparse, but occasionally a streetlamp would spill onto the big man’s face and illuminate the slight grin lurking beneath his twisted features.

“I always knew I’d get my shot at you,” he taunted.

“Didn’t I see you in Phantom of the Opera?”

Wells’s grin faded. “Your impetuousness surprises even me, McCracken. I told them all along that Scola couldn’t finish you. I knew she hadn’t even when the reports said otherwise. And when word came in about San Melas, I knew you’d be on board that plane.”

“I guess I should be flattered. When do I get to find out where we’re going?”

“We’re almost there.”

“You work for Randall Krayman, don’t you, Wells? Or is your hairdresser the only one who knows for sure?”

Wells’s hand lashed out fast; not the one holding the gun, but the other, appearing out of nowhere and knocking Blaine to the carpeted floor of the van. The blow was barely a graze, far more violence restrained than released, yet its effect was dizzying and sharp.

“Can I take that as a yes?” Blaine asked.

Wells remained silent and expressionless.

“Isn’t this when you’re supposed to say I could make it easy on myself by spilling my guts now?”

“Why should I bother?” Wells returned, words slurred noticeably. “You won’t talk now, and you probably won’t talk later. I know you well, McCracken, better than anyone else does probably. We’ve had a half-dozen chances to kill you that no other man could have slipped out of.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

Wells looked away as the van turned left and continued on for a mile or so, slowing up when it reached a spacious parking lot enclosing what looked to be a large Newport sports complex. Blaine made out tall, reflective letters on one of the buildings:

“We going to the matches?” Blaine asked.

“They’re out of season,” Wells responded. “We’ve had to improvise.”

“Save your money, friend,” Blaine told him. Then, in a whisper, “The sport’s rigged.”

A demonic smile crossed the normal half of Wells’s face.

“It is tonight.”

They pushed Blaine from the van and shoved him along toward the entrance to the fronton. A man inside the lobby was holding one of the doors open. Blaine was led through them, by a row of admission windows, through a set of turnstiles, and into the deserted and dimly lit betting area.

With Wells leading the way they moved into the lower tier of the most expensive seats and headed down the wide steps. Below, only the court lights were on, as if a heated match were going on, with many dollars riding on men with unpronounceable names. Blaine could almost imagine the cheers and boos. It would take an army the size of a capacity crowd to get him out of this now.

A few seconds later an arm at each of his elbows guided him onto the smooth court surface and steered him toward the green front wall. The wall was made of granite and showed thousands of white splotches from the constant impacts of the rock-hard ball. Tonight something else had been added to its starkness.

A pair of manacles.

Wells stood back on the court floor as the handcuffs were removed from Blaine’s wrists and his arms shoved violently over his shoulders. The big man hung back as an unspoken warning: Subdue my men and you’ll still have me to deal with. Blaine let himself be moved. They shoved him backward and his boots clanged against the waist-high metal covering that indicated low shots to the audience with a similar clang when jai alai was in season. Blaine’s arms were stretched and his wrists locked in the manacles.

For the first time that night he felt totally defeated. He had no chance of escape now unless he was somehow able to squeeze his hands through the manacles at the right moment, tearing flesh along the way. But he doubted he’d ever get a chance even for this dubious pleasure; Wells didn’t intend to take his eyes off him.

“Why does your boss need two armies?” Blaine asked as they faced each other from twenty yards apart. His voice echoed metallically.

“You have put the pieces together well,” Wells told him, his face trying for a grin. “Now you will tell me who you have met along the way who has been of service to you.”

“Why does your boss need two armies?” Blaine repeated.

“Tell me the trail you have followed.”

“I work alone. You should remember that from ’Nam. Except for the Indian, of course.”

Half of Wells’s face reddened. “We know you were in Paris. Who else are you working with? Who else have you alerted?”

“You mentioned abort to the troops at the airfield tonight,” Blaine persisted. “Abort what?”

“Why make things so difficult for yourself, McCracken?”

“Two armies, Wells. What does Krayman need two armies for? Sahhan’s troops make perfect sense, though their connection with Krayman escapes me. But why the mercenaries? They don’t fit.”

The big man just looked at him.

“Unless the plan is to have them divide the country up equally, in which case—” Blaine suddenly realized the truth. “Krayman hired the mercenaries to destroy Sahhan’s troops. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Wells’s silence provided an acknowledgment.

“Why?” Blaine asked him.

“You tell me.”

“Sahhan’s people surprise the country with their Christmas Eve strike, wreaking chaos everywhere, financed by Krayman. Then the mercenaries move in to save the day and restore reasonable order, also financed by Krayman. It still doesn’t make sense.”

“Because there’s something you’re missing,” Wells taunted him. “Something you’ll die without knowing.”

“Since I’m going to die anyway, why not tell me?”

“I’ve never gone in for melodrama and, besides, such important information would be wasted on a corpse.” Wells paused. “I’ll ask you one last time: where have you been and who have you seen since leaving the hospital?”

McCracken clenched his teeth and looked at him.

Wells turned away and nodded toward the players’ entrance onto the court. A man wearing a black practice shirt strolled out and tied a wicker cesta basket around his hand as he twisted his shoulders to loosen up.

“Are you familiar at all with jai alai, McCracken?”

“I’ve lost my share of money.”

“I was speaking of the physical aspects,” Wells said. With that the player whipped his arm around and a white blur sped out from his cesta, smashing into the front wall with a crack ten feet to Blaine’s right. “The ball is called a pelota. It’s made of goatskin and has been known to travel at speeds exceeding one hundred eighty miles per hour.” The player retrieved the ball and sent it whipping out again, this time smacking ten feet to Blaine’s left. “This man’s name is Arruzi,” Wells continued. “He is known at the fronton not so much for speed as for accuracy.”

Arruzi fired a shot from mid-court, scooped up the ball deftly on one bounce, and fired another. Both cracked home five feet from Blaine’s head. His ears hurt from the sound. Arruzi was juggling the pelota about in his cesta.

“Impact from a rock-hard ball at that pace will crush bones beyond repair,” Wells told him. “The pain, I’d imagine, would be extreme. Do you have any idea, McCracken, how many different targets the human body can be made into?”

Arruzi fired again, low this time, a yard from Blaine’s right leg. The ball banged against the metal.

“Tell me who you’ve reached, McCracken. Tell me who else knows anything about Christmas Eve, Sahhan, and San Melas.”

Blaine feigned deep thought. “Key-wheel the seven in a trifecta and give me the four and one under it.”

Wells nodded to Arruzi. The player whipped the pelota out sidearm on the forehand side. It cracked into the wall no more than a foot over Blaine’s head.

“Impact there would kill you,” Wells reported. “But we can’t have that, can we? A few broken bones are in order first. After all the trouble you’ve caused us, you certainly deserve them.”

“All right,” said Blaine, “just give me the five on top in the Daily Double.”

Arruzi fired again, the white blur seeming to come straight at Blaine’s eyes, only to curve away and smack the wall six inches under his right arm.

“My patience is growing thin, McCracken,” said Wells. “You are asking a lot of Arruzi’s aim. He could make a misjudgment at any time and strike you before I am ready for him to.”

The pelota whirled at him again, this time under his left arm. Blaine flinched involuntarily and rose to his toes to stretch farther away from it. His heart thudded against his chest.

“Who have you reached, McCracken?”

“Okay, just give me a four-two quinella.”

“I think a sample is in order. …”

Arruzi unwound his arm more slowly. The pelota fluttered out, its motion clear instead of blurred, coming in low and straight. Blaine braced and squeezed his eyes closed.

Impact would have doubled him over to the floor if he’d been able to fall. The slow-moving ball smashed into his stomach with a force greater than any he’d ever felt. He’d been stabbed once in the abdomen and that was the only sensation he could liken it to. His breath escaped in a rush and his chest heaved. He tried to inhale, but there was no air to grab, just a raging pain in his stomach as if a burning football were wedged inside. He kept heaving.

The pelota rolled out between a pair of red lines used to denote legal serves, and Arruzi snatched it up in his cesta.

“That was perhaps forty miles per hour,” Wells noted.

“Impact against a rib even at that speed would lead to splintering, and perhaps a vital organ would be pierced. At a hundred and twenty miles per hour, well, the effects would be similar to jumping off a five-story building.” Blaine could tell the big man was enjoying this. There had never been any expectation that he’d talk, or that he’d have anything meaningful to say even if he did. This whole scene was being played out just for Wells’s sadistic pleasure.

“Tell me about Paris, McCracken.”

Blaine might have if he’d been able to find his breath. As it was, Arruzi’s arm was coming forward again, the motion itself a blur, and Blaine turned his head away.

The pelota crashed between his spread legs, not six inches from his groin.

“He was just measuring off distance with that one,” Wells explained. “Tell me who else knows about Christmas Eve.”

Blaine caught his breath but didn’t speak.

Arruzi twisted his cesta and whipped his arm forward again.

Blaine saw the blur of the pelota coming straight for his groin and acted when it seemed impact was unavoidable. Using all the muscles in his arms and shoulders to gain leverage, Blaine hoisted his legs high and straight like a gymnast. His boots pounded the wall well above his manacled hands.

The pelota cracked into the precise spot previously occupied by his groin.

Blaine let his legs fall back down, his upper body a mass of fiery pain, ligaments and cartilage extended beyond their capacity.

“I think we’ll go for your arm this time, McCracken,” Wells taunted. “No way to move that now, is there?” He hesitated. “Tell me about Paris.”

Blaine just looked at him again. He felt the sweat sting his eyes and the taste of it was heavy on his lips.

Wells nodded to Arruzi. The player went into his motion.

Suddenly the lights in the fronton died, plunging the entire place into total darkness. Arruzi’s shot caromed into the side wall. Blaine felt the pelota whiz by him en route to the screen that protected fans from errant shots.

Wells was shouting orders, but the darkness had confused him as well and the words came out totally slurred, barely understandable. Blaine seized the chance to free his hands. He’d begun yanking his arms, steel ripping at his skin, when he felt a pair of strong hands steady him. A key was inserted into one manacle, then into the other. In the darkness all Blaine could see was the unusual blue glow of the man’s luminous watch dial. His arms were pulled free of the unlocked slots.

“Get out of here,” a voice whispered to him.

The only illumination in the fronton was coming from two exit signs, and Blaine dashed toward one. Motion flashed before him as he neared the heavy doors and he felt the heat of a body, heard rapid breathing. The man was probably fumbling for a gun, when Blaine crashed into him and followed up with a set of crunching fists that pummeled the man to the floor.

McCracken jumped over his downed body and crashed through the exit doors.

He knew the echoing rattle would give him away and didn’t even bother to look back as he sped into the cold night with only his green fatigues and shirt to shield him against the bitterly frigid air. His stomach still ached horribly and felt like it was being kicked every time his right leg landed. He had emerged at the rear of the building and headed back toward the front, toward the main road on which he’d been brought in.

Doors slammed closed and orders were shouted behind him. He’d been spotted, and the men from inside the fronton were giving chase.

Bullets sailed through the air from behind as the men rushed in his tracks. Hitting a moving target while moving yourself was virtually impossible even for the best shot, especially at night. This comforted Blaine, but he knew it was only a matter of time, and not much of it, before their superior numbers wore him down. Staying ahead of their bullets wasn’t enough. He had to escape them altogether.

The gates leading into the fronton complex had been closed and chained. Blaine rushed at them and scaled the fence to the top. He pulled himself over as bullets whizzed through the air on all sides of him. His poor-fitting army boots would start slowing him down now, and that was the last thing he could afford. He ran up the road the van had come down and prayed for a vehicle with a sympathetic driver or an unsympathetic one he could overcome.

The sky was still pitch black with dawn more than an hour away. Good. Darkness was his ally. It significantly reduced the advantage of the opposition’s superior numbers.

Blaine stayed off the road and ran along its bushy side. The darkness was even deeper here, unbroken by the spill of streetlamps. He’d be harder to spot. A car’s headlights caught him briefly as it swung around a corner. Blaine raced to cut off its angle, flailing with his arms.

“Hey! Hey!”

The car swerved to avoid him and kept right on going. To his rear Blaine heard shouts and screams. He had been spotted by at least two of Wells’s men. The advantage again swung to them.

He angled back into the brush by the roadside and kept following its course. So long as he stayed out of sight he had a chance. Another few hundred yards and he’d reach Route 114, a main road certain to be reasonably traveled even at this hour. One of the cars on it would provide his escape.

Forty yards up ahead McCracken caught the flash of movement on his side of the road. A gun barrel catching the spill of a streetlight. It came again and he stopped in his tracks, aware now of rustling sounds to his rear. They had him boxed in.

Blaine saw a car — no, a truck — bank into the curve before him. The truck was ablaze with lights and it was his last chance. He rushed into the street just as it swung over the slight rise and stood directly in its path. The screech of tires and squeal of brakes attracted Blaine’s pursuers to his position, and they could see him in the truck’s headlights. Their guns shattered the air and the truck swerved to avoid hitting Blaine.

“You crazy bastard!” the driver shouted as he skidded to a near halt by the shoulder.

Blaine was crazy, crazy enough to rush toward the pickup and grab hold of its side as the driver churned dust behind him. It was a few seconds after taking off again that the driver noticed Blaine’s figure hanging at his side, feet dragging dangerously close to the road, and started to apply the brakes again.

The truck’s progress still carried it well beyond Wells’s men who were giving chase. They quickened their stride when they saw the pickup’s brake lights flash once more.

“You fuckin’ crazy bastard!” the hefty driver roared, and he lunged with a pipe wrench, intent on burying it in the bizarre hitchhiker’s skull.

He never even got it started forward.

A stray bullet from one of the pursuer’s guns caught him square in the chest and flattened him. Blaine went for the cab in a crouch with bullets ricocheting wildly around him, coughing up metallic splinters from the truck. He swung himself inside and was revving the engine even before the door closed behind him. A quick shift into first and he screeched away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake to swallow his pursuers.

Blaine didn’t have time to manage a 180, so he kept the pickup in the direction it was already headed — down the road past the fronton. Apparently, none of Wells’s men had hung back and there were no barricades. Blaine started to relax. Then, as he neared a point where the road forked, he saw two cars speeding from the right. Blaine swung the truck sharply to the left and watched the cars in his rear-view mirror spin around to give chase.

Blaine gave the engine more gas and flew past a sign that said GOAT ISLAND. He followed the arrows and asked the pickup for still more speed. He had been on the exclusive Goat Island once years before for a social gathering. It was a small island, dominated by luxuriously expensive condominiums, harbors, and a well-known Sheraton booked several summers in advance. Hardly the ideal spot to hide out — no island was — but it was all he had. He streamed toward the causeway linking Goat Island with Newport, screeching into turns and corners, the engine screaming as he demanded more of it down the brief straightaways. Behind him the tailing cars held their positions, twin shadows in the night.

The causeway came up fast and McCracken’s teeth clamped together as the pickup’s tires thumped onto it. The cars followed him down it side by side. Blaine heard the loud blast of a shotgun and started swaying from side to side to make himself a more elusive target. Then the stacatto song of a machine gun found his ears an instant before the back window exploded, showering him with glass. A few ragged splinters found their way into his neck and scalp. He grimaced against the pain and straightened the pickup out, giving it all the gas it would take.

He saw the Sheraton clearly now, along with the large island marina virtually deserted for the winter. And there was something else.

A pair of cars were parked facing each other to block the end of the causeway. Men were positioned behind them, bracing weapons on roofs. A bright light caught McCracken’s eyes and blinded him just before the fire began. He managed to duck low beneath the windshield, but in the process his foot momentarily lost the gas pedal. The tailing cars drew up on top of him and sprayed the cab with automatic fire. The bullets passed just over Blaine’s head as he struggled to hold the wheel steady, his intention being to ram the pickup right through the makeshift barricade.

An extra loud blast assaulted his ears, followed by another similar one, and then the truck wavered out of his grasp.

They had shot out the tires!

Blaine struggled for control, but it was gone. The pickup squealed right, and then suddenly left, crashing over the right side rail just before the causeway’s end.

McCracken braced for impact against the hard sea, but it came too fast for him and then the water was everywhere, drenching him with a black cold, the mouth of a great beast opened to swallow, sucking him down.

Chapter 20

“Anything?” Wells asked the man coordinating the search through the frigid waters.

“No sign of him,” he reported, lowering his binoculars. “No one could have survived that crash. He’s drowned.”

The bright floodlights continued to sweep over the water and nearby shore.

“I want more men and a helicopter,” Wells ordered. “And I want them now.”

“That would attract even more attention than we have already,” the man cautioned.

“I don’t care. I want McCracken.”

“He can’t still be alive. Besides, it’ll be dawn soon and—”

Wells’s hand came out in a blur and locked onto the man’s throat, shutting off his air. He lifted the figure up until his toes scraped against the causeway.

“I believe my orders were clear,” Wells said coolly. “They do not need elaboration or comment. Am I correct?”

Blue-faced, the man nodded.

“Good.” Wells lowered him back to the pavement.

“Now, do it.”

The man scampered away, hunched over.

Wells knew McCracken was out there, still in the water probably. Men like him didn’t die easily. Others had failed in their assignments to eliminate him, and now Wells had failed too. He was not used to failure. If they had let him handle McCracken at the hospital instead of sending Scola, none of this would have been necessary. Now Wells felt the frustration gnawing at him as the floodlights continued to sweep the area around where the truck had crashed over the rail.

McCracken was still out there all right, and Wells meant to find him because now it was more personal than ever. He had destroyed his army career in ’Nam and embarrassed him tonight. There remained forty minutes until dawn’s first light, and he meant to have the bastard dead or in tow by then.

Wells cursed the whole episode under his breath.

Blaine swam slowly. He stayed with the currents and kept below the surface as long as he could between breaths. Every ten yards or so his lungs would thirst for air and he would satisfy them with a quick poke above the surface. A few times he had been caught in the spill of the floodlights and felt the panic swell within him, until he realized he hadn’t been seen.

His plan was to swim out beyond reach of the lights and around the small island where it bent to the left. Then he could make his move toward shore. He had just a little more space to cover, but his strokes had grown stiffer. The cold bay waters were taking their toll. His lungs began craving air every other motion, and he did his best to appease them. His body had ceased its frantic shaking, but he knew this was only temporary. Once he reached the shore and was greeted by wind and temperatures not even half that of the water, hypothermia would be a definite possibility: frostbite, too, if he lived that long. He wondered how long he could move under those circumstances, wondered how effective he would be if Wells and his henchmen caught up with him again.

Not very, Blaine regretted. Still, he stroked.

At last the sweep of the floodlights failed to catch him. He had passed the end of the island and stroked to the left, making for shore in slow, even motions so as not to disturb the currents or risk a splash that might catch someone’s attention. The shoreline of Goat Island was rocky, and his hands were scraped by the jagged rocks as he crawled onto land. A deep repose fell over him. He wanted just to lie there on the shore, to sleep for a brief period before forcing himself on.

No! The peace and sudden warmth were illusions cast by his exhaustion. If he slept now, it would mean death whether Wells caught up with him or not. Even if he kept active, though, the cold would kill him. He could feel it seeping through his flesh, turning his very bones brittle. He had to get a heavy jacket to ward off the chill.

Above him footsteps crunched snow. McCracken kept still and low as a flashlight swept over the general area. It made another pass, then the footsteps started up again. It had to be one of Wells’s sentries, and the man was alone. Blaine crept down the narrow shore toward the flashlight’s beam. As he neared it and made out the shape of its bearer not more than ten yards off, he climbed to the road and charged forward with caution thrown to the cold wind.

The sentry turned much too late and felt Blaine’s fist hammer him before his eyes even had a chance to focus. Seconds later McCracken pulled his arms through the man’s heavy coat. The warmth vanquished his chill almost immediately. The chattering of his teeth slowed, then vanished altogether as he started down the road, leery of more of Wells’s guards appearing in his path.

Blaine tried to increase his pace, but his heart and lungs rebelled. Exhaustion swept over him. He felt cold again. The exertion from the chase and subsequent swim had proven even more a strain than he’d thought. The water on the legs of his fatigues had caked into ice, and he heard it crackling as he moved. Thank God for the coat. …

The Sheraton Islander loomed to his right and made a warm, inviting target. But that would be the first place Wells would expect him to go and there wouldn’t be a chance of his even getting through the front door. His only alternative was to keep walking, playing the role of the guard whose coat he was wearing. There was no one around to question him. He kept his pace measured and gave the impression he was searching for someone. He was buying himself time, and with time came a chance.

He passed the causeway entrance cluttered with troops, his heart lunging against his rib cage. He kept walking through a parking lot into the marina complex where row after row of docks were reserved for summer boaters. None was present to offer him escape.

Except …

It was the yellow cover at the far edge of the docks that grabbed his attention first, and then the ramp angling up the water. He quickened his pace just a bit, eyes sharpening on his target. Almost there now.

His fingers scraped the sleek hull of a speedboat, a pair of potent engines peeking out from beneath the cover. No room for hesitation at this point.

In rapid fashion McCracken stripped off the yellow cover and unfastened the bolts that held the speedboat on the ramp. He noted it was called the Sting and gave it a little shove where the likeness of a bumblebee was painted to get it started down.

“Hey, what are you doing!” The shout came from the direction of the causeway and was followed by trampling feet.

Blaine vaulted over the boat’s side and hit the cold, carpeted deck just as the Sting smacked the water.

“Over there! Over there!”

It drifted into the bay as bullets began streaking at him. They shattered the boat’s windshield and covered Blaine with glass while he rested faceup under the dash toying with the starter wires. He twisted the proper two together and the boat coughed, then roared to life with the fury of a rocket ship. Blaine glanced behind him and saw why.

The Sting was equipped with twin 220 horsepower engines, which made for incredible power. Blaine gunned them for all they could give. The boat’s nose lifted off the water, and it tore off into the bay like a horse free of the corral at long last. When he finally raised himself fully up, satisfied that he was out of the bullets’ range, the speedometer was flirting with the seventy-mile-per-hour mark. The din of enemy fire had all but subsided. The men would be waiting for reinforcements. No matter. Unless they had a boat to equal the Sting, Blaine had just bid them farewell.

He looked around to get his bearings. He knew this was an inlet of Narragansett Bay, knew that reasonable civilization would be found by dawn by simply following it. For the first time since landing in Newport, he relaxed. He was still freezing, and his teeth chattered madly. The bay was free of other boat traffic, but he did his best to avoid numerous floating ice chunks. Traveling at eighty now, he neared the end of the inlet and switched on the Sting’s running lights.

His ears registered the distant whirl and passed it off at first to the racing of the Sting’s twin engines in the open waters. When it intensified, his eyes swept about him just as the spotlight caught his boat in its beam.

A helicopter! A goddamn fucking helicopter!

Good old Wells certainly didn’t give up easy.

The helicopter raced over him with a man perched precariously on the edge firing down with a machine gun. Blaine swung the Sting around in a narrow arc and headed back for the inlet. The chopper compensated with a wider swing and gave chase.

The boat’s speed had topped ninety, when the helicopter roared overhead again. Blaine swung the wheel hard to the right to steer out of the inlet once more. The chopper lagged a bit. It rose a little to aid its maneuverability, though this would make it even harder for the machine gunner to find his mark. But even if the helicopter did nothing more than contain the Sting, that was good enough. Wells probably had an entire army on the way.

The Sting leaped through the water, and Blaine had to grip the wheel as tightly as he could just to control the boat. The frigid wind whipped into his face, and when his tongue tried to wet his lips, he realized he had lost feeling in them as well.

The chopper’s gunner sprayed the craft randomly, containment his goal, but his aim nonetheless right on the mark. The dashboard exploded in splinters and the Sting danced wildly for an instant when Blaine recoiled to avoid being hit by the pieces. Something sliced into his shoulder, a bullet graze or hunk of debris; he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The cold numbed it quickly, which made the warm flow of blood slipping out an even stranger sensation than at normal temperatures.

McCracken had turned the boat back into the inlet, when the chopper passed overhead again. The gunner’s spray of bullets was a bit off this time, but one lucky burst found the fuel tanks and punctured them. The sharp smell of gasoline poured into Blaine’s nostrils and he watched the yellowish liquid spill up to the deck from below. In seconds he’d be floating dead in the water, a sitting duck for the gunner in the helicopter. Another swim was unthinkable; he’d never survive it, especially now, with a wounded shoulder.

What did that leave him with?

The Sting still rode the waters gracefully, as if unaware of its mortal wound. The spill of the chopper’s spotlight caught its shattered dashboard, and something red caught Blaine’s eye. He grasped for it and touched metal under the steering wheel. He yanked it free and saw it was an emergency kit complete with flare gun. He undid the latch with one hand while he controlled the Sting with the other.

The flare gun fit neatly into its slot. Beneath it lay a single flare. Fired properly into a vulnerable area, it was as good as a hand grenade.

McCracken could take no chances. He pulled the flare from its slot and held it low on the deck to soak up some of the gasoline. This would increase its explosive properties.

The chopper roared overhead again, unleashing more rounds at the boat, which had begun to lose speed and sputter.

McCracken popped the flare gun open and slid the flare home, snapped it shut, and tested the trigger. He would get only one shot. It would have to be good. The Sting’s engine sputtered, caught, then sputtered again. As its speed faded, Blaine aimed it toward the ice-crusted shore. The slowing boat made a more welcome target for the chopper, which came in slower, sensing the kill.

McCracken played with the wheel. He darted left and right to put up a good front, the flare gun grasped tightly in his right hand.

He didn’t raise it until the machine-gun fire raged dangerously close and the helicopter loomed straight overhead. At that point it took barely a second for him to bring the gun up and aim it, even less for him to press the trigger.

The flare sped out toward the chopper with a pop.

The half-darkness of the approaching dawn was shattered by the fireball, a single orange sphere that belched black smoke and coughed steel. Only the Sting’s last burst of speed saved him from the killing shower of shrapnel and debris. The engine lasted until he was wading distance from shore and conked out at the same moment the chopper’s smoking carcass hit the water to start its slow sink.

Blaine hurled himself over the Sting’s side and patted it like a loyal pet. He was in waist-deep water and moved toward the shore, above which stood a huge mansion converted into condo units. The climb up was steep, handholds available but difficult to manage with the ice.

Just as the sun’s first light found the bay, McCracken pushed himself over the edge and found himself staring at a hot tub bubbling away with two couples starting the morning, or ending the night, inside.

Blaine started toward them, fatigues heavy with water already starting to freeze. He was shivering, but he knew a smile had forced itself out on the face he could barely feel.

“Care to join the party?” asked one of the women in the tub, obviously drunk. All the inhabitants had allowed their drinks to float away from them on the steaming water.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Blaine said, plunging in with all his clothes on.

“Were you in that plane that just crashed on the water?” one of the men asked.

“What plane?” McCracken returned, and then he tucked his head under the water.

The female occupants of the hot tub took turns telling Blaine where he had ended up. This was the Manor House, they explained, the most exclusive condo complex of the exclusive Bonniecrest Village. They had bought their unit for $200,000 and already it was worth twice that. Wasn’t that something, they wanted to know.

Blaine said it was.

Time was foremost on his mind now, time and the fact that Wells wouldn’t be giving up the chase for the loss of one helicopter. He might try to barricade the entire area to close in on his quarry once and for all. But it was morning now and residents of this Newport community would soon be on their way to work. Wells had his work cut out for him if he expected to find McCracken in all the activity.

After forty minutes in the hot tub to get his circulation going again, Blaine accepted a bathrobe and change of clothes. Before donning the undersized garments, he swabbed and bandaged his shoulder wound. It had proved to be merely a scratch. These people were being most hospitable and he made a mental note to return the favor someday. He could begin by leaving the condo as soon as possible. First, though, a phone call was necessary. He hadn’t reported in for almost two days now. He had plenty to tell Stimson, enough for the Gap to move on Sahhan and Krayman, and to start looking for the mercenary troops scattered across the country.

Sahhan’s troops would strike at the innocent and the mercenaries would strike at the troops with Krayman the force behind them both. The why of it all eluded Blaine, but he knew that was only because there was something he wasn’t seeing yet. Krayman was a pragmatic man. This plan had been in the works for years at least. Nothing was being left to chance.

Blaine used the phone in a bedroom to dial Stimson’s private number. A beep sounded, followed by the whining drone of a tape unspooling.

“The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”

Silence followed, replaced swiftly by a dial tone.

Blaine searched his memory. Could he have dialed the wrong number? He tried again.

“The number you have—”

Blaine replaced the receiver. Stimson’s private number rang wherever he was: car, home, office, anywhere. McCracken considered the worst ramification of the line’s disconnection and dismissed it because it was the one thing he could not afford. The idea of Stimson being dead was unthinkable. Certainly there was another explanation.

Blaine dialed the normal Gap emergency exchange. Another tape-recorded voice greeted him.

“Please leave your number. Your call will be returned immediately.”

Blaine read the number listed on the white Princess phone into the receiver. It rang not thirty seconds later.

“Your name,” a dull voice requested.

“I need Stimson.”

“Your name,” the voice repeated.

“Look, you bastard, I’m not going to bother giving you my name because I’m not on your active list. I’m sanctioned by the chief directly and I’ve got to speak to him.”

“Do you have an operative code or designation?”

“No, goddammit, it was cover clearance. Nine-zero coding.” Blaine slapped his forehead. “No, that’s not what you boys call it. I don’t know what you call it.”

“I’m going to terminate this line unless I receive a proper designation immediately.”

“All right. Just tell me if Stimson’s still alive. I’ve got to know.”

The phone clicked off. Blaine dropped the receiver.

He was completely isolated. Stimson’s plan had backfired. The unthinkable had happened. Someone had gotten to the Gap chief and Blaine had no contact. Equally bad, the call-back procedure he had followed would allow Gap personnel to trace the unauthorized call into their most sterile of exchanges. They would investigate. A unit would be dispatched almost immediately, a unit that would see McCracken as an enemy.

He had to get out of here. But to where? Who could he take his story to?

The CIA. He would have to make do with them. …

The Company was still his official employer. And he could reach them because this time he would have the proper codes. He would give an alert signal and they would make arrangements to bring him in. Never mind the business with Chen and possible Company complicity in all this. The involvement of Krayman could account for everything he had previously blamed on his official employer. They were his best bet at this point, his only bet.

McCracken pounded out a new exchange.

“Box office,” a voice greeted him without benefit of tape-recorded greeting.

“I’ve lost my ticket.”

“Status?”

“Nine-zero coding.”

“That is a discontinued exchange.”

“Check my clearance, dammit! Gallahad, six-zero-niner.”

“What is your designation?”

“Triple-X ultra.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.”

The phone clicked off. Blaine slammed the receiver down.

I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.

How could he have been so damn stupid? Of course his file wasn’t active anymore; the Company thought he was dead. Another element of Stimson’s plan to seal his mission. Well, he was sealed now, all right, sealed off from every potential safe harbor in the government. A black revolutionary army and a mercenary resistance force were about to clash in the streets of American cities just for starters, and there was no one he could report it to. All the emergency numbers stored in his head were of no use because each of the operators would request the same information and he could satisfy none of them enough to be passed on to the next level. They regarded him as dead. Because of that, ironically, he might soon be.

He had to get out of Newport immediately and buy himself some time elsewhere. Wells’s men were no longer his only concern. There were Gap and CIA teams to consider as well, drawn to this area by an uncleared caller’s breach of sterile security lines.

Blaine’s mind drifted back to the fronton, back to a fact that had slipped away during the frantic chase that followed: someone had arranged for the lights to go out and then freed him from Wells’s manacles. For some reason someone wanted him to stay alive.

But more people wanted him dead.

Chapter 21

Francis Dolorman’s back was hurting so horribly Tuesday morning he could barely shift positions in his chair. Getting in and out of it was an agonizing experience for him, no less agonizing than the latest report from Wells.

“So McCracken is still alive after all,” was his only comment to Verasco.

“Solely due to interference from the rebels this time,” Verasco noted. “Wells had McCracken in Newport until one of them freed him.”

“Not like Wells to let his own people be infiltrated.”

“It may turn out to be a blessing,” said Verasco. “One of his men, the rebel, we assume, has disappeared. Wells is in the process of retracing his movements, and undoubtedly the investigation will lead to his cohorts.”

“Tell Wells to concentrate his energies fully in that direction. I’ll handle McCracken.”

“How?”

“Alone he can do us no harm. But if he were to reach receptive ears in Washington … We have the contacts in place to insure his continued isolation. They will be alerted. I want all these distractions cleared up before Omega is activated. Let’s review the timetable.”

Verasco opened a folder perched on his lap. “We will fly tomorrow to the airfield in Maine and make our way to Horse Neck Island for final preparations.”

“All perfunctory at this stage, of course. And the mobilization of Sahhan’s strike force?”

“Nine P.M. eastern standard time. That means six o’clock on the West Coast.”

“Darkness in both instances.”

“According to plan.”

Dolorman nodded, obviously satisfied. “And when does phase two go into effect?”

“Exactly four hours after Sahhan’s troops are mobilized. It will take sixteen minutes for our friend in the sky to pass from one coast to the other, insuring our goal of total paralysis at the optimum time. Phase three entry of mercenaries will begin twelve to sixteen hours later.”

“I thought we had agreed on twenty-four.”

“A slight alteration to obtain maximum visibility at the peak of panic. Their heroic response must appear irrefutable, but it must also seem vague. The rumors and obscure reports will work to our advantage.”

“I assume the preparations for phase four are complete, then.”

Verasco nodded. “All equipment is in place and functional on Horse Neck Island. Construction of all communications and broadcast facilities was completed yesterday. The testing has gone magnificently. Of course, the activation of phase four will be a give-and-take matter. We must be flexible. The timing will be difficult, public sentiment difficult to gauge.”

“They will be our public by that time,” Dolorman assured him. “They will feel what we want them to.”

“But not until after Christmas Eve and your interview with Sandy Lister is scheduled for barely an hour from now.”

“Your tone indicates you feel I should cancel it.”

“I see no good it can do us so close to activation.”

Dolorman eased himself forward. “She has seen people, talked to people. It would take only one receptive ear in the wrong place to do severe damage to Omega. By remaining cooperative with Miss Lister, we assure ourselves that she will have no reason to seek out this ear. We are fairly certain, based on her movements and correspondence, that she hasn’t looked for this ear yet. But that says nothing for the others she has made contact with. One of them still might know the right numbers to call, in which case immediate action on our part would be called for.”

“You don’t expect her to come out and tell you, of course.”

“Knowledge is her only weapon, so I expect her to reveal much of what she knows. The what will lead us to the who.”

Verasco looked unconvinced. “She’s a celebrity, Francis, a star in her own field. It’s her own connections I’m most worried about.”

That drew a smile from Dolorman. “But the most important ones have been severed. I think we can relax.”

Sandy Lister rested her shoulders against the elevator wall and tried to still her trembling. The doors slid closed and the compartment began its descent from Dolorman’s office toward the lobby.

The interview was over.

And Dolorman had beaten her. She had not been up to the task. Desperation had worked against her, stealing her poise.

She had come straight to Houston from her meeting with Simon Terrell and arrived Sunday night. Monday morning first thing she dialed T.J. Brown’s exchange at the network.

The voice that answered was not his.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry?”

“This is Sandy Lister. I’m calling for T.J. Brown.”

“Oh, Miss Lister,” the strange voice responded, “someone upstairs mentioned you might be calling. I just moved down from my office. Your assistant is on vacation.”

“He’s what?”

“It came as a shock to me too. I just got the order to move—”

“Thank you,” Sandy broke in, and abruptly hung up.

She grabbed for the receiver again and dialed T.J.’s home phone number. It rang and rang. No answer.

Your assistant is on vacation. …

Sandy felt a dread chill creep up her spine. With the receiver still in her hand, she dialed Stephen Shay’s private number.

“Mr. Shay’s office.”

“Mr. Shay, please. Sandy Lister calling.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lister, I’m afraid he’s not in.”

“When will he be back?”

“Not for two weeks. He’s gone to Europe for a special conference.”

“Did he leave a forwarding? This is somewhat of an emergency.”

“I’m afraid not,” said the secretary, and Sandy hung up.

Because a man in Shay’s position always left a forwarding address. Unless he had never left at all. Unless it was a front.

Everything was a front.

They had T.J. They had Shay.

Sandy spent the rest of Monday on the phone begging for appointments with a host of NASA officials. None would see her. With two she went so far as to mention Pegasus and received only curt denials. No one was talking. So there would be no help from NASA, not immediately, anyway, and immediately was all that mattered.

That left her only with Dolorman, and she had a strategy prepared. A small tape recorder hidden in her handbag would capture the entire interview. After it was over she would go to the FBI. She would tell them about the plagiarized Krayman Chip and the billionaire’s obsession with controlling America. She would tell them about COM-U-TECH’S possession of Adventurer’s orbital flight plan and the thing Krayman had sent up into space in the guise of a satellite. When they asked for proof, she would hand them the tape recording of her interview with Dolorman. They could run it through their sophisticated machines to discover how many lies were told in response to her direct questions. Of course, that meant she would have to pose them, and that in itself was a grave risk.

Arriving at the Krayman Tower barely an hour before, she had been escorted up by a security guard in Dolorman’s private elevator. Now the same guard was escorting her down and she felt for the reassuring bulge of the tape recorder in her handbag as she replayed the interview in her mind.

Dolorman’s office was huge and plushly decorated. The wall paintings were originals and there were bookshelves filled with leather-bound editions lining one wall. Dolorman’s desk, though, made the greatest impact on her. It was unquestionably the largest she had ever seen, neat and clean, without a trace of clutter.

“Please excuse me for not rising, Miss Lister,” Dolorman said. “But my back has been a burden for several years now and is growing worse.”

Sandy stepped forward and moved halfway between the door and his desk. “Yes, that turned up in my research.”

They eyed each other briefly as the secretary closed the door behind her.

“Your research must have been quite exhaustive,” Dolorman said.

“Just professional.”

“Please, Miss Lister, sit down.”

Sandy took the Chippendale chair a yard in front of the white-haired man’s desk. As she reclined, her hand located the tape recorder through the fabric of her handbag and switched it on.

“You’ll have to excuse my uneasiness,” Dolorman continued. “I don’t grant many interviews.”

“The network and I both appreciate the exception.”

“But the terms are understood, correct?”

Sandy nodded. “Nothing filmed goes on the air prior to your approval. I’ll have the written agreements prepared before I return with a crew.”

“Now it is I who appreciate the exception.” Dolorman leaned painfully forward. “It would help, though, if I understood what precisely the story is going to entail.”

“It started out as a detailed profile of Randall Krayman, the richest man in the world. …”

“Many would dispute that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I found Krayman to be a fascinating individual, a man incredibly attuned to future trends, with the fortitude to throw vast sums into them. I felt there were a great many unanswered questions about this man whose power and influence touches so many lives. I set out to provide some of those answers in my profile.”

“An ambitious pursuit indeed, since you were aware from the beginning that an interview with Mr. Krayman was out of the question.”

“Actually, for a while I entertained hopes of at least arranging a telephone conversation with presubmitted questions if necessary. I thought I might be able to convince you to set it up for me.”

Dolorman chuckled. “Miss Lister, you overestimate my influence with Randall Krayman.”

“But you are the only man with direct access to him.”

“That I have never denied. I am in constant contact with him, in fact, because he still maintains an active interest in the vast holdings he painstakingly built up by anticipating those future trends you spoke of.”

“Then why did he withdraw?”

“Pressure, I suppose. Randall Krayman loved everything he did, but it reached a point where there was too much to love, too many decisions for any one man to make with the kind of attention and consideration Randall Krayman prided himself on. He just lost patience and wanted to be away from it all for a while.”

“Does five years constitute a while, Mr. Dolorman?”

Dolorman’s face turned contemplative. “Time is the one thing money can’t buy, Miss Lister. I’m sorry if that sounds clichéd, but in Randall Krayman’s case it was the truth. He had reached his forties and suddenly the things lacking in his life seemed greater than his awesome worth. There was never time for marriage or a family. Numerous mansions, resorts, estates, even private islands, but not one thing he could really consider his own.”

“When is a house not a home,” Sandy murmured.

“Something like that, I suppose. And the problem in Randall Krayman’s case is that he treated them more like hotels to pass through when it was convenient.”

“So this five-year sabbatical was taken so he could enjoy his property.”

“It’s far more complicated than that. If it was possible for me to arrange the interview you seek, you’d understand. But Randall Krayman would never agree to it. He has come to loathe public attention. He prefers the status of enigma. I should think that would make profiling him quite a challenge, even for you.”

“I’ve had to proceed on the theory that a man is the sum of his deeds, Mr. Dolorman. And that led to a change in the story’s focus.”

“Oh?”

“Someone I spoke with early in my research said you couldn’t separate Randall Krayman from Krayman Industries, that they were synonymous,” Sandy said, thinking of T.J., and with that a new flood of anger surged through her. “Would you agree with that?”

“To a point I would have to.”

“So I changed the conceptual focus of the story from Krayman himself to his vast multinational holdings, especially those centered around COM-U-TECH.”

“Why COM-U-TECH?”

“Because it’s the most current of his successful ventures. Today’s television viewers don’t want to hear about plastics or oil. They want to hear about computers and technology. Telecommunications is the great catchphrase these days, isn’t it?”

Dolorman just looked at her.

“What kind of man would Randall Krayman be judged if that judgment were based on the sum of his deeds dealing with telecommunications, Mr. Dolorman?”

“If you’re speaking of his holdings in cable television, his programming has opened up completely new avenues of broadcasting. It has shown that providing important public services can be accomplished while also turning a profit.”

Sandy felt her heart thumping against her chest. She couldn’t back off now.

“I can’t argue with that, Mr. Dolorman, but what about beyond cable television? What about commercial television stations, network affiliates?”

“Krayman Industries owns several.”

“How many?”

“I don’t have the exact figures in front of me.”

“Just estimate.”

Now it was Dolorman’s turn to square his jaw. “Miss Lister, I know enough about reporters to be aware that they never ask a question they don’t already have the answer to. Why don’t you tell me?”

“My research has found twenty-seven individual franchises.”

“A clear violation of current laws. Obviously, the FCC disagrees with you.”

“Maybe they haven’t looked as hard. I found the ownerships buried within a maze of Krayman holdings.”

Dolorman digested the information and wet his lips. “Our unusual interests in the field of telecommunications have led to mergers and buyouts of other smaller companies with similar interests, though on a much smaller scale. When we absorbed them, it is quite possible a number of television stations strung along, but I assure you there is no pattern in what you have discovered. The action on our part was wholly inadvertent.”

“Would you be willing to say that on camera?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because it might lead to questions concerning the Krayman Chip.”

Dolorman simply smiled, and the smile grew into a faint private laugh. “I see the rumors have reached you. I suspected as much.”

“What rumors?” Sandy asked, disappointed by the calm of his rejoinder.

“That we stole the chip from a man named Hollins and called it our own.” Dolorman shook his head, still smiling.

“Pure fabrication, I assure you.”

“I suppose you can prove that,” Sandy said lamely.

“We don’t have to. Miss Lister, there are people who make their livings out of developing good cases for someone else’s patented discovery being a ripoff of their own. They are more devious than clever. They know a long court fight would be far more costly than a modest settlement, and they are experts on gathering enough circumstantial evidence to insure that the fight will be a long one. This man Hollins was the foremost expert of them all.”

“Except the case never went to court. Randall Krayman paid him sixty million dollars for what was then a worthless company, Mr. Dolorman.”

“Then, yes, due almost entirely to Mr. Hollins’s mismanagement and nothing else. Mr. Krayman doubled his initial investment in that company in the first two years, Miss Lister. And if you’re really concerned about accuracy, it might interest you to know that the takeover bid began almost a year before the inception of the Krayman Chip. The whole incident was a ruse cooked up by Hollins to jack up the price of his company.”

Sandy felt stymied. She could sit here and poke holes in Dolorman’s answers all day long, but the fact of the matter was they were reasonable and would have stood up even on camera. His coolness under pressure surprised her. She had underestimated him and now she felt beaten. Frustrated, she felt her own strategy of patient prying beginning to waver.

“How many communications satellites does COM-U-TECH have in orbit?” she asked suddenly.

“Three, I believe.”

“Three launched from Houston.” And now the bluff. Sandy steeled her eyes. “And one from France.”

Dolorman’s eyebrows flickered. “Really? I’m afraid I have no knowledge of that.”

“Do you have knowledge about one of your employees who was murdered in New York last week?”

The surprise on the man’s face looked genuine. “I hadn’t heard.”

“His name was Benjamin Kelno, and he was a researcher at COM-U-TECH. He slipped a computer disk into my handbag before he died. The disk contained the orbital flight plan for the space shuttle Adventurer.”

Dolorman’s concern looked as genuine as his surprise. “Did you report this to the proper authorities?”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“Miss Lister, if one of our employees is engaged in something illegal or unethical, I would report him or her myself.”

“Why would COM-U-TECH need that program?”

“COM-U-TECH? I thought you said you received it from Kelno.”

“I was just making an obvious connection.”

“Not to me, it isn’t. Krayman Industries employs almost one million people. We can’t possibly be responsible for the actions of each one.”

“How did you get the disk out of the network office?” Sandy demanded, frustration feeling like an acid pit in the core of her stomach.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It was stolen. You got it back.”

“Miss Lister, your rudeness is—”

“Was Krayman Industries responsible for the destruction of the space shuttle?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Does Krayman Industries control something in space capable of destroying the space shuttle?”

Dolorman’s face was flushed red with anger. “Miss Lister,” he began, struggling to restrain his voice, “this line of questioning has gone about as far as—”

“What did you do with T.J. Brown and Stephen Shay?”

“Who?”

“Two people I work with at the network who conveniently disappeared. Did Krayman Industries have anything to do with it?”

“I won’t justify that with an an—”

“I think you should.”

“Then the answer to all your questions is no. And let me spare you the trouble of posing any further ones by answering no to all of them now.” Dolorman rose deliberately, the motion obviously causing him pain. “Miss Lister, I agreed to this interview in part due to your reputation for being fair, honest, and nonconfrontational. I don’t know what you hope to gain from these wild accusations, but I will tell you now that no one in the employ of Krayman Industries will provide any assistance in completing this story of yours.” He regarded her with a maliciously bent stare. “I would threaten you with damage to your career, but I won’t because I’m sure you will do plenty of damage all by yourself before much longer. You have tarnished your own reputation this day, and the damage may well be irreparable.”

“Mr. Dolorman—”

“Miss Lister,” Dolorman interrupted louder, “our interview has come to a close. I am going to do you a great favor, though I can’t say why. There is a button under my desk that goes direct to our security department. I am going to wait two minutes before pressing it. If you leave right now, that will give you time to exit the building without an embarrassing escort.”

Sandy rose and started for the door.

“I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Lister,” Dolorman called after her, the pain still etched on his features. “You have confirmed my reasons for never meeting with reporters.”

Sandy left the office.

The elevator completed its slow descent, and the guard stepped out ahead of her, holding the doors. Sandy moved toward the exit and froze. Standing just outside the glass doors was a man in a cream-colored suit. He had been at the hotel that morning, in the lobby just before she left. She was sure of it. She hurried through the doors and hailed a cab, careful not to gaze in his direction.

The man in the cream-colored suit hailed one right after her.

Dolorman completed his report concerning the interview and switched the receiver from his right hand to his left.

“What she knows can hurt us, sir,” he concluded to the man on the other end. “And she will find someone who’ll listen, especially with the media at her disposal.”

“Yes, that makes sense. But of course we can’t allow it to happen. I trust you can handle things, Francis.”

“I’ve sent for Wells.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you on the island tomorrow. Dress warmly. The forecast isn’t promising.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Merry Christmas, Francis.”

Wells had not slept in nearly two days. But his face showed more frustration than fatigue over losing McCracken in Newport. He accepted Dolorman’s orders without expression. He had always liked military service because of its clarity. His work for Krayman Industries was no different.

“Wells, you must understand the risks involved here,” Dolorman warned. “Sandy Lister is a celebrity. We can afford no martyrs now. It must look like an accident.”

“It will.”

“And the task must be completed by this evening.”

The normal half of the big man’s face rose into a smile.

Sandy arrived back at the Four Seasons Hotel and made straight for the elevator, not bothering to watch for the man in the cream-colored suit. So what if they were watching her? They knew she was here anyway, and later this afternoon she’d let them follow her right to the FBI.

She felt bad that Dolorman had outperformed her in the interview, but she had the tape and that was what mattered. She had managed enough direct questions, and he answered them with unhesitant lies. The tape would prove that once she got it to the FBI. They would take matters from there.

Sandy rewound the tape, pushed play, and waited as it rolled past the starting leader.

Silence followed. No sounds, not even static.

The tape had been erased!

Where? How?

Sandy felt her breath coming hard. Then she remembered. The guard who rode down with her in the elevator from Dolorman’s office had brushed against her briefly as she stepped by him into the lobby. A sufficiently powerful magnet in his hand would have done the job nicely. Dolorman had considered everything.

There would be no trip to the FBI for her now, at least not yet. It would take hard evidence to make them move against Krayman Industries, evidence she no longer possessed. All she had were easily deniable accusations. Dolorman had proved that already.

But she wouldn’t need hard evidence to take her story to the media. T.J. Brown and Stephen Shay had been eliminated, but that wouldn’t silence her. There were other networks, newspapers, interview programs. People would listen to her because of who she was. At the very least, her exposure of Dolorman’s plan might give the authorities the impetus they needed to learn the truth.

She felt alive again, even excited, the fear in her pushed back. She had to think, plan an exact agenda.

It took four rings of the telephone before she even noticed it.

“Yes,” she said.

“Miss Lister?”

“Who is this?”

“I saw you at Krayman headquarters this morning,” a male voice whispered. “I know what you’re after and I’ve got it. The proof, I mean.”

“Proof of what?”

“What Krayman’s up to. The whole story.”

“You’ve got to tell me who you are.”

“It wouldn’t matter. You don’t know me. Kelno was a part of us.”

“Us?”

“There are others. I can’t talk anymore. We’ve got to meet.”

“Wait a minute, how do I know you’re not one of … them?”

“You don’t. But it cuts both ways, doesn’t it? There are risks involved, but if we don’t take them, there’ll be nothing left.”

“What do you mean by nothing left?”

The man’s voice became edged with panic. “They’re watching me. I’ve got to get off this line. I can meet you in an hour. I’ll lose them. You’ve got to come. Please!”

Proof, the man had said, what she needed most.

“Tell me where.”

The man gave her the address, Sandy jotted it down.

The connection clicked and broke.

Chapter 22

McCracken had anticipated leaving Newport would not be easy, and he was right. The town was part of an island with only three major routes of entry. Of course, Wells concentrated his forces on them, and his methods proved effective. Roadblocks were placed under the guise of construction work to slow traffic down for spotters. They seemed to be everywhere, at each corner and stoplight, their eyes peering in to inspect each car’s occupants. If their quarry was spotted, a call would be made down the road and a reception committee would be waiting.

From the beginning, after his phone calls to useless emergency exchanges, Blaine had known that driving himself out of Newport was out of the question. Hiding in the trunk or the back of a truck was a possibility, but there was no one he trusted enough in this area to take the risk. The answer came to him with surprising ease.

He phoned for a cab, choosing a small private company. The driver turned out to be a young, bearded man. Blaine found it easy to strike a deal with him. For an agreed-on number of still drying bills, they would switch places. Blaine would drive the car with the cabbie as his backseat passenger. McCracken’s only disguise would be a cap tucked low toward his eyebrows, though he expected that was all he would need. After all, even the best of spotters would not waste their time with a taxi driver. Only the passenger mattered to them, and in this case that passenger bore only the slightest resemblance to the man they sought.

Blaine followed the driver’s directions exactly and ended up in the town of Bristol. His next order of business was to get somewhere where the resources he needed would be available, where he could learn what happened to Stimson. Trouble was, his lone wolf status on this mission had stripped him of backup, and his years abroad had evaporated any trusted contacts he might have had.

There was one, though, not in Washington, but in New York: Sal Belamo, who had saved his life twice already. He had Belamo’s private number. Assuming Sal wasn’t off on assignment, Blaine could use him to run interference and to arrange for someone to whom Blaine could take his story. Stimson’s unavailability served as a warning for him not to come in on his own. People would be watching. Stimson’s enemies were his as well.

Two phone calls later Blaine had determined his best route into New York City would be by train. It provided better cover than flying. A train was leaving from Providence just before noon, which gave him nearly an hour to reach the station.

Still using the cab, he got there five minutes prior to boarding and chose a seat in the no smoking section for the three-and-a-half-hour ride. The train proved more crowded than he’d expected, but the fact that there were only three stops between Providence and New York kept his most anxious moments to a minimum.

The train arrived on time, and Blaine had no trouble finding a cab outside Penn Station. He told the driver to head north. He had Belamo’s number but not his address. Once he reached him, it would take the ex-boxer a few hours to obtain the information he sought. Blaine didn’t fancy spending that period moving around, and a meal in a public place or even a drink in a bar were out of the question.

So when the cab swung past an apartment building with lots of lights out on East Fifty-sixth, Blaine instructed the driver to let him off. Getting past the doorman proved no trouble, and neither was finding an apartment left vacant for more than the afternoon. The slushy, snowy streets outside kept the standard issue welcome mats before each apartment constantly wet. Blaine had only to find a dry one that corresponded with darkened windows and he would have his temporary refuge.

He found one on the second floor overlooking the street. The lock was of the standard five-tumbler variety and thus easily picked in the time it would have taken to use a key. McCracken left the lights off as he dialed Sal Belamo’s number.

“Yeah?” came Sal’s raspy greeting.

“Do you recognize my voice?”

“If this is an obscene phone call, fuck you.”

“It’s not. Recognize it yet?”

“Keep talking. How ’bout a hint?”

“You saved my life twice last week.”

“McCrackenballs! How they hangin’?”

“Not so good and don’t use my name. I need your help.”

“Why not go through Stimson, pal?”

“His phone’s not working.”

A pause. “You ask me, that’s not good.”

“I want you to check the front for me and find out what’s happened. Then get a hold of General Pard Peacher or someone close to him. Find out if he’s made any progress with his city inspections. I’ll give you the details in a minute. Most important, I need a friendly party to bring me home.”

“Take me a couple hours. Where are you?”

“I borrowed an apartment at One Forty East Fifty-sixth Street.”

“I’ll be outside with the limo at six P.M. on the nose. We’ll talk as we ride. Nobody notices limos in New York.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

True to his word, Sal Belamo pulled the black limousine up to the front of the apartment building at six o’clock sharp. Blaine watched him from the window and made no move to leave until Belamo stepped out and switched on the interior lights so he could see the limo was empty.

“Your car, sir,” Belamo announced a minute later, holding the back door open.

“You own this tub?” McCracken asked when they were both inside.

“The Gap lets me keep it. Like I said, it makes good cover. You ask me, though, I don’t look much like a chauffeur. Too pretty.” He paused and looked at Blaine in the rearview mirror. “Look, excuse me for cuttin’ out most of the small talk, but I wanna make this a quick ride.”

“What’d you find out?”

“What do ya wanna hear first, the bad news or the bad news?”

“Let’s start with Stimson.”

Belamo swung onto Lexington Avenue. “Yeah, that’s the bad news, all right. He’s gone.”

“Is he dead?”

“That’s the indication, but nobody’s confirming. I pulled out every stop I know of to reach him, and so did a few others. When he goes this long without answerin’, pal, it’s a pretty good bet he won’t be answerin’ again at all.”

“Sounds like a cover-up.”

“SOP at the Gap, pal. Our chain of command doesn’t function like the three-letter boys’. We lose our top man and things get a bit interesting. You ask me, I’m glad all I do is sit and wait for phone calls. No complications that way.” Another glance in the rearview mirror. “Until you called, that is.”

“What about Peacher?”

“I got hold of his number-one man. We worked together a few times back in the old days. He didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. Said they haven’t heard from Stimson and none of those city inspections of yours have been taking place.”

“Oh, Christ …”

“That’s bad, ain’t it?”

“Yeah. Peacher must be a part of all this. Maybe the whole army is, at least at the top. It would explain a lot. What else have you got for me?”

Belamo took a left. “The best is yet to come, pal, the reason why this has gotta be a short ride. The real bad news is there’s people lookin’for ya.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say for sure. After I finished with the Gap I called a buddy at the Company and mentioned your name. Your file’s been pulled. You don’t exist anymore.”

“I’m supposed to be dead, remember.”

“Sure, but your file wasn’t pulled until this morning. Someone important wants to make the hoax real.”

“Gap or Company?”

“Neither. Or both. The order was coded Blue. Don’t see many of those. A joint effort you might call it and anybody with a gun’s involved. Streets won’t be safe tonight.”

“Do they know I’m in New York?”

“Not specifically but, you ask me, it won’t take them long.” Belamo shook his head. “It’s scary, pal, downright scary. Nobody’s talking ’cause they don’t know a thing. Everything’s goin’ down below the surface. The hired guns are being brought in. You can forget all about comin’ home. I can’t get you in, nobody can get you in. ’Less, of course, you don’t mind arriving in pieces.”

Silence filled the limo. Belamo started to speak a few times, only to stop.

“Look,” he began finally, “you wanna lay low for a while, maybe I can set you up someplace. I got the right friends owe me favors. You ask me, that’s your best bet.”

McCracken shook his head. “Thanks anyway, Sal. Just get me to LaGuardia before the Blue Code reaches all levels.”

“Where you headed?”

“Atlanta.”

“What’s in Atlanta, pal?”

“The headquarters of the PVR and Mohammed Sahhan.”

The President leaned forward incredulously. “I think I need to hear that again, Bart,” he said to CIA Director McCall.

“We have identified the caller to our box office positively as Blaine McCracken.”

“How?”

“The coding and designation he gave. Each one’s as individual as fingerprints, and even if they weren’t, the voiceprint confirmed it was him.”

“But McCracken’s dead!”

“Only in Stimson’s mind. It was a means to keep him active on this mission without us knowing.”

“And the body at Roosevelt Hospital?”

“A John Doe. I just received a report from the team I dispatched up there this morning. Stimson filled all the holes in neatly. McCracken’s still out there and the box office refused to validate his call because we deactivated his file upon termination.”

“But we know he wasn’t terminated. And right now he’s the only man who can tell us what Andy was on to that led to his death.”

“Finding him won’t be easy,” McCall said somberly. “He’s too good, too professional. He’s got no reason to trust us and he’ll kill any man who gets too close. We’ll just have to hope that he calls in again.”

“What are the chances of that?”

“Slim. He knows he’s alone and that’s the way he’ll plan to keep it now.”

“Goddammit, Bart!” the President fumed. “I can’t believe you’re telling me all we can do with an entire intelligence network out there is to wait.”

“And if he surfaces, hope we can move fast enough.”

“To catch McCracken?” the President posed sarcastically. “Just make sure your boys have their running shoes on.”

The address the caller told Sandy to meet him at was located in a rundown slum section of the steel and glass city known as the Fifth Ward, just past the University of Houston. The population of the Fifth Ward was almost exclusively black, living in shanties and patchwork buildings, some dating back forty or more years. Scattered among them were numerous, more modern apartment buildings constructed at optimistic intervals by men who envisioned that Houston’s great revitalization would stretch to here. It never did, of course, and the buildings had become tax write-offs left to their own fate.

It made no sense, Sandy thought as she gazed up at an abandoned six-story apartment building with boards nailed where most of the windows used to be. Why would the caller have chosen this place to meet?

Sandy had used a rear exit of the Four Seasons to avoid the man in the cream-colored suit or anyone else Dolorman may have had watching her. And now she started across the desolate street with her handbag clutched close, as if she expected someone at any moment to dash by and strip it from her grasp. The steps leading up to the building were still sturdy, and her high heels were grateful for that much. The door had splintered holes where locks had been ripped out. She guessed this building served now as a local youth hangout and perhaps as a temporary haven for squatters passing through the golden South.

The door creaked as she swung it open and the stench assaulted her immediately. It seemed a combination of dust, mold, sweat, and spoiled food. Inside the lobby Sandy noticed a series of steel mailboxes in the wall. They were missing their fronts, and the names of former residents were so dust-covered as to be unreadable. The stairway up lay right before her and her high heels clicked against the wood floor as she approached it.

The caller had instructed her to meet him in apartment 4C. Sandy started up the stairs and grasped for the bannister. The rotted wood wavered, the bannister’s structure standing virtually free and unattached. The steps squeaked as she took them, and she hugged the wall close for support. Finally the first flight was behind her. She started up the second, a bit more confident now.

She was halfway up that one when a step gave out. Her foot plunged right through the wood and most of her leg followed. She groped for something to grab, but there was nothing. Her fingernails scraped futilely at the wall, and she had a vision of plunging all the way down into the cellar and dying among the rats.

In the end she plunged down only up to her thigh. She struggled to still her trembling and began to lift her leg from the hole, careful not to tear any flesh on the ragged splinters rimming the opening. She managed to save her shoe, but her stocking was shredded. Sandy paused briefly to steady herself, got her breath back, and started on again.

This time she was more careful with each step, testing the wood before giving it all her weight. Clearly these steps could take only the weight of the children who used the abandoned building as a retreat. Evidence of their presence in the form of ant-infested candy wrappers littered each level. Nervously she reached the fourth floor, already dreading the trip down.

There were six apartment units on each floor, and most of the labels over the doors were long since missing. She was looking for 4C and had to rely on impressions outlined on the wood to tell which was which. Four C turned out to be the last one down on the left, and the floor leading down the corridor toward it seemed no more sturdy than the stairs. She moved so tentatively that even the clicking of her heels was stilled. She reached the door and knocked lightly.

“Hello?”

No response from inside.

“Hello? It’s Sandy Lister. …”

Still no response. Sandy knocked again.

The door swung open, and Sandy stepped into the murkiness. Surprise clogged her throat. The apartment was actually furnished with several chairs and a couch. She saw a desk, several lamps, and half-eaten boxes of Dunkin’ Donuts and Kentucky Fried Chicken strewn over the windowsills. The lamps weren’t on, so the only light came courtesy of the afternoon sun. Its rays shone softly through windows caked with dirt even a razor blade couldn’t scrape off.

Sandy moved farther inside and switched on a lamp. Its light did little to change the room’s dimness. But there was another room off to the right. She had started for it, when the door behind her closed softly. Sandy spun and saw three men coming toward her. A bald-headed man was one, a brawny hulk holding a huge pistol the second …

And Stephen Shay was the third. Stephen Shay, executive producer of the network news division and her boss at Overview, standing between two men with the promise of death in their eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sandy,” was all he said.

Chapter 23

“Really I am,” Shay added calmly before she had found her breath again.

Sandy tried to ask a question, but there was only air. Her throat felt as if it had been stuffed with tissue paper.

“T.J.,” she managed finally, and it took all the effort she could muster.

“He became a problem, I’m afraid,” Shay told her matter-of-factly. “Too much of a risk that he’d contact the authorities before much longer. We couldn’t have that.”

“Who’s we?”

“Does it matter?”

“You killed T.J., didn’t you?”

Shay’s silence answered her question.

“You’ve been a part of this all along,” she charged. “A part of Krayman!”

Shay stepped farther into the apartment, the bald-headed man and the hulk staying in his shadow. He shook his head regretfully at Sandy.

“I never imagined you’d get this far,” he said. “I underestimated your abilities and your persistence. Now both are going to cost you.”

“You’re going to kill me, too, is that it?” Sandy shot out at Shay, glad for the fury that distracted her from her terror.

Shay glanced away. His brown three-piece suit looked totally out of place in the decaying building. Somehow he had made it up the stairs without gathering a single speck of dirt.

“I tried to convince them to let me reason with you,” he said. “I told them I could explain the situation to you, make you join us.”

Sandy knew she needed time if she was going to get out of this. “I’m listening.”

Shay shook his head. “They didn’t. Their orders were precise. You know too much, more than anyone else alive outside a small circle.”

“About what, Stephen? That’s the one thing I don’t know, you see.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“I think it does.”

He regarded her impatiently. “You really don’t know what you’re dealing with here, do you? You really don’t understand the scope of their influence.”

“Influence that’s just beginning to make itself felt. Right, Steve? It’s got something to do with a few billion dollars worth of ultra-density microchips and a mechanical monster in outer space with the power to blow up space shuttles. Just tell me if I’m getting warm.”

“This has gone far enough.” Shay started forward.

“This isn’t easy for me, Sandy. Please believe that.”

“Stow your bullshit somewhere else, boss.” Sandy started backing up, searching for a means of escape, a weapon, anything. She had to keep Shay talking, had to buy herself as much time as he would sell.

“That’s enough,” Shay told her, and his two henchmen drew up even with him. The fat hulk holstered his pistol. “This has to look like an accident, Sandy. If you struggle, it will only prolong the pain.”

“Does Krayman own the whole network? Or is it just you? How powerful is he, Steve? The only damn thing he doesn’t own is the country, and that’s what he’s going after, isn’t it?” Sandy had gone as far back as she could. Her shoulders rested against cracked and splintered windowpanes. Her hand grazed one and she felt a stinging prick from the daggerlike shard. “What’s Krayman got in store for the good old U. S. of A., boss? What’s he going to use his killer machine in the sky for?”

Shay gazed at her vacantly. He made no reply as the bald-headed man and the fat hulk advanced even closer to her.

It has to look like an accident.

They were going to throw her out the window! Famous reporter falls to her death while investigating story in rickety apartment building. …

Her fingers closed on the daggerlike shard of glass and snapped it free. She let the fear show on her features and begged the approaching pair off with her eyes.

“No, please, no.” Then to Shay, “Make them stop, Steve, please,” she pleaded, her voice strained with just enough desperation.

The bald-headed man came in first toward her left side, leaving the right for his lumbering fellow. For that instant Sandy’s right hand was free, and an instant was all she needed.

She brought her glass dagger up in an ascending arc. There was no designed aim in the move. Impact anywhere would have satisfied her. She felt a thud and then the sensation of flesh giving way as the shard plunged inward. Sandy saw the thicker half protruding from the bald-headed man’s throat as his eyes bulged and he began to retch. He stumbled into the hulk and Sandy darted past both. Stephen Shay moved to cut her off, but she crashed through him and bolted into the corridor.

She knew the advantage was hers. It was slim, though, and wouldn’t last long if anything slowed her up. She reached the stairway and started down to the third level.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs from below. How could she have been so careless? Of course Shay would have left another man in the lobby to guard against possible intrusion. If she continued down, she would run straight into him. If she ventured back upstairs, Shay and the hulk would have her easily.

That left the third floor as her only option, and she swung down a corridor that was identical to the one on the fourth. She was sprinting now, oblivious to the precarious flooring and not caring that the loud clicking of her heels might give her away.

Voices mingled behind her, men meeting one another and conferring desperately. Sandy started trying doors.

The first two were locked, but the third lacked a knob altogether. She hurried through it and crossed the living room floor to the window overlooking the street. This one was in far worse shape than the one she had grasped the shard from upstairs, and it resisted not at all when she hoisted it open to permit her access onto the fire escape.

She had them now. Three flights descent and she would be gone.

Sandy’s heart sank as her eyes surveyed what would have been her route to the ground. A large section of steel stairs was missing between the first and second floors. Going down by this means was impossible. That left her only with up. Not bothering to consider the ramifications of her strategy further, Sandy squeezed out the window and started climbing the fire escape as quickly as her high heels would permit, cursing the shoes for restricting her.

The voices found her ears again when she passed outside the fifth story and headed toward the sixth and final one. She didn’t look back, for a downward glance would only serve to slow her flight.

“No!” a voice she thought was Shay’s screamed from a window beneath her. “No bullets, dammit!”

Her death still had to look like an accident. That meant she had a chance. She climbed from the fire escape onto the roof. She stumbled on the edge, fell to her face, and rose quickly to survey her next available move.

There weren’t many choices. A jump to another building was her only chance, but of four possibilities, two were stories higher than this structure and one was far out of range. That left her with a building the same height as this one an alley’s width away. Afraid that hesitation would make her task impossible, Sandy kicked off her heels and backed up to get a running start. The jump was eight feet, possibly ten. She had to do it now.

Sandy threw herself into motion, dashing across the roof with her eyes fixed on her target. During the instant she was airborne, she resigned herself to not making it across and tensed in anticipation of certain death.

Then she landed hard on the other side and tucked into a roll at impact. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the fat hulk hesitate before following and heard Stephen Shay’s desperate orders as she located the rooftop door. Her hands twisted the knob and found the door was open. A bullet clanged against its outer frame as she slammed it behind her. Obviously, Shay had abandoned his original strategy of “creating” an accident. She had beaten him.

But there remained six flights of stairs to descend, and Sandy took them quickly, without even bothering to consider use of another untested bannister. The first two flights came easily.

Halfway down the third she felt her leg give out, then realized fast it wasn’t her leg at all, but an entire section of the staircase. She grabbed on to the bannister as she tumbled, but it gave way and she felt herself falling. She tensed against the expected impact. It came quickly, but Sandy found herself still in motion, toppling down the flight of stairs she had landed on. She held tightly on to consciousness as she rolled to a stop and pushed herself tentatively to her feet. None of her wounds seemed serious, but it was difficult to tell. She touched her fingers up to her cheeks and they came away warm and wet, sticky with blood from several small gashes. The areas where it came from felt numb and swollen. She knew shock might overcome her and fought against it.

Her first step caused her right ankle to give out beneath her. The injury might not be serious, but it was enough to slow her down and that made it serious enough. She started down the fourth staircase, relying on the bannister now, though careful not to lean against it.

If Shay and the hulk had followed by way of the roof, they would now have to negotiate past the hole left by her plunge through the staircase, and that would slow them down considerably. That thought fueled her resolve even as she heard the first sounds of footsteps from above. Sandy turned onto the third flight.

A burly monster reached out for her. One hand grasped her throat, and as the other joined it, Sandy realized she had forgotten about the man Shay had left in the lobby of the other building, a costly oversight, because now he had her.

Sandy used her nails as weapons, digging as deeply as she could into his eyes and flesh. The man screeched in pain but held tight and slammed her hard into a wall. She felt plaster crack behind her and tried to knock the man’s hands aside, but he was too strong for her. Her legs would have made able weapons, except with one rendered useless it took all her strength just to keep the other from collapsing. She moved sideways across the wall, trying to keep the man’s grip from shutting off her air totally. She went for his face again, but he extended her at arm’s distance and she couldn’t reach him.

His fingers closed tightly on her throat, his raw cheeks dripping blood. Sandy felt her breath choked off, felt the tremendous pressure in her head an instant before she began to grow numb. Her hands flailed frantically, finding nothing.

Sandy realized she was dying. Her eyes remained open, but her sight was dimming. Her ears heard only the raspy breathing of the man who was killing her.

Suddenly there was a crash and a scream from behind her. Distracted, her killer’s grasp slackened. Sandy found the strength to struggle, swinging her entire body around to break free. She didn’t understand what had happened, but she knew she had an opening, a chance to live, and she grabbed for it.

Sandy threw herself toward the staircase as the killer grasped for her again. When he shoved her toward the bannister, though, instead of resisting, Sandy just twisted into his motion so his force carried him by her. She pushed against him with all her strength while he was still off balance and heard his scream mix with the shattering of wood as he crashed through the railing and plunged three floors down.

She swung around and came face-to-face with the fat hulk’s body impaled on some of the boards her fall had splintered. He had fallen through the same hole to his death. His limbs were twitching. Blood poured from his mouth.

That left only Stephen Shay between her and escape. She limped down to the next level. Just one more staircase to go and she was free. Suddenly she stopped.

The staircase leading to the lobby was totally rotted out. She swung as quickly as she dared and limped down the hallway, past doors splintered or missing. Her eyes and ears were alert for Shay’s approach. She fought to imagine the layout of the building based on what she had seen of it. Part of the fire escape was still intact, accessible from rooms just a little farther on.

The floor gave way on her next step. She felt herself plunging downward and reached out with her hands, grabbing hold of what remained of the flooring. Her feet dangled in the black air beneath her. She looked down.

There was a wide, jagged hole below that went all the way to the cellar, a drop of almost thirty feet, with a pile of sharp, pointed wood and cement chunks waiting for her. Sandy felt panic seize her at the same time her grip on the rotting wood above began to slip. Somehow she had to find the strength to pull herself up with her throbbing fingers.

Sandy began to hoist herself upward, raising her upper body to take as much strain from her fingers as possible. It did little good. The pain was phenomenal and she had little power left in her arms and hands.

A shadow loomed above her. Sandy gazed up and saw Stephen Shay move emotionlessly to a position directly over her hands.

“Help me, Steve,” she said softly, not pleading. “Help me.

His initial expression had given her hope, but it evaporated before her words were finished. Saying nothing, he brought the soles of his scuffed and dusty European loafers in line with her fingers and raised the tips. He would crush the fingers and she would plunge to her death, or to a crippled agony in which she would linger for hours before death claimed her. Resistance was futile. The end had come.

The tips of Shay’s loafers had just reached her fingers when a muffled spit found Sandy’s ears. Above her, Shay’s face seemed to disintegrate into nothing as he rocked backward, freeing her fingers. One of her hands nonetheless lost its perch, and the second was sliding off, when a set of powerful hands locked onto her wrists and in one swift motion yanked her up through the cavern that had threatened to swallow her.

Breathless with relief, tears streaming down her cheeks to mix with the blood, Sandy found herself gazing at a man who looked somehow familiar. No, not the man, just his suit.

A cream-colored suit. It was the man who had followed her from the hotel!

He retrieved his silenced, still smoking pistol from the floor as he spoke.

“We’ve got to get out of here. More of them will be coming.”

His words emerged with measured concern, not panic. His cream-colored suit showed barely a stain or tatter from the rotted building. His eyes swept the corridor like a light-house beam guiding ships through the night.

He holstered his gun. “You’re hurt,” he said, moving toward Sandy. “Here, lean on my shoulder. There’s a fire escape that’ll get us out of here just up ahead.”

“Who are you?” she asked, finally finding her voice.

“Later,” the man said, and he led her off.

Chapter 24

MCCRACKEN HEADED THE cleaning van through the Atlanta darkness toward the headquarters of the People’s Voice of Revolution. Sahhan’s nonprofit institution owned a modern ten-story office building located on the outskirts of the Fairlie-Poplar District in the shadow of the famed Peachtree Center. An hour before, the heavy security outside and in the building’s lobby had convinced Blaine that Sahhan was inside. His problem then became how to gain access to the building.

The cleaning van had provided his answer. The real janitor was now unconscious in the back. His baggy overalls made a good enough fit on Blaine’s frame.

He had been met at the airport by a man contacted by Sal Belamo. There was nothing official about the arrangement. Just an agreement between friends. The man would not provide backup, his job being only to deliver a gun to McCracken and then take him to Sahhan’s headquarters.

Blaine swung the van around in a wide U-turn and brought it to a halt directly before the main entrance to the building.

“I’m new,” he shouted to one of the guards. “Can you tell me where the service entrance is?”

“Around to the side that way,” the guard shouted back, pointing.

“Thanks,” Blaine said, and drove off again.

The service entrance was located just past a ramp that led into a private parking garage. Two guards stood on either side of the door. Blaine climbed out of the van and without acknowledging them moved to the rear doors and hoisted a floor polisher out. The real janitor’s body lay under furniture covers.

“You got a pass, man?” one of the men asked.

Blaine fished in his pockets for the picture ID belonging to the real janitor. He had been hoping displaying it wouldn’t be necessary to gain access into the building. He bore only a slim resemblance to the man he was impersonating.

The guard checked his face against the ID. “This don’t look much like you, man.”

“It’s the beard. Didn’t have it six months ago.”

The guard was still looking.

“Hey, look,” Blaine said suddenly, coolly, “you want me to leave, I get right in the van and head for home. Don’t mean shit to me, boss. I got two guys out sick and I just as soon watch the Hawks game on TV. Up to you.”

The guards exchanged glances, then shrugged.

“Keep the badge pinned on you anyway,” the first one told him. “And wear this under it.”

He handed Blaine a visitor’s badge and Blaine immediately clipped it onto his pocket and started to back the floor polisher toward the door. One of the guards held it open. Then he was inside, the pounding in his chest starting to slow down. He wondered what might have happened if they had checked the machine before letting him enter. Would they have found the pistol he had wrapped inside the coils of the cord? No matter now. Blaine pulled it free and jammed it into one of his spacious pockets.

He dragged the floor polisher across the tile, his mind searching for a means to locate Sahhan and get in to see him. It seemed crazy, but back in New York Blaine had concluded that his best strategy now lay in convincing the black radical that he was being used, that he was merely a tool for a white billionaire. McCracken would offer his own knowledge of the plan as proof and hope Sahhan believed him. If he found Sahhan, he would have to find a way to convince him. It was as simple as that. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

Without realizing, Blaine had pushed the floor polisher straight into the lobby, which was congested with guards. Too late to turn around; that would draw even more attention to him. So he crossed the floor en route to the elevators.

A pair of Sahhan’s guards appeared on both sides of him. Blaine looked up briefly, then back at his polisher. His heart was thudding against his chest again. He followed them into the elevator.

One of the men hit the button marked 10 for the top floor. McCracken feigned pulling his hand back as if that were his choice as well.

“Sorry, that floor will have to wait for tomorrow,” an icy voice informed him.

“I don’t work Christmas Eve, boss,” Blaine said.

The speaker just shook his head. “Not tonight.”

Without protest, Blaine hit the 9. The tenth floor was closed to him. He had found Sahhan. But which office? Where on the tenth floor would he be? Each floor contained yards and yards of corridors. There was no way he could check the room arrangements on the tenth.

The elevator stopped on nine. Blaine backed out and dragged his floor polisher after him. This level seemed deserted. All the doors along the corridor were closed, and only the standard night lighting was in use. His quarry was above him. Somewhere. Well guarded, too well guarded to reach easily. There had to be a way.

McCracken started to unwind the polisher’s cord, pretending to search for an outlet in case his actions were being viewed on the building’s closed circuit television monitors. His mind kept working, though. He could take the stairwell up but it, too, would be guarded and even if he overcame the guards, there would still be too many obstacles to surmount before he reached Sahhan. He needed a direct route into the fanatic’s office, but how?

His first thought was to make an approach from the outside by scaling the building. Its design, though, was quite modern, the side little more than a sheet of glass.

Blaine looked up at the ceiling and felt a thin smile cross his lips. If this was of the standard office building design, there would be an insulated crawlspace between each floor. The top floor, the tenth in this case, would have an attic over it containing duct work, wire conduits, and plenty of room to maneuver if he could get up there. Blaine logged the options through his mind. The stairwell was out, as was the elevator. …

Wait! The elevator! Certainly he couldn’t use it in the traditional sense, but what if he improvised? With the polishing machine behind him, he moved to the elevator bank and pushed the down button.

The doors chimed open thirty seconds later and Blaine breathed easier at the sight of an empty compartment. He entered routinely, machine in tow. Once inside, he flipped the switch that would lock the doors open and, more important, hold the elevator in place.

McCracken’s eyes focused on the trapdoor above him. There was no sense worrying about the possible discovery of the inoperative elevator on the ninth floor and the subsequent investigation. He would have to hope that with everything else on their minds, the security guards wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

The trapdoor was well out of his reach, and Blaine did not want to venture into an office for a chair or something to provide a boost. Then he realized he already had just that in his faithful floor polisher. It was certainly heavy and sturdy enough to support his weight. With the base propped against the wall, it would do fine as a makeshift ladder.

Blaine had to get a yard off the floor and the polisher enabled him to do it. His hands pushed the trapdoor open and shoved it aside. Hanging tightly on to the edge of the opening, he pulled himself up into the shaft above the compartment, eyes widening to grow accustomed to the suddenly dim light. The smell of grease and oil flooded his nostrils as he climbed atop the elevator’s roof and reached out to test the cables. They were slippery but strong. His eyes probed around him.

What he sought lay fifteen feet up, an opening in the shaft half the size of a door. The opening would permit him access to the attic that lay directly above the tenth floor, thereby providing him with a direct route to Sahhan’s office from above. Blaine tested the cables one last time and started to climb.

The going was extremely slow. The grease on the cables coated his hands and made it hard to get a grip. Every time he removed a hand from the cable, he had to lower it to his white uniform and wipe it clean. Then he would pull himself up a bit more and lower the other. He found a twisted rhythm to the process and finally reached the doorway. It was latched but not locked. Blaine held tight with his hands on to the cable as he thrust his legs out and forced the door open.

He maneuvered his body through and crawled inside. In the near darkness he made out miles and miles of wire conduits and overlapping duct work, all in neat and orderly patterns. The heat was stifling, adding sweat to the grease coating his flesh, and Blaine started pulling himself along on his stomach, skirting some obstacles and passing under others. The tenth floor would be deserted except for Sahhan and his guards. He needed to find a reasonable cluster of activity, at least voices, to tell him he had found his mark.

He wanted to do his best to avoid the corridor. Guards would be poised there, and they might be alerted by scraping noises coming from above. Stiff and cramped, the heat cooking his flesh, McCracken crawled cautiously forward. He stopped when he heard a voice beneath him, muffled by the insulation, precise words indistinct. The words came in spurts lined with pauses. Sometimes the spurts were long, sometimes not. A phone conversation, Blaine realized. It had to be Sahhan, which meant he was directly over the militant’s office.

A few yards later, over what he judged to be the room next to Sahhan’s office, Blaine found a trapdoor which, when opened, revealed the layers of fiber glass insulation below. He stripped them away until the white drop ceiling panels were revealed and reached down to slide one back.

Beneath him was an empty room lit by a single lamp. He slid the panel back farther and lowered his head through to gain a better view.

It was a meeting room, dominated by a large conference table surrounded by chairs. McCracken’s eyes, though, went straight to an inner door connecting this room with the one next to it: Sahhan’s office. Blaine praised his luck.

He slid the ceiling panel all the way out and lowered himself softly onto the conference table below. He stepped down from it just as lightly. The carpet swallowed what little sound his stride made as he moved to the connecting door.

The knob gave enough to tell him it was open. He could hear Sahhan’s voice clearly now coming from the other side.

Blaine fit the silencer onto the barrel of the automatic Belamo’s contact had provided. He moved his shoulder against the door and grasped the knob tightly.

Then he burst into Sahhan’s office.

Chapter 25

“Put it down. Slowly.”

McCracken’s rapid inspection of the dimly lit office showed no guards, only Sahhan seated behind his desk holding the telephone receiver tightly to his ear and wearing sunglasses as usual. Blaine stepped closer and made sure the fanatic saw his gun.

“Tell whoever you’re talking to that something demands your immediate attention. Not a word different. Say one and I’ll kill you now.”

Sahhan obeyed the instructions exactly. Blaine could sense the fear in his eyes behind the dark lenses. The receiver clicked into its cradle.

“But you haven’t come here to kill me, have you?” Sahhan asked.

“Not unless I have to.”

The radical shook his head and turned his chair to better face McCracken. “No, if you had meant to kill me, you would have done so already. You’re a professional. Professionals do not need to arouse their anger to motivate their kills.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one.” Sahhan leaned forward, his face screwed up into a tight ball. “Wait, I know you. You were at the reception a few days ago at George Washington. Mr. Goldberg, wasn’t it?”

“It was Goldstein.”

“And so, Mr., er, Goldstein, if you have not come here to kill me, what can I do for you? Surely you know that there are guards everywhere in this building, so you cannot possibly hope to get away with whatever it is you expect to.” Sahhan moved his sunglasses lower on his nose, as if to get a better look at the man holding the gun on him. “But then, that wouldn’t bother a man of your resources, would it? After all, you discovered a way in here. I’m sure you’ve devised a way out as well.”

“You’re going to escort me out yourself, Sahhan.”

“Kidnapping?”

Blaine shook his head. “A decision you’ll arrive at yourself after you’ve heard what I’ve come to say.”

“If you plan to ask more challenging questions, I assure you that the answers will—”

“No questions this time. Just statements. I know about Christmas Eve.”

Sahhan’s expression didn’t waver. “I suspected as much when you mentioned it at the reception. The proper people were alerted. Apparently they failed to eliminate you.”

“You called Randall Krayman or one of his representatives, am I right?”

Sahhan’s mouth dropped. Any words that might have been about to emerge were lost.

“Don’t bother answering, Sahhan, I already know the truth. Krayman’s financing your private army. He’s bankrolled this entire Christmas Eve rampage of yours and even set you up with Luther Krell to make sure your men were outfitted with the proper weapons.”

Sahhan looked away. “Knowledge can be a dangerous weapon itself, sometimes a mortal one.”

“So can guns. And in this case you know about only half of them.” Blaine moved behind the desk until he was barely a yard from Sahhan. He could see the fanatic stiffen. “Listen closely, Sahhan, because here’s where the fun begins. Krayman’s been using you all along. You’re part of a much greater plan. I’ve just come back from an island in the Caribbean called San Melas. Krayman owns it. He’s been training mercenaries there for God knows how many months, training them to destroy your troops once they’ve accomplished their purpose. I’m not talking about just your troops either. You personally will pose too much of a threat for him to leave around. Krayman’s after some kind of ultimate control. The PVR was important to him only because it would give him an excuse to mobilize his private army into the nation’s streets.”

Sahhan looked at him calmly. “You have your facts wrong, Mr. Goldstein. It is I who am using Krayman. This entire affair was my idea.”

“No,” Blaine insisted. “Think back to your dealings with Krayman and his people. Weren’t they too neat, too clean? How many ideas did they put into your mind, how many words into your mouth? Where did you come up with the logistics for this strike? This is a large-scale operation, professional all the way. Krayman arranged consultations for you. Advice was given, so subtly perhaps that later you might have thought the ideas originated with you. There are men who specialize in such areas. Believe me, I know.”

“You know nothing!” Sahhan flared, his voice rising slightly. “You think I haven’t considered everything you’ve said? Krayman and I are working together to achieve mutual goals, but when all this is over, only mine will be achieved. There are fifteen thousand of my followers out there waiting for Christmas Eve to come. But once they begin to spread the justly deserved chaos throughout this nation, hundreds of thousands more will join them. The poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the frustrated — they will rally together against their oppressors. Then whatever else Krayman has planned won’t matter because he won’t be able to accomplish it without me. The paralysis will be total and only I will be in a position to lift it.”

“This is great,” McCracken said in disbelief. “He’s got a plan to double-cross you and you’ve got a plan to double-cross him. Now, that’s a match made in heaven if ever I’ve heard one. You really want to beat Krayman? Then call your troops in. Call off the Christmas Eve strike now. His mercenaries will be frozen in place, unable to mobilize because there will be nothing to mobilize against.”

“Even if these mercenaries exist, they will play right into my hands,” Sahhan returned, his eyes glowing. “Yes, their battles with my front-line troops will spur the rest of the oppressed into even faster action. I should have considered such a scenario myself.” His stare sharpened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my patience grows thin. …”

McCracken saw his finger move and lunged forward. Too late. The button beneath his desk had been pressed and the office door sprung open, a parade of guards charging through. Blaine grabbed Sahhan by the shoulder and jammed the silenced gun barrel against his temple. The guards froze, unsure, but held their own guns steady.

Then Sahhan broke the silence.

“Take him,” he ordered his guards. “He won’t kill me if it means he has to die himself.” His eyes shifted briefly to McCracken. “I know his kind.”

Blaine wanted to kill him just for that, but couldn’t pull the trigger. Sahhan’s guards approached slowly. McCracken turned his gun from the fanatic’s head and raised his hands in the air.

A sea of huge arms were upon him, grips as sure as iron. They yanked Blaine viciously toward the door, and he didn’t bother to protest, didn’t bother with one last-ditch attempt to sway the radical fool who sat grinning behind his massive desk.

“Deal with him in the usual manner,” Sahhan ordered his men. “But be especially careful. He may have friends watching him.” He slid the sunglasses back to the bridge of his nose. “See that they don’t have a chance to intervene. Now get him out of my sight.”

McCracken let himself be swept into the corridor toward the elevator. Guns were poking into him. He was shoved up against the wall and his janitor’s uniform searched as the compartment began to lower toward the garage level. Blaine’s senses sharpened. He would try his escape once in the garage, probably when a number of the guards’ hands were occupied with the doors of a car. If luck was on his side and the garage was dark enough, he might make it.

The compartment’s doors slid open at the garage level. One of the blacks hung back by the elevator, while the others escorted Blaine forward through the dark underbelly of the PVR building. One of them moved beyond the pack to scout ahead. That left four — two on each side, all huge and well armed.

They reached a dark Oldsmobile sedan. Two of the men stayed with Blaine while two others went for the doors. If Blaine was going to move, this was the time.

At that instant the man on his right reeled backward, his chest spewing a fountain of red. A muffled sound like the echo of a single heel clicking against pavement found Blaine’s ears as he plunged to the garage floor out of what he realized now was someone’s line of fire. A second black collapsed near him, his face gone.

The remaining guards rushed around, screaming to each other, one struggling to free his walkie-talkie. A pair of long, silenced bursts came, followed by a shorter one. There was a pause, after which two more shorter bursts ensued. The last of the blacks crumpled to the floor near the elevator. Blaine heard the sound of shoes rushing in his direction and rolled closer to the body of the first guard who’d been downed. His gun was still clutched in his hand. McCracken was reaching for it just as a man dressed all in black and holding an Uzi huffed to a halt over him.

“We’re on the same side!” the man screamed, but his words didn’t convince Blaine as much as the fact that he let the Uzi dangle by his side.

Then McCracken saw his watch, its luminous face glowing a strange blue in the darkened corner. He recognized the glow from Newport. This was the man who had saved him there! He pulled his hand away from the dead guard’s pistol.

“I’ve got a car waiting,” the man said. “Come on!”

“Who are you?” Blaine managed as he rose to his feet.

“Everything will be explained to you in time. Right now we’ve got a plane to catch.”

Francis Dolorman had been in his bedroom stuffing a large suitcase full of clothes when the call from Wells came.

“You’re certain?” Dolorman asked after the big man had completed his report.

“Our rebels have grown desperate,” Wells said, “and their desperation has led to their exposure. The evidence is irrefutable. Several are in custody and the rest are known to have gathered at the site in question.”

“And our response?”

“Already in the works. Just a few more hours and we’ll be ready. Dawn at the latest.”

“None of them can be allowed to escape, Wells. Crush them all.”

“Consider it done.”

The long drive northwest toward Louisiana and Arkansas had proved an exercise in frustration for Sandy Lister. The late afternoon hours had grown into early evening, then night, and finally midnight had come and gone. She had tried questioning the man who had saved her life and was now driving without rest, but his answers were evasive when he bothered to respond at all. Finally he began ignoring her altogether. That had been at least five hours before, when they crossed into Louisiana. Sandy remembered specifically because that was when she had given up asking. She tried to sleep but came quickly awake each time. The drive with a mysterious stranger who had saved her life was too unsettling to close her eyes to.

The brush with death was bad enough, never mind that it had come at the hands of a man she trusted. But Stephen Shay had probably belonged to Krayman all along. When one of his people had stepped severely out of line, it had become Shay’s responsibility to right matters. She felt little pity for his passing. No, what concerned her now was that somewhere an hour glass was emptying its sands, and when the last grain slithered down, an operation would begin that somehow involved a killer satellite in orbit around Earth.

Placed there by Randall Krayman, the man behind it all. Since the driver in the cream-colored suit would not answer her questions, Sandy was forced to make assumptions. Obviously, he worked for some force opposing Krayman. She had felt from the start that Kelno was part of something bigger, and now she was about to learn precisely what that something was.

Sandy amused herself by mentally charting their journey toward Little Rock, a route purposely erratic so the driver could watch constantly for tails in the rearview mirror. They passed the outskirts of Little Rock just before four A.M. and continued north on Route 40 and later 65. Past Greenbier, they swung onto a desolate, unpaved road. Sandy leaned forward over the dashboard to see what must be their final destination.

It was an ancient abandoned airport, its few buildings left to the whims of the elements. …

No, wait. It wasn’t abandoned. There were cars. And people. Specifically, men with guns watching from the shadows.

The driver drew the car to a halt apart from the others. Sandy climbed out and followed him forward. He waited for her to catch up and escorted her into a spacious lounge that was surprisingly well maintained. The man took his leave and closed the door behind him. Sandy heard something stirring and noticed a figure rising from a vinyl couch in the corner of the lounge.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” the man said as he stretched his arms. He was dark and virile-looking, his face creased and bearded. His eyes were the darkest Sandy had ever seen.

“I’m Sandy Lister,” she said.

“Blaine McCracken,” the man replied. The woman looked familiar to him, but he wasn’t sure from where. He had long before discarded the janitor’s overalls, but the clothes he had worn beneath them still felt greasy and stiff with dried sweat. “You come here often?” he asked the woman.

“Only under escort … and duress.”

“Yup. I know the feeling.”

“Then I guess we have something in common.”

“I’m beginning to think more than we realize. But, how was it put to me? ‘It will all be explained soon.’ ”

“Sounds familiar,” Sandy agreed.

The man moved closer to her. “Does the name Randall Krayman mean anything to you?” he asked suddenly.

Sandy felt her shoulders sag. “What made you—”

“Just testing.” McCracken smiled, and was about to say more when a voice from the doorway caught his and Sandy’s attention.

“The final exam is yet to come, unfortunately,” the voice said.

And into the room stepped Simon Terrell.

Chapter 26

McCracken could tell from the woman’s face that she recognized the man who had just entered. The stranger stepped closer and extended his hand.

“The name’s Simon Terrell. I won’t bother introducing myself to Miss Lister, because we’ve met before.”

Blaine took Terrell’s hand. “I got your name. But who are you?”

Sandy answered before Terrell had a chance to. “Head of a rebel faction from deep within Krayman Industries, the common denominator in our individual pursuits.”

“Miss Lister is not far off the mark,” Terrell acknowledged. “We couldn’t risk contacting either of you directly.”

“So you waited for me to contact you,” Sandy realized. “In Seminole.”

“I had faith in your initiative, but I had a man prepared to aid you just in case. You bought him a beer at the bar and grill.”

“Then when we met, why didn’t you tell me more? The truth, for instance.”

“Because your subsequent actions would have given me away. I knew then they were watching you. Seeking me out was a logical move on your part, and I had to make sure your moves continued to seem logical.”

“They still tried to kill me.”

“Your interview with Dolorman forced their hand. You had become more than a simple aggravation for them.” Terrell paused. “But there is much more you need to know, both of you. Between the two of you, you have almost all the pieces of the puzzle. Perhaps we can all help each other.” Terrell’s eyes focused on Sandy. “You first, Sandy. Tell us all what you’ve discovered.”

She had to think only briefly. “Basically that about ten years ago Krayman Industries stole an ultra-density microchip apparently to provide them with control over the telecommunications industry and later, somehow, the country. They’ve also got something up in the sky disguised as a satellite that destroyed the space shuttle Adventurer ten days ago.”

“This feels like show-and-tell,” Blaine quipped.

“Your turn, Mr. McCracken,” Terrell told him.

“Krayman is financing two armies,” Blaine started. “One is a black radical group poised for a Christmas Eve strike against major urban centers across the country. The other is a mercenary group devoted to wiping out the radicals once they’ve accomplished their task.”

“Which is?”

“Causing disorder, chaos, ‘total paralysis’ as their leader puts it.”

“And could they accomplish all that?”

“By themselves, no. But they could come damn close, kill an awful lot of people and terrify even more.”

“But what would stop them from succeeding at creating this total paralysis?”

“Channels of emergency response would be slower on Christmas Eve, but eventually they’d call up retaliation Sahhan and the PVR couldn’t hope to contend with. The army could mobilize a hundred thousand troops in a matter of hours. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. The country would be aware of what was happening within an hour of its start. People would know the situation was under control. That would cut down the effects of the strike significantly.”

Terrell was nodding now. “And if all the channels of communication suddenly broke down … or were broken down? What then, Mr. McCracken?”

Blaine felt stymied. “It’s … hard to say.”

“But unfortunately not so hard to bring about. Not anymore.” Terrell paused and traded stares with each of them. As if on cue, all three sat down stiffly. “The two of you have just exchanged twin sides of a plot that aims to control America. I worked closely on it for the final two years I spent with Krayman Industries. It wasn’t until four years after leaving that I realized the true scope of what I’d been involved in, so I went to the one man capable of stopping it: Randall Krayman. I made Randy realize that his dream had been perverted. He promised to put a stop to it.”

“So they killed him,” Blaine concluded.

Terrell nodded. “And concocted the entire ruse of his withdrawal from society. He had outlived his usefulness to them anyway, like so many others involved in Omega.”

“Omega?”

“The name of the plot the two of you have uncovered. By five years ago, the time of Krayman’s ‘disappearance,’ the wheels of Omega were already in motion.” Terrell hesitated and looked at Sandy. “You were right about why Krayman stole Hollins’s discovery. He needed control of the ultra-density microchip.”

“But why?” Sandy asked him.

Terrell’s hand stroked his chin. “Have either of you ever heard of a computer virus?”

“Vaguely,” McCracken responded. “Lab personnel can make themselves indispensable by putting bugs only they know about into programs.”

“In a simplistic sense, you’re not far off,” Terrell confirmed. “Let’s say an employee is worried about being fired or laid off. He programs a virus into the computer that will become active only if his password is deleted from the system. Once the computer registers the deletion, the virus begins to infest every major program in the company’s loop, deleting files, scrambling memory, and causing general havoc, possibly even including turning the entire system off.”

“So obviously,” McCracken noted, “this Omega involves Krayman Industries discovering a way of doing the same thing on a wider scale.”

“Much wider, Mr. McCracken,” Terrell added. “The whole country, to be exact.”

“How?” Sandy asked.

“You’ve got to know more about computer viruses in general to understand the answer to that,” Terrell told her. “Basically, a computer virus is not unlike a biological virus. Both invade a host’s body for the purpose of reproducing. Both are incredibly small at the time of initial entry: in the case of a computer virus, two hundred bytes of memory would be sufficient to get the process rolling. And both spread remarkably fast. A computer virus could infest every program in a major system in a matter of weeks by transmitting itself from program to program — from host to host. But the virus would be undetectable during this, its incubation period. Then when certain preprogrammed conditions are met, like the deletion of a password in the case of that disgruntled employee, the virus is released to attack the system with all its power, creating a kind of epidemic. By the time desperate programmers find the virus in their system, it will in effect be the system. The attack takes over the machine as easily as a biological virus makes its host sick.”

Terrell leaned forward. “There are two ways to create a computer virus. Either you program it into a chip already in place … or you make it part of that chip even before it’s installed into the computer.”

“Oh, my God,” Sandy moaned, goosebumps prickling her flesh. “The Krayman Chip …”

Terrell’s eyes confirmed she was right. “In Seminole, Sandy, I told you Krayman abandoned the direct-appeal approach for gaining control over the nation in favor of a technological one. The type of computer virus his scientists discovered provided this means. Keep in mind now that the key to any computer virus is a preprogrammed set of conditions stored inside a chip. The computer is waiting for something to happen or not to happen, depending on the individual programmer. Krayman scientists discovered a way to build a shutdown response into a memory chip. A billion microchips all waiting for the same signal which would cause them all to shut down their respective systems — that’s the essence of Omega. The only thing Krayman lacked then was the chip itself and, more, total control over the production market. He needed both if Omega was going to succeed.”

“Spud Hollins,” Sandy muttered.

“Exactly.” Terrell nodded. “There’s a saying in the computer industry that if you can’t come up with your own idea, steal someone else’s. Well, COM-U-TECH not only stole Hollins’s chip, they marketed it at a cost so low that they effectively became the sole supplier of this particular chip.”

“Used exclusively in telecommunications?” Blaine asked.

“And its various offshoots, yes. You’re starting to catch on to the scope of this plot, the utter monstrousness of it. So now we have a billion microchips in place all over the country in everything related to data transmissions, from television, to telephone, to commercial air travel. The chips are in place in all the machines, doing what they’re supposed to do, all the time waiting for the signal to come instructing them to shut down their systems.”

“And I suppose Krayman recruited a hundred thousand computer programmers to push the right button at the right time,” Blaine said incredulously.

“Not quite. It would take only one man with one button.”

“How?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

It was Sandy who spoke, though. “COM-U-TECH’s satellite that destroyed Adventurer. The signal to all those microchips is going to come from space.”

Terrell nodded deliberately. “It takes the satellite approximately sixteen minutes to cover the entire continental United States. During that time it will send a high frequency beam signal the chips are keyed into. When they receive it, all television and radio stations will cease broad-casting. The telephone will become useless and you can forget all about most business dealings, especially in the area of banking. Banks won’t have access to their computer logs, which means customers won’t have access to their money.”

“My God,” muttered Blaine. “The whole country will be—”

“Paralyzed, Mr. McCracken? You were fond of using that word before. You believed that Sahhan couldn’t accomplish the paralysis on his own. Probably not. But along with Omega, paralysis will be the inevitable result.”

“So the power gets knocked out—”

“Not the power,” Terrell corrected him. “Telecommunications and data transmissions in general. And those transmissions, records such as bank accounts, won’t be erased, they’ll just be frozen, rendered inaccessible.”

“Then what?” Blaine asked anxiously.

“Your timing is a bit off. As I understand it, the Omega phase of the operation is not scheduled to go into effect until several hours after Sahhan’s troops begin their simultaneous assault on urban centers at nine P.M. eastern standard time”—Terrell watched the sun rising beyond the windows— “this evening. Christmas Eve. The communications channels will be cut off just as the true panic begins, say, by midnight, after the shooting is well under way and the country has had an opportunity to be informed of it. Even a simple call to a police department or check of the television news will be impossible. The panic will escalate, feed off itself. All systems of control will break down.”

“And then Krayman’s mercenaries ride in like the cavalry to the rescue … unless the army beats them to it, of course. They’re set up for the kind of emergency you’re describing — civil defense in the event of nuclear war and all that. They’ve got backup communication facilities. No way to stop them from talking to one another.”

“Yes, there is,” Terrell said simply. “Communication backup facilities are useless if no one plans to issue any orders over them. Omega goes much deeper than machines. There are men who’ve been involved in it from the start who believe the time has come for a more central and enduring leadership for the country.”

“Peacher,” Blaine muttered. “Christ, it all fits. …”

“The military’s been infested at the highest levels,” Terrell continued, “levels that can effectively shut down the whole apparatus. The same holds true for your own intelligence community. It was Dolorman who isolated you and ordered your elimination. Only a few Krayman people have reached directory positions, but they are high enough to assume control while the chaos is proceeding and the various branches of the government are cut off from one another. Don’t you see? Through it all, Krayman people will be the only ones who will know precisely what’s going on. Everyone else will fall prey to whatever illusion is forced upon them.”

Something clicked in Blaine’s mind. “The mercenaries … The people will think they’re part of the real army, which has been paralyzed.”

Terrell nodded. “Exactly. And the mercenaries won’t just obliterate Sahhan’s troops, they’ll also complete their work by eliminating those who stand in Dolorman’s way, clearing a path for Krayman Industry plants to assume control. They’ll appear to be the good guys, which will make their job all the easier. Assassination, execution — in all the confusion who’s to know or judge? Without the media to turn to, the people will see only what’s directly before them: the army riding in to save the day against a vast insurrection and proclaiming martial law.”

“While the real insurrection is actually taking place,” Blaine concluded. Then he shook his head. “But I still don’t buy the army sitting on the sidelines while all this is going on. Your point about communications breakdown is well taken, but there’s still the chain of command to consider. They’re poised to function in an emergency, and Krayman Industries can’t possibly control all the levels.”

Terrell shrugged. “I’ve thought of that too. Obviously there’s something we’re not aware of. Dolorman’s got another way to neutralize the army for as long as he needs to and we’ve just got to accept that no help will be coming from that quarter.”

“You’re allowed to miss one thing,” Blaine told him. “Dolorman’s plan is brilliant. He hasn’t given you much.”

“That’s the second thing I may be missing,” Terrell said. “I’ve spent five years of my life organizing and controlling every move we’ve made. I’ve studied Dolorman. He’s a tremendous businessman, ruthless and cunning, but not very creative. I can’t believe this whole plan is really his.”

“So you think he’s fronting for someone?”

“But if not Krayman, then who?”

It was Sandy who broke the ensuing silence, changing the subject. “Why did you send Kelno to me, Simon?”

“Because our first hope was to use you to expose Omega after we learned you were planning a story on Krayman. But after Kelno was killed, you became only a distraction to draw Dolorman’s attention away from us. We continued to watch you and provide help when it was needed on the chance that you might still be of use to us eventually.”

“Did you know that Stephen Shay was one of them?”

“All the networks are infested with Krayman people who are poised to take control during the course of Omega. When the telecommunications system is switched back on, new men will be at the controls. In fact, that’s the essence of Omega. Control telecommunications and you control the nation. People will be allowed to see only what Dolorman wants them to see. He’ll be able to paint any picture he desires, stalling the ultimate return of all communications apparatus until the first line of his private sector and government forces are firmly in place.”

“You can’t tell me people aren’t going to question,” Blaine argued.

“Some will, but to what end? There’ll be no way to spread their views or link up with others who feel as they do, at least not soon enough.”

“And where does the destruction of the space shuttle come in?” Sandy asked.

“For its signal to be effective in reaching the billions of infected microchips,” Terrell replied, “COM-U-TECH’s satellite has to broadcast from approximately one hundred eighty miles above the earth’s surface. Although the satellite is invisible to ground station radar thanks to a sophisticated jamming apparatus, Adventurer’s orbit would have brought it into visual contact. Dolorman couldn’t have that. Originally, his satellite was armed to protect it from asteroids and space debris. But when Adventurer’s orbital flight plan showed a direct approach line, the satellite was programmed to attack. The damn thing’s invulnerable.”

“What about Pegasus?” Sandy reminded him. “You said it was armed, too, and it’s scheduled to go up—”

“The day after Christmas with a dry run on Christmas Day,” Terrell said. “It’s all very hush-hush and it doesn’t matter, because Pegasus will never get off the ground. Cape Canaveral and NASA are infested with Krayman Chips. Omega will make the launch impossible.”

“Which reminds me,” Blaine began, “while the whole country lies in the communication dark, what stops the Russians from blasting the hell out of us?”

“Very simply, the fact that missile defenses have received a different kind of Krayman Chip,” Terrell explained somberly. “Love for America was where this plot started and that same love prevented carrying out anything that would place the United States in a vulnerable position. NORAD, SAC, and all missile silos will continue to function, obviously under statuses of increased alert.”

“Dolorman seems to have thought of everything,” Sandy said softly.

“Maybe not,” Terrell said, and turned all his attention to McCracken. “We learned of your involvement through a source in Krayman security when your death was originally ordered. He was one of the men on the team that captured you in Newport.”

“The one who saved my life in Atlanta … and at the fronton.”

“We would have preferred to have picked you up there, but circumstances, of course, made that impossible. You see, Mr. McCracken, by then we had come to the conclusion that we needed you.”

“Somehow I don’t think I’m going to like this. …”

“I know your file, Blaine,” Terrell said, a bit uncomfortable using his first name. “I know about your somewhat checkered past. I know about McCrackenballs and all that goes with it. But I also know that you’re an expert in infiltration. It was your specialty in Vietnam, as I recall.”

“And after.”

“Good, because it’s needed now. COM-U-TECH’s killer satellite can be disabled only one way: by destroying the computer that controls it. This computer happens to be located on an island off the coast of Maine, also owned by Krayman, and protected by a formidable series of natural defenses.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Blaine stroked his chin dramatically. “You want me to get onto this island and pull the plug.”

Terrell nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so. The entire base of operations for Omega is centered there. But knock out the computer, and the satellite never turns the machines off, so the paralysis we’ve spoken of won’t have a chance to take hold.”

Blaine settled back. “Sounds simple enough. We get ourselves a plane, a few bombs, and knock the hell out of the island.”

“It’s not that simple,” Terrell interrupted. “It’s not enough to just take the island out. Believe me, we’ve considered that plenty of times ourselves. We wouldn’t need you for that. The problem is there’s still Sahhan’s troops to consider. The satellite’s destruction will not stop them from claiming thousands of lives, many of the designated victims being crucial to governing the country. Sahhan’s people are just as fanatical as he is. They’ve probably whipped themselves into a frenzy by now. There’s no telling what they might do, how many people they might kill for no reason. Tonight.”

Blaine thought quickly. “Then there must be some sort of abort signal for the troops in the event a change in plans.”

Terrell’s face showed frustration for the first time. “Of course. But there’s a complication.”

“Connected with the island in Maine no doubt,” Blaine said knowingly.

“Indeed. The abort signal is also programmed into the computer controlling the killer satellite. So destroying the island will also destroy our only chance of recalling Sahhan’s troops.”

“Is there any way we can duplicate the signal?”

Terrell shook his head. “Impossible. The abort signal will be a temporary activation of Omega’s effect on telecommunications between seven and eight P.M. tonight eastern standard time. If the radios or televisions Sahhan’s men are tuned to go dead for a five-second period during that time, they will know their Christmas Eve revolution is temporarily off.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Blaine, putting things together for himself as he spoke. “I have to get into this island headquarters, make sure the computer broadcasts the abort signal, and then destroy it. No problem. Piece of cake.”

“There’s more,” Terrell added tentatively. “We’ll need a printout of all Krayman Industries’ agents in place so we can give them to the proper authorities once Omega is exposed.”

“Just put it on my bill. …”

“You’ll have help, Blaine — every man here today, including myself.”

“You’re not a soldier, Terrell, and it’s gonna take some awfully good ones to pull this thing off.”

“Some of the others are soldiers. And damn good ones too.”

Blaine nodded. “Tell me about this island.”

“It’s called Horse Neck because of its irregular shape. The coastline is jagged, a natural defense that makes night approach virtually suicidal.”

“And we’ll be going in at night, right?”

“There’s no other way, believe me.” Terrell began probing through his pockets. “Let me show you a map. …”

Something caught Blaine’s ear, a familiar sound that set his heart beating faster. Overhead a mechanical whine grew gradually into a roar.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong? What is it?” Sandy asked.

McCracken swung toward Terrell. “We’ve got to get out of here! Come on, hurry!”

Terrell rose but didn’t move. “What are—”

“Planes, Terrell, coming in fast and probably ready to blow us to fuckin’ hell. They’re—”

The rest of Blaine’s words were drowned out. Fucking jet fighters!

He was trying to scream a warning when the first blast shook the building. Splinters of window glass exploded inward, becoming deadly projectiles. Instinctively, Blaine dove on top of Sandy, because she was closest to him and took her to the floor.

The glass sheared Terrell’s body like a hundred knives, mostly above the waist. His head was held in place only by a few sinews of stray skin. His body shook and writhed horribly.

More blasts came, every second it seemed, and the screams of dying men were all that could be heard through the blasts and the jets’ roar. More rubble showered down as Blaine left Sandy pinned to the floor and crawled over to Terrell’s corpse. He grasped a large piece of paper folded into quarters from the dead man’s pocket. The upper portion was bloodied, but the paper, Terrell’s map of Horse Neck Island, was still whole.

Away from him Sandy was starting to rise, gasping, fighting for a scream. Blaine lunged and tackled her. He brought her back down hard and covered her mouth with his hand to block out her sobs. More bits of the ceiling covered them, the entire structure collapsing a section at a time.

“Listen to me,” Blaine said into her ear. “Keep quiet and keep down. It’s our only chance to get out of this. Do you understand me?”

Sandy made no motion to indicate that she did. Instead, she kept squirming.

“Listen!” he commanded, and tightened his grip on her. “If they land at all, it won’t be for long. The won’t check all the buildings. They won’t be sure how many people were supposed to be here, so we’ve got a chance. If you want to live, don’t make a sound or a move. Keep struggling and I’ll kill you myself!”

Sandy stopped squirming. She looked into McCracken’s eyes and saw he was as scared as she was, while more of the ceiling crumbled above them.

En route to the airport the limousine made its last stop — Francis Dolorman’s home. It was seven A.M. sharp on Christmas Eve morning. The chauffeur gathered his bags and stowed them in the trunk while Dolorman climbed gingerly into the back. Verasco and Wells were already inside.

“Their base was located in central Arkansas,” Wells reported. “It’s been leveled.”

“Splendid,” Dolorman said, suppressing a grimace of pain. “And what of the man in Sahhan’s office who bore an uncanny resemblance to Blaine McCracken?”

Wells knew the remark was meant as an insult, but he shrugged it off. “We’ve got good reason to believe he was at the base in Arkansas.”

“So have we finally eliminated him this time?”

“With McCracken there are no guarantees. But even if he did manage to survive, there is nothing he can do that can possibly hurt us now. Without the rest of the rebels, he is alone.”

“He has been alone from the beginning, Wells.”

“Now, though, he is up against our island fortress, assuming he’s even aware of it. An army couldn’t penetrate its walls.”

Dolorman’s eyes dug into Wells’s single good one. “Your men checked this base in Arkansas thoroughly?”

“Enough to find no survivors.”

Dolorman turned to Verasco. “And everything is arranged at the airport?”

“I’ve bumped the schedule up a bit,” Verasco reported. “It seems Maine is going to be blessed with a white Christmas. There’s a blizzard in the forecast.”

The figure sat in the grove as the wind whipped snow from the sagging branches above him. He dropped a huge hand into a pouch worn on his belt and came out with a fistful of feed. He waited. Barely a minute later the first of the winter birds dropped down, followed swiftly by a pair of others. As always, they moved toward him tentatively, at last settling just close enough to peck the feed from his outstretched palm.

Birds had always been able to tell him much. On the day he had stepped into his greatest personal horror of the hell-fire, they had shown him the fruitless agony of death without reason, of women and children staggering with their insides sliding through hands cupped at their midsections and of men continuing to fire just for pleasure. He had not rested until those responsible were found. The birds would not have forgiven him otherwise, nor the souls of the tortured dead he had happened upon first. Discovering them made the souls his responsibility and the balance would be forever off if he failed them.

Today, though, the birds told him nothing. What was coming was beyond them, beyond all perhaps, its shape great enough to envelop everything at once so that even the birds wouldn’t feel the change. But nothing was ever shown to him without reason. He understood now that it would be left to another to lead him to the source of the shape. The past and present were swirling together, intermixing until the lines of distinction he had come here to forge became lost. He smiled, certain now who the other would be.

The birds emptied his hand without breaking flesh and the figure reached into his pouch for a fresh batch.