by Jon Land
“And did any malfunction occur on the flight?”
Coglan shook his head. “No. Everything was running green.”
“Just like Challenger …”
“No,” Coglan said defensively, “not like Challenger at all. The final transmission …” His voice trailed off.
Sandy’s eyebrows rose. No final transmission had been released to the press. “What transmission?”
Coglan backed off. “Miss Lister—”
“The shuttle was deliberately destroyed by someone, wasn’t it?”
Coglan hedged, then nodded slowly. “Or something. It’s been sealed tight under something called a Space-Stat alert, the space equivalent to a situation of war.”
“What happened up there, Captain?”
“All investigations have been sealed, as I said.”
“But there must be talk. There’s always talk.”
“Just rumors.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
“Off the record, right?” Coglan asked, needing the reassurance.
Sandy’s nod left no doubt.
Coglan sighed. “Drone satellites have just returned with pieces of the wreckage. It’s like nothing anyone’s seen before. The shuttle wasn’t just blown up, parts of it were totally vaporized.”
“Jesus …”
“The real anomaly lies in the fact that Houston’s radar board showed green the whole time Adventurer’s sensors were screaming bloody murder. Even when … whatever it was came into view of the astronauts, there was no evidence of it on any board back on Earth.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.”
“There are plenty of scientists with million-dollar salaries claiming the same thing. A few are actually theorizing the attack came from outer space, as if we finally had strayed too far into someone else’s territory.”
“You believe that, Captain?”
“Absolutely not. I’m a military man, Miss Lister, and I don’t buy passing off every unexplainable occurrence to some empire’s death star. A human finger pushed the button that destroyed Adventurer, and I’ve got a feeling whoever owns that finger isn’t finished yet.”
“A mess!” the President raged. “A goddamn raging, stinking mess!” He turned from the window of the Oval Office and faced Andrew Stimson. “Permission for you to use McCracken was revoked after the Paris incident. What in hell gave you the right to call him in on your own?”
Stimson found himself wishing fewer lights were on in the Oval Office so the fury on the President’s face wouldn’t be so obvious.
“Tom Easton gave me the right, sir,” he said plainly. “He was my man and somebody sliced him to bits. McCracken was my best bet, my only bet, to find out who did it and why. I felt his skills were the ones that were needed.”
“Skills that have brought the French to the verge of breaking off intelligence relations with us after his little escapade in Paris,” Barton McCall snapped.
“What about the three dead terrorists? Or doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Oh, it counts for plenty when the shooting was done on foreign soil by an agent who hasn’t had kill clearance for five years.” McCall paused, then raised his voice. “Plenty of embarrassment! And if that weren’t enough, he pulls a repeat performance on the streets of New York this afternoon. The streets of New York, Andy! If only that explosion had killed him once and for all …”
“What was McCracken doing on that boat in the first place?” the President asked.
“I explained that. Sebastian was connected with Madame Rosa. He set up Easton.”
“Then you knowingly let McCracken intrude on a Bureau operation?”
“I had to. There was no choice.” Stimson’s eyes flashed between the President and McCall, finding no support from either.
“The Bureau doesn’t share your view,” the President told him. “They’re steaming over this. Six months of surveillance and investigative work went down the drain.”
“Thanks to the bomb, not McCracken.”
McCall lit his pipe. “And what about this famous microfiche McCrackenballs miraculously discovered? Has it yielded anything yet?”
“It will,” Stimson said, not sounding as sure as he had tried to.
McCall puffed away. “You know, Andy, we could have avoided all this if you had kept closer tabs on the personal … tastes of your agents. Twins, Andy? I mean, really.”
“And what about Chen, Barton? Or is it routine for you to station your men in whorehouses to murder madams?”
McCall yanked the pipe from his mouth and held it out like a gun. “I had no knowledge concerning this man Chen until you informed me of his involvement this afternoon.”
“Maybe it’s you who should keep closer tabs on your agents.”
“Chen was freelance. On retainer with the Company but he filled plenty of other orders as well.”
“Enough, gentlemen!” the President broke in. “I’ll accept what’s happened because I have to. The question now is, how do we pick up the pieces? What’s McCracken’s condition, Andy?”
“He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness since the explosion. Moderate concussion and numerous bruises and lacerations. Nothing broken though. He’ll be duty-fit within a few days.”
“Then he’ll also be fit enough to be pulled out,” the President said flatly. “He’s become too much of a liability. As soon as he’s ready to travel, Andy, I want him brought down here to face a proper board of inquiry on the fiasco over in Paris so a determination can be made about his future.”
“Retirement, sir?” Stimson asked, his meaning clear.
“Normal retirement. I want him buried so deep he’ll never become a thorn in our side again.
“In a desk job, sir, or a casket?”
Sandy Lister met with T.J. Brown in his office first thing Thursday morning. She began stripping off her coat as he looked up from his computer terminal.
“Benjamin Kelno is clean as driven snow, boss,” he reported, punching up the results of his labors on the monitor screen.
Disappointed, Sandy sat down before it. She had hoped something in Kelno’s background would offer some clue as to where he came into possession of the orbital flight plan he died planting on her.
“He spent the last twelve years of his life with the COM-U-TECH division of Krayman Industries,” T.J. began, highlighting the information displayed on the monitor, “in the research and development areas. He was instrumental in creating The Krayman Chip, but as so often is the case in these matters, he received no credit.”
“Disgruntled?”
“Not openly. His salary was six figures, he was promoted four times, and he left a loving wife and family. As near as I can tell, he turned down numerous offers from Krayman competitors in Silicon Valley, but there’s no evidence he ever even interviewed with any of them.” T.J. stopped and leaned back. “Now it’s your turn. How’d it go with Coglan?”
Sandy moved away from the monitor screen. “Adventurer’s destruction was no accident, that much is for sure. And whoever blew it out of the sky would have needed to know its orbital flight plan.”
“Kelno’s disk,” T.J. muttered. “Krayman Industries …”
“I’m not ready to make that connection yet.”
“Sure, boss. But if it’s true, and they killed Kelno because he tried to bring the story to you, it’s not hard to figure who they’ll be going after next.”
“Calm down. Your own research doesn’t show a damn thing that supports that conclusion. Krayman Industries is after control of the media. Destroying space shuttles doesn’t fit there anywhere I can see. Who knows what Kelno might have been up to in his spare time?”
“We going to Shay with this yet?”
“Give me a couple more days.”
“For what?”
“You’re the one who said Krayman Industries and Randall Krayman were one and the same. My first interview is scheduled for tomorrow with a man who’s got good reason to drag mud th
rough the Krayman Tower. If something’s going on there, he just might know what it is.”
Chapter 9
FRANCIS DOLORMAN LOOKED nothing like the stereotype of the chief executive officer of a multi-billion-dollar consortium. As the man who succeeded the great Krayman upon his withdrawal five years before, he craved little attention and received even less. Anyone passing his small, thin figure on the street would never give him a second look and barely even a first.
Though Francis Dolorman was powerful and prominent, he did not throw lavish parties. He did not wine and dine political officials. He did not dream of his picture on the cover of Time, Newsweek, or People, and would have refused such a request if it were ever made of him. He preferred to lurk in relative obscurity. Public invisibility was a godsend because it permitted movement.
Dolorman had lived by that credo for the five years he had managed Krayman Industries and for many years previously. That such a seemingly meek, almost shy man could have risen to such a position would have been impossible if not for the calculating soul that lurked within. For as long as he could remember, Dolorman had thrived on others’ underestimation of him. To be able to surpass a rival before he even considers you a threat is a great gift, especially in the world of business. Dolorman took tremendous pride in that advantage and saw no reason to change things at so late a stage in his life and career.
Similarly, he took pleasure in the fact that he could enter the Krayman Tower in Houston and move to his private elevator without drawing so much as a glance from his own employees. Only those who saw him arrive in his limousine, the one luxury he allowed himself, might gawk briefly or stammer out a greeting. Dolorman would smile back but never stop for a hello or, God forbid, a conversation. The less people knew about him, the better.
The limousine pulled to a halt before the main entrance of the Krayman Tower Thursday morning and Dolorman eased himself gingerly out. He had been on a destroyer sunk by a Japanese kamikaze in World War II and his back had suffered the brunt of the damage. The pain seldom let up, and like everything else in life, it was just something you got used to.
Because Dolorman could swallow his emotions as deftly as his pain, the anxiety he felt this morning showed not the slightest trace on his features. His skin was conspicuously pale, as usual, and his white hair cropped close enough to resemble a solid sheath. He made a straight, solitary path toward his private elevator and rode it to his office on the fifty-third and top floor. His mind recited the various management facilities of Krayman holdings as he passed them floor by floor with the flashing of different numbered lights.
His secretary eyed him subserviently as he moved lightly from the elevator. The pain in his back made Dolorman’s steps seem a glide rather than a walk.
“Mr. Wells and Mr. Verasco are waiting in your office as instructed, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Dolorman entered and closed the door behind him. Wells and Verasco rose out of respect, a study in contrasts. Verasco was a short, squat, olive-skinned man who chainsmoked cigars everywhere except within Dolorman’s chambers; he knew Dolorman couldn’t tolerate smoke of any kind. His roles with Krayman Industries were many, but none more important than overall coordinator of Omega; he had nursed the project almost since its inception. Verasco’s appearance, like Dolorman’s, was deceiving. At first glance he looked sluggish, even dimwitted. But his mind was quick and agile.
Wells was something else again. He was chief of Krayman Industries’ Special Operations Force, a title which could not be found on any door but nevertheless gave Wells responsibility for preventing covert activities on the part of rivals and orchestrating these same activities against rivals when necessary. He was a front-line security man for the consortium, and Dolorman felt the job couldn’t be in better hands. Wells stood a half-foot over six and continued to wear his hair in a stubbly crew cut long after his tenure with the army had come to an abrupt end. His considerable bulk more than filled out his frame and his neck was so layered with knotty muscle that it seemed a mere extension of his head.
Dolorman’s glance toward Wells was typically short this morning; lingering looks were only for the strong of stomach. Wells’s left eye was sealed tight by scar tissue that covered the better portion of that side of his face. An eye patch would have covered the bulk of the damage, but Wells disdained it in favor of maintaining an appearance that intimidated his enemies and sometimes his own men. His disfigurement extended up to a hairless patch on the left half of his scalp and down to his lip, so that side looked always to be cracked in a sinister grin. The only bothersome factor to Wells was the missing sight from his closed eye because it made him vulnerable from the left.
Luck had never been much on Wells’s side. He had been bounced out of the Special Forces in ’Nam after a fellow officer ratted on him. They sent him home to a wife he didn’t miss and a post as a drill instructor for elite recruits at Fort Bragg. A year into his tenure he caught his wife sleeping with a captain. He tore the man’s throat out with his bare hands and was heading for the front door when his wife tossed a pot of boiling oil into his face. Wells turned away in time to save one half, but not the other. The pain was indescribable, but he fought it down and tore out her throat as well.
He was ripping at her chest, trying for the heart, when the MPs arrived. It took a whole squad of them with blackjacks to subdue and then hospitalize him.
The case of the mutilated war hero received little attention nationwide but a brief newsclip reached Francis Dolorman, who saw a rare opportunity. In Dolorman’s world there was often need for a man with Wells’s … temperament. The problem was finding one trustworthy and loyal enough. Dolorman pulled every string he could to win Wells’s release, and then hired him. Wells had been enraged that night in the bungalow but his madness was far from permanent. He wanted very much to live and as a dedicated soldier swore lifetime allegiance to the man who had saved him from certain execution. Actually, it was far more than allegiance.
Over the years Dolorman had made considerable use of Wells’s cruder skills, as well as his planning abilities. Wells was a master of shrewd commando tactics and, from training and instinct, was able to organize carefully planned strikes on rivals when they suited the needs of Krayman Industries.
Of course, if Dolorman had sent Wells to handle the incident in New York, he would be faced now with one less pressing problem to occupy his immediate attention. He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and rotated his gaze to Verasco and then briefly to Wells.
“There are three issues we must deal with today,” he began, systematic as always, “so let us take them in order of occurrence for progress reports. Wells, what is the latest on Kelno?”
“Our people in the New York police department have been especially cooperative,” Wells replied. The left side of his mouth lagged a bit behind his right, leading to a slight slur of his speech, as if he spoke always with a small mouthful of food. “Unfortunately, their efforts have not produced the missing disk. It was not on his person and subsequent checks of his office and home have turned up nothing.”
“Could he have mailed it or used a safe deposit box?”
Wells shook his massive head. “Impossible. Our people insist he had it on him when they made their move.”
“Failure is not becoming to you, Wells.”
Wells took the criticism without emotion. “Public executions are often interrupted by the unexpected. Such was the case in New York. Kelno was able to disappear into the subway before our men could finish him.”
“With the disk, of course.”
“Apparently. They caught up with him at the headquarters of the television network.”
“Where Sandy Lister enters the scene. Problem number two…”
Wells made the semblance of a nod. “We know he whispered something to her, and it is quite possible he somehow slipped her the data. As of yet, though, we have no evidence that she has reported its presence or that it is in her possession.”
“She’s a reporter, Wells. She wouldn’t part with it easily or advertise its existence.”
“I’ve considered that and I’ve also considered this story she’s proposed for her newsmagazine Overview. I don’t think you should keep that interview with her next week.”
“If I cancel it at this stage, Wells, it will serve only to raise her suspicions, and we must avoid that under the circumstances. Your own reports indicate we’ve been keeping tabs on her movements and that there’s nothing to indicate Kelno said anything that links us directly to what he uncovered.” Dolorman shifted uncomfortably in his chair and faced Verasco, who seemed a dwarf next to Wells. “And that, of course, brings us to the disk itself. What damage can its contents do us in Sandy Lister’s or someone else’s hands?”
“Next to none,” Verasco reported surely. “Even if they’ve managed to learn what’s on the disk, there’s nothing that can possibly produce any link to us.”
“Except in Lister’s case,” Wells reminded him. “Kelno worked for us and that is connection enough—too much. I suggest allowing me to set the wheels in motion for her elimination.”
“I find that hardly the safest strategy to pursue at this time,” Dolorman countered. “Her story on Randall Krayman is in the most preliminary stages and her investigation of the disk, if she has it, will not even reach that level. Besides, she is an interviewer, not a reporter. Investigative prying is not her specialty. But if she dies mysteriously, people she works with who do specialize in it might ask questions that will eventually lead to us. We can’t have that.”
