by Jon Land
“Agreed,” Wells said just loud enough to hear. “For now.”
“I am more concerned,” Verasco started, “over our inability to learn the means by which Kelno obtained the disk and who he was working with.”
“The disk was replaced with a dummy at COM-U-TECH here in Houston and relayed to Kelno in New York,” Wells reported.
“For delivery to Lister?” Dolorman asked.
“If so, she wasn’t expecting it. Kelno sought her out only after learning of her coming story on Randall Krayman. The real issue is who else Kelno was working with within our own organization.”
“I’ve suspected a sublayer of resistance for some time,” Verasco advanced. “A group that has latched on to the essence of our Omega operation and has committed itself to disrupting it. They sought out Lister in an attempt to gain access to the media through which to expose the operation.”
Dolorman nodded, his tight features squeezed even farther together. “Yes, if Kelno had lived long enough to tell Lister everything he knew, Omega would have been compromised.”
“The point is he didn’t,” Wells said.
“You miss my point. Kelno is out of the way, but the people behind him, this layer lurking directly beneath us, is still active. They might seek out Lister again, guide her, help her.”
“All the more reason for her elimination.”
“I would prefer cutting the cancer out at its source, Wells. We must learn more about our enemy within. We must destroy them.”
“They have withdrawn,” Wells told him, “gone even further underground. They know we are watching for them. That probably explains why they have yet to make contact with Miss Lister again.”
“Then we must keep the pressure on,” Dolorman told him, “increase it. Time is on our side. Activation of Omega is barely a week away. The sublayer will begin taking risks before much longer. That will enable us to destroy them.”
“I don’t think they’re very large in number,” Verasco theorized. “But their potential to do us harm must still be respected.”
“We are in the process of retracing all of Kelno’s movements for the past two months,” Wells reported. “The process is long but necessary. Eventually it will lead us to the other conspirators.”
Dolorman nodded and felt the stiffening along his spine. “I am satisfied that everything possible is being done in both these regards, but there is also problem number three to consider.”
Wells nodded, sliding an eight-by-ten black and white photo from an envelope on the edge of Dolorman’s desk. “We now have positive confirmation that this man was the one outside Madame Rosa’s as well as on board Sebastian’s ship.” Wells handed the picture across the desk to Dolorman. “His name is Blaine McCracken.”
“Yes,” said Dolorman, inspecting it. “And he survived both the attack outside the brownstone and the boat explosion?”
“Yes. Details on the latter are sketchy, but apparently he was the only survivor of those who were on board at the time.”
“That doesn’t seem to surprise you. Do you know this man, Wells?”
Wells stared blankly forward. “I know him. From Vietnam. He and that Indian …” Wells’s voice trailed off, as if he were lost in a memory. Then he stiffened. “I know where McCracken is now: Roosevelt Hospital in New York. His condition was just upgraded from serious to fair. I’m afraid we can’t rely on God to get him out of the way for us.”
“Then perhaps we should ignore him,” Verasco suggested. “After all, one man …”
“McCracken is not just one man,” Wells snapped suddenly. “He must be killed and fast while we hold the advantage. More than anything else we’ve discussed, he poses a threat to Omega.”
“A hospital,” Dolorman muttered. “We have someone we’ve used in similar situations before, I believe. Scola, wasn’t it?”
Wells nodded halfheartedly.
“Then make the proper calls, Wells.”
“Scola’s not the right choice for this job.”
“You have a better suggestion?”
“Me.”
“We can’t spare you on such routine matters.”
“McCracken’s anything but routine, and Scola’s no match for him. Only someone who exists on his level can deal with him.”
“We’ll use Scola, Wells,” Dolorman said firmly. “Clear?”
Wells grunted his acceptance.
Dolorman started to rise painfully. “Then if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, these new developments must be reported. I’ve got a phone call to make.”
“Where are my flowers?” Blaine McCracken asked as Andrew Stimson walked into his hospital room Thursday afternoon. “You could have at least brought a box of candy.”
“Dipped in poison, if Washington had its way.”
“I take it our little ruse has been blown.”
“Exploded would be a better way of putting it.”
“But of course you’re not considering pulling me off.”
“Damn right,” said Stimson. “All I have to do is figure out a way to keep the CIA and all other interested parties off my back.”
“Give me one more day’s rest and I’ll handle them myself. The wounds aren’t as serious as they look. A few bruises, a concussion, and a rocky stomach from being fed through the arm.”
McCracken shifted about uneasily in his bed. Just about his entire body hurt, and negotiating around the IV setup was no easy chore to begin with. Outside the window a light snow had started up, draping a peaceful shroud over the grinding of tires struggling to stop and start.
“Do they know you came up here personally?” Blaine asked.
“I doubt they care very much. Too busy planning your funeral.”
“The reports of my death are soon to be greatly exaggerated.” McCracken paused. “Someone saved my life at the docks, you know. Someone pulled me out of the water. I’d be singing with the angels now if it weren’t for him.”
Stimson checked his watch and moved to the foot of the bed. “I haven’t got much time, Blaine. I’ve got to get back to Washington before I’m missed by the wrong people. Did you learn anything from Sebastian?”
“Bits and pieces. He was scared shitless, I can tell you that much. Said he was gonna head his freighter into the open waters come dawn.”
“Apparently someone didn’t want him getting away.”
“Somebody called the PVR. That mean anything to you, Andy.”
Stimson’s face paled. His hands circled the bed railing and grasped it tightly. “The People’s Voice of Revolution, a subversive group the Gap’s been watching for some time.”
“A subversive black group?”
“Yes. Still making something of that?”
“It’s already made, Andy. Think for a minute. Two blacks hit Easton, that Santa Claus with the acidic coffee was black, and Sebastian said the only reason he let me up was because I was white. The PVR is the clincher. Seems we’ve got a pattern here. Sebastian also said he was leaving the country because things were going to start changing very fast and he didn’t want to be around for it. That fit the PVR pattern?”
“Not up till now. Their methods have always been nonviolent, or at least nonconfrontational. But the potential’s there for sure.”
“Membership?”
“Big and getting bigger. The People’s Voice of Revolution is blessed with true charismatic leadership in the person of a fanatic named Mohammed Sahhan. Remember him from that election a few years back?”
“Vaguely. I was overseas at the time. French papers weren’t always loaded with news from the home front.”
“Anyway, Sahhan rose to prominence by openly insisting that a national conspiracy was committed to keeping blacks the doormat of American society. Ninety-nine percent of the population, blacks included, figured he was crazy and just tuned him out. But, as they say, there’s always that one percent. Sahhan developed quite a fanatical following, dedicated to rebuilding society from the ground up.”
“D
oesn’t sound very nonviolent to me,” Blaine noted. “The connection’s there, Andy. The PVR got what they needed from Sebastian and then paid a visit to Madame Rosa’s at the right time to ice Easton because he was on to their true nature. Everything fits. All we need now is for that microfiche to confirm it.”
Stimson sighed. “For the time being, the confirmation will have to come from somewhere else. We’ve pulled everything we can off the fiche, and besides lots of blank spaces, this is what we’ve got.” Stimson groped in his jacket pocket and came out with a piece of paper. “See what you make of it.”
He handed it over to Blaine, who inspected it eagerly:
CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER FOR 15,000
Listed below that heading was a dozen or so foods-tomatoes, turkeys, bread loaves—all with numbers preceding them.
“It looks like a shopping list,” McCracken offered. “Maybe Sahhan’s planning a big bash on Christmas Eve.”
Stimson was not amused. “Our top cryptographers are running it through the computers over and over again. We figure it’s got to be a number/letter sequence combination, but we may have lost too much of the fiche to find the proper keys. There’s a message in here somewhere, but we don’t know how to put it together.”
“Easton use anything like it before?”
“Not that we’ve been able to find.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have killed that Santa Claus,” McCracken muttered. “After all, he’s the expert on Christmas Eve. Maybe the PVR’s got a plot afoot to murder elves or kidnap Rudolph.”
“If they do, only one man can tell us why,” said Stimson.
“Mohammed Sahhan,” said Blaine, while outside on the street below, a PA mounted atop an ancient Chevy repeated its taped message over and over: “Get your shopping done! Only seven days left until Christmas!”
Chapter 10
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, in preparation for our landing in Billings, the captain has turned on the no-smoking sign. …
For Sandy Lister, following the trail of the elusive Randall Krayman began late Friday morning with a journey to Billings, Montana, to interview Alex “Spud” Hollins. Hollins had lived on top of the business world for a brief period after his company developed a new ultra-density microchip that effectively antiquated all similar products of the competition. The chip made life far easier in electronic switching stations used in telecommunications. Sandy did not pretend to understand the specifics of what she was dealing with here. What interested her more was the fact that it was Hollins’s company that Krayman had first bankrupted and then bought out when the invention of the famed Krayman Chip by COM-U-TECH rendered the Hollins version obsolete. Hollins hadn’t gone down without a fight, though. His battles with Randall Krayman made front-page news in The Wall Street Journal for weeks on end, battles he was destined to lose since the Krayman Chip would be manufactured at a cost one-third that of his own.
Still, there was no reason to shed tears over the fate of Spud Hollins. Already a rich man, Krayman’s buy-out of his company had made him a multimillionaire and allowed him to pursue his true dream of raising horses on a vast Montana ranch. He had achieved that dream now, and it surprised Sandy somewhat that after so many years out of the public eye he would consent to an interview on a subject as touchy as Randall Krayman. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Krayman could do no more to hurt him than he had already. Perhaps, too, Hollins was motivated by a desire for revenge, in which case Sandy would have to sift through his words carefully.
She hoped that Hollins might be able to shed light on Krayman Industries as well as on Krayman the man. She came to Billings more excited about a story than she had been in years. The incidents in New York had her wondering what really went on within the Krayman Tower. Surely she should have gone to Shay with the new developments, but she had stubbornly resisted because he would have taken the story away from her. Randall Krayman was hers, which meant Krayman Industries was too. She had never tired of personality journalism, but here was a story that called upon her mind as well as her smile. The change was refreshing, the challenge welcome. She felt like she was reliving the early years of her career, when she had to scratch and claw for every interview. The rewards had been fewer but the satisfaction greater.
Sandy descended the jet’s steps into the frigid air of Billings, and her flesh seemed to freeze on contact. She had forgotten to put on gloves, and her fingers were already numb when she raised them to shield her face. She had known eastern winters for all thirty-three of her years, but nothing she had ever felt prepared her for such sub-zero cold. She stuffed her hands into her overcoat pockets and tucked her carry-on bag under one arm. Besides that there was only one other suitcase she had to retrieve inside the terminal.
At the baggage claim area several passengers asked her for autographs but most kept to themselves. Finally seeing her suitcase rolling toward her on the conveyor belt gave her an excuse to beg off. She was reaching for it as it passed, when a large hand cut in front of hers and grasped the handle.
“I’ll take that for ya, Miss Lister,” a voice drawled.
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Hollins sent me out here to fetch ya, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle ya none.”
“You didn’t. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting anyone to pick me up.”
The man, who was big and broad, in his fifties, with a wind-carved face, yanked off his cowboy hat. “Yeah, well, a storm blew in last night and dumped more ’an a foot on the roads. Plows don’t always make it up to our spread and Mr. Hollins didn’t want you drivin’ some rented Ford into a gully.” He smoothed his hair, replaced his cowboy hat, and led her toward the airport lobby, suitcase in hand. “Mr. Hollins also told me to issue ya an invitation to stay over at the ranch if you’d like.”
“I have a reservation at the—”
“Nothin’ beats good ol’ Hollins hospitality, ma’am.” They were almost to the exit doors. “Come on, ma’am, got your limo parked right this way. Name’s Buck, by the by.”
The “limo” as it turned out was a four-wheel drive Chevy Blazer with the license plate SPUD 6. Buck had left the engine running to make sure the inside remained warm for her, a gesture which was not lost on a city girl who knew anyone doing the same at Kennedy or LaGuardia would end up one car poorer for the effort.
Buck hoisted her suitcase through the open tailgate as Sandy settled herself on the front seat. It was quite a climb from ground level, and one of her high heels almost didn’t make it. Obviously she was not dressed appropriately for Billings weather. A gush of frigid air smacked her as Buck slammed the tailgate closed. A few seconds later he pulled himself up behind the wheel.
“Where’s all the cameras, ma’am?”
“What? Oh, you mean for when we film the interview. I’ll come back with those after we put the story together, after it’s approved. First I’ve got to learn what Mr. Hollins has to say.”
“Sorta like an audition, right?”
“Not far from it, I suppose.”
“Kinda gives ya a jump on the guy you’re puttin’ the story together on, don’t it?”
Buck pulled the Blazer out into the road that circled the airport. Sandy could see the snow piled high along the sides, pushed there by powerful plows.
“That’s the nature of the business, Buck,” Sandy said.
“Yeah, well, I been hear’n ’bout news media types slantin’ stories and rearrangin’ them to say what they want ’em to say. Can’t say I take a fancy to that.”
“Neither do I.”
“See, the way it is, ma’am, there’s lots of us work for Mr. Hollins hate to see him hurt. Know what I mean?”
“I think I do.”
They drove north on I-87, heading toward the outskirts of Roundup and Spud Hollins’s ranch. Buck’s frankness had Sandy wondering what kind of man it took to inspire such loyalty. She looked forward to meeting him all the more.
“That there’s the Musselshell River, ma’am,” Buck announced, thr
usting a finger across her toward the right. “That’s where we get the water from for our ranch. Damn thing’s frozen solid by this time of year. Been a bad winter so far and winter ain’t even shot its biggest load yet. Could be the worst since sixty-two, when …”
Buck droned on for five more minutes until they came to the entrance of the Hollins ranch, a simple gate with one word burned in wood over it:
SPUD’S
“Here we are, ma’am,” Buck said, spinning the wheel. “Five thousand acres of the prettiest land you ever did see.”
Buck followed the winding road for what might have been a mile over snow that seemed more packed down than plowed. It didn’t seem to faze him. And he was right about the land; it was postcard perfect, especially with the snow-covered mountains standing watch over it all beneath the crystal blue sky.
Finally the Blazer reached the semi-circular driveway that fronted the two-story mansion built of dark-stained natural wood, its roof covered with a coat of snow. Buck hurried around the Blazer to help Sandy down and then set about collecting her tote bag and suitcase. The heavy double doors at the front of the house opened as she approached them, and a striking middle-aged man stood smiling before her with his hand outstretched.
“Spud Hollins, Miss Lister. Pleasure to meet ya.”
Sandy said that the pleasure was all hers and she meant it. Her research put Hollins’s age at fifty-nine, but he looked a good dozen years younger. His straight, silvery hair, showing no sign of thinning, hung over his ears and forehead. He wore faded jeans, a denim shirt open at the collar to reveal a bandanna, and scuffed cowboy boots. His flesh was wizened and creased, coppery from the mountain air and the winter sun. Hollins’s deep eyes, the same color as the Montana sky, watched Buck tote her bags inside.
“She accepted your invitation, Spud,” he said.
“Ain’t that nice,” said Hollins, and Sandy smiled tightly, not recalling that she had actually accepted at all.
Hollins closed the double doors. “Wanna talk first or get freshened up?”
“Talk,” Sandy said eagerly. “I’ve been traveling too long for freshening up to do any good.”
