by Jon Land
“A pretty lady like you don’t have much call for that anyway, I reckon. Let’s go in the den. Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Buck,” Spud said, “have the kitchen mix us up a couple cups.”
Then the two of them moved down a short hallway into a large room with a fire crackling in a central hearth.
“Wow,” was all Sandy could say.
“Yup, it’s my favorite room too.”
“It’s beautiful,” she added lamely, enchanted by the natural wooden decor and the view provided by the large expanse of glass on one wall.
Hollins’s gaze grew distant. “Sometimes, well, I just sit here and wonder what took me so long to get out of the real world and into this one. I guess it was just stuck in me like a drug. I wanted to get out, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. Guess I owe Randy Krayman a debt more than anythin’.”
Sandy’s eyes danced at that. Interviews came much easier when the subject broached the issue at hand first. Sandy now determined she would not use tape and take no notes while they spoke, intent on doing nothing that might disrupt the natural flow of Spud Hollins’s thoughts. She found herself captivated, enthralled by this man. He was like one of those politicians you can’t take your eyes off when they come into town. Perhaps he had missed his true calling. No, more likely Spud Hollins was just a man who could stand tall because he had escaped the constant pressures that weigh on so many in the business world. He looked like a character out of a Ralph Lauren aftershave commercial. In fact, he looked like a crusty, country version of Ralph himself.
“Let’s sit on the couch, Miss Lister,” he offered, and as they did, Sandy noted a mantel lined with pictures of his various children and grandchildren. His wife, she knew, had died some years before, when the Krayman battle was reaching its head.
“I think maybe I’m doing a story on the wrong man, Mr. Hollins.”
Hollins laughed. “Call me Spud. I left all that kind of stuff behind me ’long with my seat on the stock exchange. Your ass, if you’ll excuse my word choice, takes on a funny shape when you sit in business too long. Nope, Krayman’s a much better choice for a story than me. He probably ain’t got much of an ass left by now.”
A maid entered and put two steaming cups of coffee along with generous helpings of cream and sugar on the table in front of the couch.
“Not many people are willing to talk about him on the record, Spud,” she said, adding two spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream.
“Can’t say I blame them, Sandy. People are scared of old Randy Krayman because he’s been known to chew a few up over the years.”
“Like you?”
Hollins smiled but didn’t laugh. “Well, most of the chewin’ in my case was done by me. Krayman added a couple bites here and there.”
Sandy sipped her coffee. It burned her tongue but tasted wonderful.
“Bites is an interesting choice of words, Spud, considering it was over the computer kind that the two of you went to war.”
“Business ain’t war, Sandy. In war you take prisoners. In business you take shit. I got out ’cause I didn’t have the stomach for the shit anymore.”
“And you sold out to Krayman.”
“If I had kept fighting him, I would have been selling out period. Like I said before, old Randy did me a favor. Made me a damn good offer. Had good reason to also.” Hollins crossed his legs and reached for his coffee. “How much do you know about what went on between us back then?”
Sandy wished she had her notes to consult. “Most of it concerned an ultra-density memory chip. Your company got one into production first, then COM-U-TECH developed a better one and undercut the price by two thirds.”
“Yup.” Hollins nodded. “They did at that. You know what this ultra-density microchip did, Sandy?”
“Not specifically.”
“Way it was, see, all computer chips used to be placed side by side. The ultra-density chip could be stacked one on top of the other so you’d end up with a job done in a fraction of time since the information had lots less space to travel. The discovery revolutionized lots of industries, mostly oriented ’round communications. What with cable startin’ to boom and the explosion of live satellite feeds, there was need for new micro-switching equipment capable of doing things quicker and cheaper than ever. Radio was the same way, telephone, too, maybe most of all. Way I hear it, the chip revolutionized the whole airline industry as well. Whole damn telecommunications industry had to rethink and retool almost from scratch.”
“All because of one chip?”
Hollins smiled faintly. “Hold up your hand, Sandy. See your thumbnail? That’s the size of the chip we’re talking about.”
“And you had it first, didn’t you?”
Hollins’s smile became even more faint. “I suppose you could say that.”
“But it was Krayman who made millions on the chip, a fortune.”
“That’s what you’ve heard, ain’t it?”
“That’s what everybody’s been hearing for a decade.”
“It ain’t true.”
“What isn’t?”
“Krayman didn’t make no fortune off his famous chip. Matter of fact he lost money. Sold the buggers at less than half his cost.”
“How can you know that?”
Hollins returned his coffee to the table and almost spilled it. “ ’Cause there never was no such thing as the Krayman Chip. He stole it from me.”
It took a few seconds for Hollins’s words to settle in.
“Wait a minute,” she managed, “are you saying that the famous Krayman Chip was just a version of yours?”
“Nope, not a version. It was mine lock, stock, and barrel with a few cosmetic changes thrown in for good measure. Sort of like retyping Gone with the Wind and publishing it under a new title.”
“But how—”
“Believe me, Sandy, there haven’t been many days over the years when I haven’t asked myself that same question.” Hollins glanced around him. “Least until I got here. Anyway, computer espionage makes what goes on between the Russians and our boys look like playschool. The real cold war is a circuit war and it’s bein’ fought right here in the U.S. of A. Always has been. I don’t know how Krayman got hold of my design. Guess I never will. Fact is he did, though, and brought it out into the market ’bout a year after I did with a new name … and different price.”
“But if what you’re saying is true, he must have lost the same fortune he was reputed to have made.”
“And don’t ask me why neither. First I thought he had some vendetta against me in particular. Maybe he didn’t like somebody ’sides IBM diggin’ in the same yard as he was. Maybe it was worth all that money to him to get me out of the way. Lord knows he could afford it. Then I figured it was a pretty expensive proposition to carry out just for pride. ’Sides, if that was what was on his mind, why’d he buy me out for sixty mill when my stock was about to hit rock bottom anyway? Nope, it made no sense then. Still don’t.”
“Some part of a larger picture perhaps?”
“Way I figure it, the whole deal ended up costing him a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty million dollars and the loss sheet ain’t been balanced yet. Pretty expensive picture.”
“Did you tell anybody this when it was happening?”
“Sure, lots of people. Nobody wanted to hear about it. And them that did, well, something made them change their minds pretty quick and a few seemed to just vanish. Most gave me the courtesy of listening and said they’d check things out.” Hollins snickered. “Maybe they’re still checkin’.” His face grew somber. “Can’t say I blame ’em, though. It’s like you said before ’bout nobody wantin’ to talk on the record about Krayman now even though he ain’t been seen in five years. Imagine what it was like then when he was makin’ newspaper headlines every day.”
“You could have sued.”
“I did. Case stayed in the courts long enough for me to realize I was fighting for something I didn’t
want anymore. I’d spent too much time up here raising horses in God’s country to go back to all that. I figure I made out pretty good on the deal. Got everything I ever wanted. There are days up here where the phone don’t ring at all and I like that just fine. Yup, if you ask me, Sandy, I made out lots better on the deal than old Randy. A just Lord gave him his due. He pulled up stakes and ran like I did, ’cept the difference is he’s hidin’ and I’d wager he ain’t got half the space I got even if he’s got ten times the land.”
Sandy found herself totally transfixed by a man who had openly come to love his life. Through all his words, all the painful rehashing of his hardest times, his voice had not so much as wavered. Emotion was absent, contented acceptance clear, as if the past had happened to someone else. And maybe it had. Alex Hollins had become simply Spud.
“What about the effects of the Krayman Chip on the rest of the computer industry?” she asked him.
“Well, Sandy, now we come to the real fun part of the story. See, the ultra-density chip makes computers work so fast that they can talk only to computers that are wired the same way. So I guess you could say it revolutionized the entire production industry, too, and Randy’s got himself a monopoly on the ultra-density market. It’s too damn specialized for anyone to challenge him, ’specially after what he done to me. The whole goddamn telecommunications industry is probably wired by now with chips that oughta have a little S for ‘Spud’ tattooed in their corner. Why, you can’t turn on a TV, fly in an airplane, use one of them automatic teller machines, or even make a phone call without bein’ affected by Randall Krayman.”
“So maybe a one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar loss was worth it, after all.”
Spud Hollins’s expression stayed chiseled in stone. “Depends on your perspective, ma’am.”
After the interview was complete, Sandy used the need to freshen up as an excuse to dash upstairs and try to capture all of the salient points of Hollins’s comments on her notepad. It wasn’t easy. She wanted to remember each and every word he said, each colorful expression, and ended up confusing things and having to reconstruct the conversation in her mind from the very beginning. When she had finished, twelve pages were full of scribbling and almost two hours had passed. Dinner would be coming up shortly and she didn’t want to burden Hollins’s hospitality by being late.
Still, she had to check in with T.J. He would be expecting a call and she wanted to learn if anything new had turned up regarding the computer disk. He answered his phone on the second ring.
“It’s me, T.J. How’s—”
“I’m scared, boss. Oh, God, I’m scared.” His voice sounded frantic.
“Slow down. What’s wrong?”
“The orbital flight plan. It’s … gone.”
Chapter 11
FRIDAY NIGHT SCOLA moved stealthily down the corridors of Roosevelt Hospital, hiding her face as well as she could behind the cart she was pushing. Amazing how busy the place was during the daylight hours, but once night fell, a shroud of somber silence seemed to enclose it. So far no one had said a single word to her. They seldom did when she donned her nurse’s disguise to carry out a mission.
Being a woman was a great aid to her in her work as an assassin. She was able to get into dozens of places men couldn’t and the possible disguises were endless. Somehow targets didn’t feel threatened by women. They let them get too close and often that was when Scola struck. The nurse’s guise had always been one of her most effective. So often over the years when others had failed to carry out their assignments, wounding the target instead of killing him, Scola was called in. She wasn’t sure of the precise circumstances surrounding her target in room 434, nor did they concern her. All that mattered now was that she was totally prepared, her instrument of death stored openly on her nurse’s cart.
Scola had worked for a time with the CIA, quite effectively in fact. Then, though, drugs had entered in. This was hardly unusual in the case of active field agents, especially assassins, so the Company was well equipped to deal with it; that is, so long as the subject could be considered a soft case rather than a hard one. Five months after her cocaine habit began, Scola found her file upgraded from soft to hard and she was out of a job. The Company wanted no part of an addict. The odds of a slipup were simply too great. Scola fumed briefly, then plunged into the free-lance market, where the pay was exorbitant, the hours better, and no issue was made of her habit.
The wheels of her cart squeaked a bit as she headed toward the elevator. The sound soothed her. Yes, returning to a hospital for a mission was like coming home. These buildings were all the same, and she had never failed in one yet.
The elevator doors opened and Scola shoved her cart in ahead of her.
Blaine McCracken accepted the pain-killers only at night to help him sleep. He knew he needed his rest if he wanted to make a quick return to duty. He’d leave it to Stimson to sort out the political complications. He was concerned only with healing his own body or at least making it functional. For this he needed sleep but for sleep he needed the painkillers.
Blaine had always hated them. He’d seen lots of young boys in ’Nam become addicts after only a few injections of morphine in the field and since then had avoided any drugs at virtually all costs. But this was different. More than twenty-four hours had passed since his meeting with Stimson and the inactivity had begun to gnaw at him. He was restless and sleep was virtually impossible without chemical help. The two pills he had taken an hour before were just starting to reach their full effect. He felt himself starting to float into the darkness of the room.
In the final moments before consciousness left him, Blaine focused on what information the fiche had yielded: Christmas Eve dinner for 15,000 and the list of foods with numbers preceding them beneath it.
Stimson’s computers had gotten nowhere in their quest to break the code. Nor would they ever be able to if too many alphabetical and numerical components were missing. Without the complete text, no patterns could be found, and without patterns Easton’s cipher would continue to elude them.
But what if such alphabetical and numerical patterns weren’t important? There was something Blaine wasn’t considering, something the computers couldn’t. In his half-sleep he could almost reach out and touch it.
It looks like a shopping list. …
McCracken’s mind had locked on that thought, when sleep overcame him.
Francis Dolorman held the receiver to his ear as he punched out a private number. His line was “swept” daily to insure no tap or recording devices were in place, nothing that might betray the frequent discussions that were so crucial to the success of Omega.
“Yes,” responded the man on the other end.
“There are further complications, sir.”
“I’m listening, Francis.”
“We confirmed that Kelno delivered the disk to Sandy Lister and now we have it back in our possession.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Miss Lister, sir. This development makes her a grave risk to us at this stage.”
“But with Omega only five days from activation, eliminating her remains even more risky. Without the disk she has no proof and you’ve already assured me there was nothing on it that could in any way lead back to us.”
“Unless more of Kelno’s accomplices link up with her. Wells is making no inroads toward learning their identities. If they reach Lister, it could be disastrous.”
“Except, Francis, to do so they’ll have to surface, which is just what we want. Make sure Wells is ready at that time. They’ll show themselves before long. The pressure’s on them, not us. Now, what about the McCracken business?”
“It’s being handled this evening, sir. I expect no complications.”
“With men like McCracken there are always complications. Get back to me when it’s finished.”
Scola eased her cart around the sharp corner and headed toward the bank of private rooms on the fourth floor. She could already tell that no
guard was stationed outside room 434. This would make her job even easier than she had been led to expect it would be.
The nurses on duty at the central station were chatting and giggling, so Scola was able to move smoothly by without having to announce herself. An orderly eyed her as he passed, but Scola smiled routinely and kept going. Room 434 was just up ahead.
Scola could feel her heart beating hard now. This was partially due to the cocaine she had ingested only an hour before. The drug sharpened her senses and made her feel as though she could accomplish anything. Failure was out of the question.
Scola opened the door to room 434 and dragged the cart in after her. The door closed softly.
She stepped into the darkness.
McCracken felt himself come drowsily awake. He wasn’t sure what had stirred him from his rest, and his mind was too slowed to utilize its normal reasoning powers. There had been a sound and something else, something that had come to him in his sleep.
Christmas Eve dinner for 15,000 …
He had found the answer in his sleep! His body must have stirred for fear he might lose his grip on it during the long hours of the night. Blaine fought with his dulled mind, fought with it to yield the answer sleep had revealed.
So simple, so damn simple …
It was this slight sharpening of his senses that allowed him to feel the presence of another person in the room. He could feel the intruder closing on him. No, not feel—hear. There was a squeaking sound that suddenly stopped.
For an instant Blaine drifted toward sleep again, then struggled back.
By that time in the darkness Scola had removed her target’s IV pouch from its hook and replaced it with one from her cart, the contents of which would lead to a quick, mysterious death. All she had to do now was reinsert the needle in her pouch.
Blaine felt the slight tugging on his arm and shifted his eyes lazily to the side. They were slow to respond to the near total blackness of the room, broken only by a slight spill of light sneaking through a crack in the Venetian blinds.
The spill caught something white moving at his side.
