The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  “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 he
r 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 pull
ed 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.”