The Omega Command (12 page)

“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.”

“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.”