The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  She stepped into Stephen Shay’s spacious office as smoothly as she stepped into the living rooms of millions of Americans on Thursday nights.

  Shay rose from behind his desk and moved away from it, grasping Sandy’s hands and kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “Perfect timing, San,” he told her. “I just got the nationals from last week. Up four share points.”

  Shay was a dapper, elegant man with perfectly groomed silver hair waved over his ears and a measure of his forehead. He preferred three-piece suits to all other forms of clothing, and not one person at network headquarters could ever recall seeing him without his jacket on during business hours. His face looked as soft as a baby’s, his Lagerfeld aftershave applied in just the right quantity to last the entire day without being too strong.

  “That’s great,” Sandy said honestly. “Steve, I’d like you to meet my assistant T.J. Brown.”

  Shay took T.J.’s extended hand. “Thomas James, isn’t it?”

  “Er, yes. But how did you know?”

  “You’re in my department, son. I make it my business to know. Heard good things about you, damn good things.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just keep it up.” Shay’s eyes moved back to Sandy. “Since you brought your assistant up with you, I gather you want to discuss a story.”

  “On the money, Steve.”

  “Coming to me direct for any special reason?”

  “Do I need one?”

  Shay smiled. “Not at all.” He extended his hand toward a leather couch and set of matching chairs surrounding a table, drenched with sunlight from a nearby window. “Let’s sit over here.”

  A pair of phones was perched in the table’s center. Men like Shay seldom strayed far from the Touchtone.

  “Coffee?” he offered when they had sat down. Sandy and T.J. both declined. “I suppose you want to get right to the point. What are you on to, Sandy?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. I’d just like to do a piece on Randall Krayman.”

  “Billionaire and recluse?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Tough to interview a man who hasn’t been seen in public in five years. Got an in with somebody?”

  “No.”

  “Any of our rivals got the story on their dockets?”

  “60 Minutes started to put one together, then abandoned it.”

  Shay nodded. “As I remember, we tossed a Krayman piece around here as well and rejected it, probably for the same reasons. Interviews without a subject are tough, San, even for you.”

  “That’s why I brought my case direct to the fifteenth floor, Steve. I think we can put a damn good piece together on Krayman without the usual interview. Make a conceptual picture of him based on interviews with others and background material.”

  Shay looked away skeptically. “That kind of story isn’t your specialty, San.”

  “You mean, that kind of story isn’t why you’re paying me two million a year.”

  “No,” Shay said defensively, “that’s not what I mean. One on one with a subject, you’re fantastic, the best I’ve ever seen. I don’t care how Joe or Joan Hollywood reconcile their personal life with their professional life, but you make even me care. You bring these people to life and you do it in a way that doesn’t demean you. There’s no way anyone can put a price tag on that kind of gift.”

  “Don’t tell that to my agent.”

  “I’m serious, San. Conceptual stories are great when they work, but they’re boring as hell when they don’t. Stick to the media, San. That’s your beat.”

  “But Randall Krayman is the media,” Sandy insisted. “Just hear me out. T.J.’s been doing some research, and his findings have got me thinking Krayman falls right into my beat.”

  “I’m listening,” said Shay reluctantly.

  “T.J.,” Sandy cued.

  Brown cleared his throat and opened the manila folder he’d been fondling since the conversation began. “I’d better start at the beginning. Krayman was born in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, in 1940. His father was a moderately successful businessman who got in on the ground floor of plastics and made a fortune during the war. It looked like he had taken the business as far as it could go when he died in 1957. On paper the company was taken over by old man Krayman’s wife, but in reality all the decisions were made and the managing done by Randall, who had just turned eighteen. Randall gave up his plans to go to college and ended up quadrupling the company’s profits in only two years, turning it into perhaps the largest plastics producer in the country. Not one to rest on his laurels, Randall Krayman invested every cent of the profits he was responsible for in millions of acres of land across Wyoming, Montana, and thereabouts. Scientists knew there was oil under it somewhere, but back then, this is fifty-nine remember, no one could envision the technology needed to bring it up.”

  T.J. flipped to the next page. “Except Krayman. Within ten years his wells were spouting as much crude as the best Texas had to offer and he owned every ounce of it lock, stock, and literally barrel. He made another fortune, this one too large to even contemplate. But once again he didn’t sit still. He took all his profits and launched massive investments into a new and mysterious field, something called the integrated circuit.”

  “Computers,” muttered Shay.

  “The beginning of the explosion thereof,” T.J. continued. “The integrated circuit laid the foundation for the computer chip, the microchip, micro-circuitry—the whole shooting match. Krayman made another incredible fortune. Some called him the first landlord in Silicon Valley.”

  “Hell of a crystal ball he must have,” Shay noted. “First plastics, then oil, then computers. You can’t do much better than that.”

  “And Krayman didn’t stop there either. About ten years ago his computer researchers came up with something called the Krayman Chip, an advanced ultra-density memory chip with unheard-of storage, tailor-made for computers used to control television and radio signal switching, telephone routing, radar screens—anything that qualifies as data transmissions. And most incredibly this new chip was produced through a process so cheap that Krayman was able to undercut the entire industry.”

  “Yet another fortune,” concluded Shay, his interest growing with each flip of T.J.’s notes.

  “That’s what I meant about Krayman being such a great part of the media,” Sandy interjected. “People should kneel and bow twice to the Krayman Tower in Houston every time they turn their televisions on.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’ll turn them on to watch a story about it,” Shay said softly.

  Sandy kept her calm. “Howard Hughes’s death sent the networks scrambling to scoop each other. People ended up fascinated by him because they’re fascinated generally by power and wealth, the more immeasurable the better. Well, Krayman makes Hughes look like a business school dropout. They’ll watch. Believe me.”

  Shay weakened. “Any chance of getting in to see the man himself?”

  Sandy shrugged. “There’s always a chance, but I doubt it. I’ve set up an interview with Francis Dolorman for a week from today. Dolorman’s the man who’s been running Krayman Industries since his boss’s extended vacation began five years ago. If anyone can set up a meet, it’s him.”

  Shay’s eyebrows flickered. He hesitated. “I can spare you for a week, San. No more. And no cameras either, just the preliminary stuff. We’ll put everything you come up with together at the next staff meeting and see if there’s a story here or not.”

  “Fair enough,” said Sandy.

  “You were great in there, T.J.,” Sandy said, as the elevator headed down. “Thanks.”

  “Like you said, boss, nothing to it. I didn’t even have to picture him naked.” T.J.’s face grew somber. The elevator came to a halt. “Now that you’ve got the go-ahead for the story, maybe you’d like to see the rest of my research.”

  “Rest of your research?”

  They stepped slowly from the elevator. T.J.
nodded. “Into Krayman Industries. Everything’s not kosher there, if you know what I mean.”

  Sandy stiffened and walked on ahead. “Sure. How about this afternoon?”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  Sandy kept walking down the corridor. T.J. hurried in front of her.

  “You don’t want to hear it, do you?” he charged.

  Sandy looked away.

  “What happened to getting to the bottom of Krayman Industries, boss?”

  “Randall Krayman, T.J. That’s the story Shay approved upstairs.”

  “And that sounds like Shay talking now; his distinction, not yours.” He paused and looked at Sandy as a few people walked by. “Randall Krayman is Krayman Industries. You can’t separate one from the other.”

  “You can’t interview a corporation, T.J.”

  “You can’t interview Krayman either, but that’s not stopping you from doing the story. I’ve got some material for you that might help it.”

  Sandy’s features tensed. “This isn’t Columbia, T.J., it’s network headquarters. Things function differently here. I want this story, but it’s got to be on Shay’s terms. You know what those terms are. He made them plain.”

  T.J. nodded blankly and started to walk away.

  “This afternoon,” Sandy called after him. “I’ll look at what you’ve got then.”

  “Sure,” T.J. said, too soft for her to hear.

  The rest of the morning dragged for Sandy. She couldn’t get the confrontation with T.J. out of her mind. Surely what he had uncovered about Krayman Industries would be laced with suppositions in desperate need of substantiation. These were distractions she plainly couldn’t afford. They would cloud the true essence of her story and make pursuit of it even harder than it promised to be already.

  But who was she kidding? She didn’t want to learn what T.J. had discovered because she couldn’t stand complications. She had gotten what she wanted from Shay, so her inclination was to leave well enough alone. Her field was people and with people selectivity could be maintained. The parts of their lives that didn’t figure into the story could simply be left out. It was up to her. Years disregarded in favor of the latest love affair or big budget film. Things were simpler that way. She felt more in control, even of Randall Krayman, a man she would have to profile without meeting. That was a challenge she could handle. But dragging Krayman Industries into it? No, she didn’t need that.

  Sandy was still struggling with these issues when the elevator reached the lobby. It was almost noon and she had an early luncheon appointment to keep. As usual, she couldn’t exit the building without signing countless autographs. The people came in droves, and the circle around her seemed to engulf those walking past it. Sandy signed as many as she could but tried to keep moving. How she longed for those cold winter days when, wearing hat and scarf, she could walk about unrecognized. The people wanted to talk to her, discuss whatever was on their minds. Their voices rose above one another’s, competing, some reaching the level of screams as Sandy passed through the revolving door into the bright December day.

  She was still signing autographs, hands beginning to stiffen, when the man shoved his way through the crowd to reach her. Sandy was only vaguely conscious of him until he was right before her, and then she felt a tremor of fear because his hand was reaching out, probing for her with something dark between its fingers.

  At that instant Sandy knew all the fear celebrities live with in public, the vulnerability of fame and all its risks. John Lennon had been shot because he wouldn’t give an autograph, a bullet for every two letters.

  The man grasped her with his left hand and Sandy felt a scream forming behind her lips. But it didn’t emerge until her eyes followed the man’s hand as it slid across her white jacket, leaving a trail of blood behind.

  Then he was collapsing and pulling her down, and Sandy saw he was bleeding everywhere, his overcoat open now to reveal splotches of scarlet. His voice, dry and rasping, reached her as they fell together to the sidewalk, his words barely discernible through lips pressed against her ear.

  “Stop them! You’ve got to stop them!”

  Sandy was screaming again, feeling the man’s dying hands clutch at her.

  “No time left! No—”

  The man died with a rush of breath right then, but not before pushing the thin dark object into Sandy’s pocket-book.

  Chapter 4

  MCCRACKEN RECLINED TENSELY as the 747 streaked beneath the clouds toward Dulles International Airport. The pilot’s voice announced that the temperature in Washington was thirty degrees with overcast skies and a good chance of snow. Dull and dreary to say the least, which fitted Blaine’s mood perfectly.

  They had given him little time to settle his affairs in Paris and then pack. Take everything, his orders said, you won’t be coming back. Three men escorted him to Orly late Tuesday morning, but none of them accompanied him on the plane. Why should they bother? McCracken had no place to go but home. Running was not an option. Sure he could do it, quite effortlessly in fact. But they would catch up with him before too long. There was no place he could hide if they wanted him bad enough. All that crap about being too good to go after was the stuff of fiction, not reality. No matter how good you were, there were always enough of them to get you.

  Blaine wondered what they would do if he didn’t show up at the airport. What if he just boarded another jet and headed for South America? No, they couldn’t let him go. If he cooperated, they’d let him live, but total freedom was out of the question. They’d bury him somewhere deep where he couldn’t scratch his balls without an eye down his shorts.

  The jet landed and McCracken moved slowly through Dulles en route to the baggage claim area. The whole of his life filled two suitcases and a packer bag, and he was not surprised to see a burly well-dressed man waiting to help him tote the stuff and escort him from the airport. The big man recognized him immediately, and his eyes avoided Blaine’s as he hefted one of the suitcases.

  “This way,” the man said, and those were the only words exchanged between them. There was no reason to say more.

  The man led him toward a Cadillac limousine with its engine purring. Blaine opened the back door for himself as the big man climbed behind the wheel.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McCracken. I trust your flight was comfortable.”

  The voice surprised Blaine because he had expected to ride alone. A reception party seemed uncalled for.

  “There was enough turbulence to make me feel right at home,” he told the gray-haired man in a tan overcoat. Blaine sat down and closed the door behind him. The driver pulled away. The opaque glass divider slid up between the seats.

  “The name’s Stimson, Blaine, Andrew Stimson. I run the Gap.”

  More surprise flashed in McCracken’s eyes. “The name was sufficient.” He hesitated. “I was expecting the standard Company escort, a couple of twin goons like your driver up there. I guess I should feel honored.”

  “The Company doesn’t even know you’re back in the States.”

  “What?”

  “I brought you in on my own,” Stimson explained. “It was all arranged up front until that business at Orly yesterday soured the President on you real fast. Your file was put on hold. The Company, and everyone else for that matter, think you’re still under detention in Paris. I’ve arranged it so everyone thinks someone else has the key.”

  “What about Daniels?” Blaine asked.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure Daniels won’t question an order he thinks came from this high up.”

  “Thinks?”

  “Don’t push it. The point is, since no one talks to anybody else anyway, the ruse could go on indefinitely.”

  “Then it looks like you’ve sprung a jailbird, Mr. Stimson.”

  “Call me Andy. With what I’m about to tell you, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”

  “So what is it?” Sandy Lister asked T.J. after handing over the thin round object she h
ad found in her purse an hour after spending nearly three at the police station.

  “You mean the stiff planted this on you and you didn’t give it to the cops?” T.J. asked, flustered.

  “The man died giving it to me. I’d like to know what it is first.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the girl who gave me the lecture on professional ethics this morning.” T.J. held the object out before him. “Never had much use for computers, have you, boss?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. Why?”

  “Because this is a floppy disk used for storing programs.”

  “Can you find out what’s on it?”

  “Just as soon as I switch on my terminal.” T.J. lowered the disk to his desk. “What about the stiff?”

  “The first job for your terminal. His name was Benjamin Kelno, but that’s all I know.”

  “Just let my magic fingers get to work, boss.”

  “I’ll be in my office. Call when you’ve got something.”

  A half hour later, after several reroutings and overrides on T.J.’s part, a capsule biography of Benjamin Kelno flashed up on the screen. He read quickly, stopping halfway through, when his lips began to quiver.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ …”

  The limousine turned onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway.

  “I guess you had a good reason for springing me,” Blaine said, breaking the silence.

  “I understand you have a reputation for getting things done.”

  “Sure. Just ask the French for a reference.”

  “I wasn’t talking about methods. I was talking about results, and you’re as good at getting them as any operative I’ve ever heard of.”

  McCracken just looked at him.