by Jon Land
“Ever heard of Tom Easton, Blaine?”
“A Gap man, isn’t he?”
“Was. Somebody killed him in New York yesterday. It wasn’t pretty. He was working on something big and now that work has died with him. We haven’t a clue as to what he was on to.”
“How was he killed?”
Stimson settled back. It didn’t surprise him that a man like McCracken would want to know that first. “There’s a … house in New York called Madame Rosa’s. …”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, Easton was a regular customer,” Stimson said, and went on to relate all the lurid details of the assassination.
“Professional,” was McCracken’s only comment.
“Brutally so,” Stimson added. “Apparently, whoever we’re dealing with isn’t fond of subtle methods. Or the stakes of what Easton uncovered ruled them out.”
“You want me to pick up where he left off,” Blaine concluded.
“And retrace his steps.”
“As long as I can skip Madame Rosa’s. Little boys and girls have never been my style.”
“They knew he was headed there,” Stimson said. “Everything was planned out.”
“You said Easton was a regular customer. It fits.”
“Security at Madame Rosa’s is tighter than anyone’s in the capital, and that includes the Oval Office. If it was breached, you can bet somebody big was behind it, someone who stood to lose a lot if Easton made it in.”
“When was he due?”
“Last night.”
“That’s cutting it pretty close.”
Stimson nodded. “The opposition waited for him to expose himself.”
“Literally,” Blaine added. “Easton’s field was internal subversion, right?”
“His specialty. Terrorist groups, revolutionaries—that sort of thing.”
“Then the implication is one of those paid the visit to Madame Rosa’s.”
“But which? The execution was utterly clean, more worthy of a KGB hit squad than a domestic terrorist group made up of unhappy college students.”
Blaine’s eyebrows flickered. “You’re underestimating them just as Easton did.”
“I’ve been through the Gap files a dozen times. No one listed there could possibly have pulled this off.”
“So we’re dealing with someone new … or someone your files haven’t done justice to.”
“How do we find out who?”
McCracken smiled at Stimson’s use of we. Obviously, the Gap director had already assumed he would cooperate, since the alternative was probably a return to detention in Paris. Blaine thought briefly.
“Easton’s car, did you find it?”
Stimson nodded without enthusiasm. “Stripped clean and partially burned.”
“You go over it?”
“There wasn’t much to go over. But yes, we did.” Stimson shook his head. “Nothing.”
“The car’s been brought here to Washington, I assume.”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to have a look at it.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever visited Madame Rosa’s must have known Easton left a bit of security in his car. Otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to steal it. I’m hoping they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“In which case, our people would have.”
McCracken smiled knowingly. “It meant more to the killers. If they had found it, they wouldn’t have bothered to torch the car. Obviously, they didn’t want anyone else picking up where they left off and maybe getting luckier.”
Stimson nodded. “Interesting.”
“I’ll check it out first thing tomorrow after a steak dinner and a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ve arranged accommodations.”
“Safe house?”
“The Four Seasons Hotel under an assumed name. Remember, no one else knows I’ve brought you in, and we’ve got to keep it that way.”
“That could provide some complications.”
“I don’t think so. You’ll report to me and only to me.”
“No channel cover or access code? No backup?”
Stimson shook his head. “There isn’t time. And even if there were …” He seemed to be groping for words. “The thing of it is, Blaine, I know all about you. A rogue, a renegade, ‘McCrackenballs’—all that shit. And shit’s just what it is, because when everything’s said and done, you succeed. I’m not holding a leash on you, but also I can’t accept responsibility if this thing blows up and one of my counterparts at a three-letter agency grabs hold of you.” Stimson’s stare held Blaine’s. “Look, I don’t care whose nuts you have to bust to get to the bottom of this, just do it. You’ve got all the resources of the Gap behind you, and when all this is over, I can promise you a position on any terms you dictate.”
Blaine eyed him closely. “You’ve assumed I’d go along with this all along.”
Stimson nodded. “Like I said, I know all about you. They’ve had you stashed in purgatory for five years now. I’m offering a way out.”
“To heaven or hell, Andy?”
“That remains to be seen.”
The President’s meeting with Nathan Jamrock, who in addition to heading the shuttle program served as chief of the controversial Special Space Projects section devoted to the deployment of weapons in space, didn’t begin until six P.M. The militarization of space was considered by most in Washington to be inevitable as well as the one area where America held a distinct strategic advantage over the Soviet Union. If the next war was not fought above Earth, many thought, it would at least begin there. The present Space-Stat alert system had been developed with precisely that in mind.
“Then you’re telling me you’re no further along now than you were two days ago,” the President said dejectedly, after Jamrock had finished his latest report.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“What about the tapes?”
Jamrock shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket for a package of Rolaids. This was going to be a six-tablet meeting, he figured. “Computer magnifications and enhancements have yielded nothing new. By the time Caswell had gotten the camera up in the direction of … whatever was coming, the transmission had been jammed.”
“Jammed by what, Nate?”
Jamrock’s teeth sliced into his first pair of Rolaids. “The same sophisticated apparatus we suspect that’s keeping our ground-based radar from tracking the damn thing. It’s nothing our current technology can definitively account for any more than we can account for the means by which the shuttle was destroyed. Of course that doesn’t mean the Russians haven’t come up with something we’re not yet aware of.”
“I’ve already spoken with the Soviets and I’m satisfied that they had nothing to do with what happened. They claimed and I’ve already confirmed that two of their unmanned crafts were destroyed under similar circumstances. Somebody obviously wants control of space for themselves. That still doesn’t tell us what that somebody is up to.” The President paused. “But I’ll tell you this much, whoever it is has got something big up there, and destroying our shuttle was an outright act of war. Why? And what was Caswell trying to describe?”
Jamrock fidgeted impatiently in his chair. “Our only means of learning that will be to send something else up.” He swallowed the grit from his Rolaids. “Mr. President, I can have Pegasus ready for launch in nine days.”
The President tapped his fingers on his desk, considering the implications of Jamrock’s suggestion. Pegasus was the prototype for what was envisioned as a fleet of laser-armed shuttles that could knock out of the sky anything that strayed too far into American air space. Short of a Star Wars shield, such a fleet would provide the ultimate security from enemy attack, along with being the controversial first step in the militarization of space. Pegasus had been tested and deemed ready for deployment. Technologically, all lights were green. Politically, red ones flashed everywhere.
“
There’s plenty of demand from the press and on the Hill for another series of hearings, Nate.”
“NASA couldn’t survive them, sir. And even if we could, it probably wouldn’t matter much. Whatever was responsible for Adventurer’s destruction is still up there, and I’m betting whoever’s controlling it isn’t finished yet. Forget questionable O-rings and frozen SRBs. What happened up there this time was an act of war.
The President turned his gaze out the window at the night sky. “How many days to get Pegasus airborne?”
“Nine.”
“Make it eight, Nate.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Sandy Lister said, rising uneasily from her office chair.
“You’d better, boss,” T.J. Brown told her. “Benjamin Kelno worked for Krayman Industries. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“T.J.—”
He stood up and looked at her across the desk. “Just hear me out. He showed up with the computer disk the very day you got approval for the Krayman story, pouring blood all over the sidewalk, but he still made it here because he wanted you to have that disk. Not anybody, just you. What was it he whispered?”
“That time was running out, that I had to stop them.”
“Stop who, boss?”
“You want me to say Krayman Industries, but I won’t.”
“But it fits!”
“What fits? You’re grasping, T.J. We don’t even know what’s on the disk yet, do we?”
T.J. shrugged. “It’s some sort of predetermined flight program. For what I don’t know. But that air force friend of mine just might be able to help. I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Look, Krayman Industries is a major multinational corporation, a Dow Jones blue chip. It’s crazy to think they’d be implicated in anything like this.”
“There’s lots about them you don’t know. Like I told you this morning.”
Sandy sat back down. “Then maybe it’s time I learned.”
Chapter 5
EASTON’S CAR HAD been taken to the CIA’s forensic laboratory, located not in Langley but on spacious grounds overlooking Rock Creek Park near the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Northwest D.C. That was to be McCracken’s first stop Wednesday morning thanks to a pass secured for him by Andrew Stimson. The pass was made out in a false name, Stimson’s signature being the sole important feature. Clearly, no one could be allowed to learn Blaine was in Washington. Word spread fast in the capital, and if it reached the wrong people, the operation would be blown.
The CIA’s private lab was better known as the “Toy Factory” since its primary task over the years had been to develop new weapons for use in the field. McCracken bypassed these sections, which made up the bulk of the Toy Factory, and moved toward an area reserved for forensic work of a more mundane nature, where Easton’s Porsche was being stored. The car sat in a separate garage bay and McCracken was escorted to it by a man in a white lab coat who seemed intent on charting Blaine’s every move on his clipboard.
“This may take a while,” McCracken said when they reached the bay.
“My orders are to remain with you,” the man said. “But I’ll stay out of your way.”
He unlocked the bay door and slid it up, revealing the formerly flaming red Porsche, now charred black and marred by cracked and bubbled paint. The scent of burnt metal was still in the air. The handles had been stripped and Blaine had to use the inside latch to get the door open.
The car was a shell. Its seats had been ripped out along with just about everything mechanical. The steering column was bent at an impossible angle, as if someone had tried for the wheel as well but then gave up.
Blaine spent the next two hours going over every inch of the Porsche, oblivious to his escort’s claims that it had all been done already. His hands and clothes were grimy from the effort and his enthusiasm waned with each chunk of flesh lost on the spiny underside of the dash. He looked at the escort before starting on the two remaining tires and decided that CIA personnel were more than capable of inspecting the innards of burnt rubber.
It didn’t make any sense, Blaine thought. Burning the car indicated they hadn’t found what Easton had hidden. That meant it was still in the Porsche somewhere, unless the fire had claimed it. But Easton’s hiding place would be a spot impervious to flames.
McCracken climbed back through the door and settled himself where the front seat used to be. The hiding place would be convenient, within arm’s reach, so as not to attract attention when Easton used it. It would not have to be big but would be reinforced, protected with padding perhaps.
His fingers wrapped around the shift knob, which was leaning off to the side. With nothing better to do, he stripped it off even though it had already obviously been checked by both Easton’s killers and the CIA. He unscrewed the lower portion, squeezing with all his strength. It came off, exposing the knob’s hollow interior, a perfect hiding place for something small. He stuck his index finger through the opening and felt around the inside. Nothing but dust. He rolled the knob around in his hand, then wedged his finger back inside and held it up to the light as if it were a mystical crystal ball that might show him the answer.
The knob remained black and charred. No magic today. …
Blaine was about to discard it when something occurred to him. The knob was an inch in height but only three-quarters of an inch of his finger was inside. That left another quarter-inch within the knob unaccounted for. Another compartment. There had to be another compartment.
Blaine removed his finger and wiped the black grime from the top of the knob. Shifting instructions for the famed Porsche five-speed appeared. Neutral was in the middle, represented by a red N. Blaine pushed the N.
The charred top of the shift knob popped up.
Unseen by his escort, McCracken lowered the knob to his lap and peered inside.
There was a section of microfiche, thin and blackened around the edges. He lifted it carefully out and eased it between layers of his clean white handkerchief.
“I give up,” Blaine said, tossing the shift knob aside.
“About time,” responded his escort gratefully.
McCracken met Andrew Stimson thirty minutes later on a park bench on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“We’ll let the computers have a go at this,” Stimson said, fitting the microfiche into a clear plastic envelope. “Fiche is composed almost totally of a plastic, highly flammable material. There’s probably enough information on this one to fill a dozen magazine pages, but I don’t know how much even the computers will be able to salvage after the heat it’s been exposed to.”
“A name, a location, anything,” Blaine said.
“We’ll do the best we can. If we get lucky, there’ll be repetition of certain words and phrases the computer can lock on to.”
“Could take a while.”
“Probably.”
“Then I think I’ll catch the shuttle to New York and pay Madame Rosa a visit.” The taxi slid down East Eighty-sixth Street, taking the ice ruts as they came.
“Early snow’s a bad sign for the winter,” the cabbie told Blaine. “A bad sign.”
They passed a corner where a Santa Claus was surrounded by singing carolers, their breath misting in perfect rhythm in the bright air. Blaine hadn’t been in the States for Christmas since his banishment five years before. Lots of mistletoe and roasted chestnuts had come and gone. Christmas in America was like Christmas nowhere else, but he found himself strangely unmoved by the joyous atmosphere of people rushing around and not seeming to mind it much.
Truth was, he disliked the holiday season because it left him empty. Holidays were for sharing, but Blaine had nothing to share and no one to share it with. He was an only child of parents dead for several years, with a splattering of aunts and uncles across the country whose names he could barely remember. There had been many women in his life, but the affairs had never lasted long enough to be labeled relationships.
This rarely bothered Blaine, but Chri
stmas was an exception. His work had been his life and that work allowed no attachments. Enemies could get to you through people who were close, and anyone who thought that to be a violation of the rules of the game didn’t really know the game. You flew alone, ate alone, lived alone, and mostly slept alone. Some operatives chanced marriage but seldom children because children were the most vulnerable of all, too easy to make disappear.
Worst of all, Blaine reckoned, was that the fear of attachments came not only out of regard for the opposition but for your own people as well. Your superiors liked leverage. They always treated family men better because if they misbehaved there were always those buttons that could be pushed.
“This it?” the cabbie asked him.
They had come to a halt in front of a brownstone with a doorman blowing breath onto his gloves before the entrance.
“Yeah, this is it,” Blaine told the driver, flipping him a twenty with instructions to keep the change.
Blaine stepped out of the cab and approached the entrance to Madame Rosa’s to find his path blocked by the rather burly doorman.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Blaine fingered his beard. “A trim will do for today. I’ll take the manicure next week.”
The doorman was not amused. “This is a private club, sir.”
“Club? Is that what they’re calling these places today? My, my, leave the country for a few years and the whole damn dictionary changes.”
The doorman’s eyes swept around him, obviously unsure. Avoiding a scene was foremost on his mind. Making one was foremost on McCracken’s.
“Tell Madame Rosa a friend of Tom Easton’s is here to see her.”
“I know no woman by that name, sir.”
Blaine moved a little closer, leery of the bigger man’s feet and hands. “Let me spell it out for you. Either I go by you or through you. Your choice.”
The doorman moved toward a phone suspended in a box to the right of the windowless entrance. “Who should I say is here?” he asked McCracken.
“Rudolph R. Reindeer …”
Blaine knew the name didn’t matter because the doorman was already going for his gun. The man’s bulky jacket precluded a quick draw, which allowed McCracken the instant he needed to close the gap between them and to lock his hand on the doorman’s drawing wrist. Blaine pounded his face once with a fist and then slammed his groin with a knee rocketed from the pavement in a blur of motion. The doorman gasped, eyes dimming, and started to slump. McCracken grabbed him, providing support, and pounded rapidly on the door.