by Jon Land
“If you’re set on looking for the answer,” Stimson cautioned, “make sure you do it without attracting attention from the FBI. If they ID you …” The Gap director let his voice trail off at the end to illustrate his meaning.
“Don’t worry, Andy, I’ve already got a few ideas.”
“And no repeat performances of Eighty-sixth Street.”
“One a day’s my limit. Anything on the carolers or Santa Claus?”
“Freelance muscle, as near as we can tell. Pros, for sure, as you suspected, but all without links to any major group. Looks like they were hired for this one job.”
“Or two,” McCracken corrected him. “Lest we forget Easton.”
“The two who nailed him were black.”
“As was the Santa Claus.”
“A pretty thin connection.”
“I don’t think so, Andy. How many black Santa Clauses have you seen ringing money bells in posh sections of Manhattan?”
“None with acid in their cups, if that’s what you mean.”
“It goes deeper. I can feel it. I assume there’s nothing new with the microfiche.”
“The computer’s working overtime, but the fiche was burned worse than we thought originally. My people assure me we’re still close to something.”
“Which brings us to Chen, Andy. What’d your people turn up on him?”
Stimson cleared his throat before answering. “Our records are inconclusive.”
“What do they show, Andy?”
“Blaine—”
“What do they show, Andy?”
“CIA. They show Chen’s on the Company’s payroll.”
Sebastian’s freighter, McCracken learned, was called the Narcissus and was docked at West Twenty-Third Street on the Hudson River. Blaine decided to make his appearance after dark, ruling out commando tactics since Sebastian’s private army would significantly reduce the chances they would succeed. Something more subtle was called for, something that would keep the FBI off his back at the same time. The answer came to Blaine quickly and might even allow him to have some fun in the process.
What wasn’t fun was considering Chen’s link to the CIA. It was certain that he had infiltrated Madame Rosa’s for the express purpose of executing her if she became a threat. But why would the Company want her dead and, more, want Easton dead? It made no sense any way he looked at it. Sure, there was competition between the various intelligence groups, some of it heated. Never, though, did one agency go around murdering the operatives of another. More likely, Chen had been doubling during a lag in his Company duties. Doubling for whom, though?
Around sunset McCracken changed back into the sport jacket and slacks returned by the hotel valet service and hired a limousine to pick him up outside at seven o’clock sharp. Then he walked two blocks to a men’s store and purchased an expensive camel’s hair overcoat to complement the modest deception he was planning.
He was really running up an expense account on this assignment, but it didn’t matter much. Since Gap and Company agents seldom maintained permanent addresses, bills for credit cards and the like all ended up at a central location to be dealt with in-house. Personal expenses were deducted directly from salaries. It was simpler that way.
The limousine arrived right on schedule. McCracken paid the driver in advance and gave him the address.
“You sure you got that right, pal?” the driver asked him in a gravel voice.
Blaine said he was.
“Usually people go down there, they do it in fast cars to make fast exits, not in tanks like this.” The driver shook his head. His face was creased with scars and his nose was permanently swollen. He looked like a boxer who’d fought on well past his time. Blaine noticed his knuckles were callused as he gripped the wheel hard after restarting the car. “You ask me, the goddamn Port Authority should build an electrified fence around the whole fuckin’ complex, keep the damn foreigners from shitting up the city. Know what I mean?”
Blaine just shrugged.
“I live in the city all my life,” the gravel voice continued, pulling into traffic now. “Fought Carlos Monzon twice and he busted my nose both times. But he didn’t bust it good enough I can’t smell the stink rising from where you’re headed. I got a piece stashed at my place. You want for a few extra bucks we’ll stop over and I’ll watch your back.”
“Just watch the road.”
“Suit yourself, pal. But if I hear shots from inside that boat, don’t expect me to stick around and find out who caught the lead. Name’s Sal Belamo by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said McCracken.
The Narcissus had the look of a ship long out of love with its own reflection. The freighter was a giant, long and wide, a whale of a ship whose flesh was rotting with death and decay. Barnacles hugged her hull, which was rife with fresh repair patches and plenty more spots in need of the same. The letters proclaiming her name were cracked and peeling, the dot of the i missing and the final s with only a lower half. She held on to the dock the way elderly people dying alone and unwanted grip the handrails of their cold beds.
Blaine saw the first of Sebastian’s guards when the limousine was thirty yards away from the Narcissus’s darkened slot on the pier. Four of them stood in a spread before the wooden planking leading onto the ship. They showcased their automatic weapons openly, as if a different set of laws applied down here on the docks, and Blaine supposed to a great extent it did.
“Holy Christ,” moaned Sal Belamo. “You ask me, we shoulda stopped and grabbed my piece. What the hell’s going on?”
“Pull up slow,” McCracken instructed him. “Act like their presence here doesn’t bother or surprise you.”
“Their fuckin’ presence has me shittin’ in my pants, pal.”
“I’ll spring for a new pair of undies, Sal. Just do what I tell you.”
Belamo obliged, but his hands tightened hard around the steering wheel.
Blaine knew he was in the FBI’s sights right now and had to hope visits to the mysterious man on board the Narcissus were not unheard of. He hoped his modest disguise would eliminate the need for further investigation on the Bureau’s part. A well-dressed man arriving in a limousine should appear to be just another of Sebastian’s exclusive customers.
Belamo pulled the limousine to a halt just before the dock. McCracken could see the guards at the head of the walkway stiffen, hands starting to slide toward their rifles.
With a deep breath Blaine started to open the door.
“You ask me, pal, you’re makin’ a big mistake. Lots of people come down here end up as fish food and nobody gives a shit. Know what I mean?”
“Thanks for the comfort, Sal. Just keep the engine warm.”
“Blazing, pal, blazing.”
Blaine stepped out and closed the door behind him. He moved slowly and calmly forward, then stopped in front of the four guards. They watched him with cold intensity, eyes as black as their flesh, all layered with muscle thick as shoulder pads.
“I’d like to see Sebastian.”
“He ain’t here,” said one of the men, and Blaine was honestly not sure which.
McCracken fingered his beard, edged a little closer so that the top of the plywood walkway complete with rope handrails was visible. More guards were up there standing watch over the gunwale.
“He’ll be here for me,” he said calmly.
“Write what you want to tell him in a letter. I’ll make sure he gets it,” said the shortest black with a chest the size of a beer keg. The man showed his rifle.
“Look, boys, I got business with the man. If he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll climb back in my car and beat it out of this rat hole, but I want to hear it from him first.”
“You might lose your balls in this rat hole, shit for brains,” the shortest guard charged, and his gun came up farther. An M-16, Blaine noted. The guard had the look of a man who had used one plenty of times before.
“You want to play with guns, friend, do it
after you tell Sebastian that Madame Rosa bought it today and there’s a spot on the farm waiting for him unless he sees me.”
“Sebastian knows what happened to the old bitch.”
The voice came from the top of the walkway and McCracken turned toward it along with the guards.
“Sebastian knows everything,” the voice continued.
Blaine couldn’t make out the speaker’s features clearly in the misty darkness but did see him rest his hands on the rail.
“It’s all right, Henry,” said Sebastian, “send him up. But search him first and make sure he’s clean inside and out.”
Blaine submitted to the shortest guard’s rough, callused hands without complaint, all the time wishing he had his Browning or even Sal Belamo’s piece to poke down his throat like a tongue depressor. Finding no weapon, Henry led him up the plank walkway, where Sebastian was waiting at the top in the center of a half-dozen more guards.
“Let’s take our business inside,” he said. “I been out long enough for one night.”
The dapper Sebastian looked clearly out of place among his butcherous legion. His Afro was finely sculptured and rode just over the tips of his ears in slight ringlets. His skin was coppery light; his eyes were caramel brown and definitely scared. He was wearing a silk shirt and a pair of obviously expensive trousers. Chains, bracelets, and rings chimed and glowed everywhere about him. His fingernails were neatly manicured.
“This way.” Sebastian beckoned, and Blaine followed him down a narrow staircase into the bowels of the ship with three guards and their guns shadowing his every step. Two more stood in front of a doorway and the larger held the door open when Sebastian approached. Blaine followed him inside, ducking his head a little under the low frame.
The light stung his eyes and then the setting itself made them widen. Sebastian’s private quarters on board the Narcissus had been converted into a luxury apartment done in colonial woods and rich brown fabrics with a touch of nautical styling tossed in for good measure. A couch was bordered on both sides by end tables layered with coarse seaman’s rope. Sets of leather-bound books were held up in three large wall units by various gauges that might once have occupied positions on some captain’s bridge.
The door closed behind them and Blaine was surprised none of the guards had entered. Sebastian seemed to read his mind.
“If you try anything,” he warned, “you’ll be dead before you finish it.”
“Your men that fast, Sebastian?”
“This is,” the black man said, revealing a derringer he had been palming the whole time. “Two bullets loaded with hollow-point grains. Especially effective at close range. Please excuse me for holding it on you while we speak.”
“Be my guest.”
“Pull up a chair. Or would you prefer the couch?”
“A chair will do fine.”
Blaine pulled one up. Sebastian crossed his legs on the couch.
“You’re a well-protected man, Sebastian,” Blaine opened, not worrying about the gun pointed at him.
“So was Madame Rosa and they got her.”
“But you let me up.”
“Because you’re not black. When they try for me, the man will be black. Besides, I’m heading for Europe tomorrow at dawn. The ocean’s got lots of hiding places.”
“And, of course, you’ll be filling more special orders once you reach land again.” McCracken could not disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
Sebastian leaned forward. “I don’t know who you are, but if you’re aware of what happened to Madame Rosa, I figure you’re as marked as I am and maybe you know something that might be able to help me. Now I’m realizing there’s nothing that can help me so long as I remain in the States.”
“Then you don’t plan on returning. A lot of kinky assholes will just have to go wanting, I guess.”
Sebastian squeezed his features together. “Mister, things are gonna start changing pretty fast in this country before long, and I don’t want to be around for it.”
Blaine felt a stirring in his stomach. Sebastian was scared, all right, but of more than just the threat to his own life.
“Who are you anyway?” he demanded. “What’s your connection with all this?”
“I’m going to tell you the truth, Sebastian, because I see no reason to hold anything back. My name’s Blaine McCracken and I’ve been called in to replace Tom Easton on his current mission. You remember Easton, don’t you? He got sliced up by a couple of machine-gun clips along with a pair of twins you got special for him.”
The last lines seemed not to reach Sebastian. “If you’re replacing Easton, then you’d be smart to head for the oceans too.”
“Sure, let’s head out together. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
The humor was lost on Sebastian, but he smiled anyway. “You don’t know what you’re on to yet, do you?”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me there. You fingered Easton for the hit team, didn’t you?”
“I had no choice,” Sebastian said, suddenly defensive.
McCracken glanced around him, locking finally on the door. “For a guy who’s got a goddamn army of chaperons, that sounds pretty strange.”
“I got the army after they came the first time.” Sebastian’s stare grew distant, his grip slackening on his derringer. “They knew Easton was a patron of Madame Rosa’s and that he required special orders to be filled from time to time. Since I was Madame Rosa’s exclusive supplier, they came to me. I told them about the twins, when they were due in. The men seemed satisfied.”
“You set those kids up along with Easton,” Blaine charged. “You’re as guilty as the men with the Mac-10s.”
Sebastian stood up, trembling with rage. “Spare me your moralizing, McCracken. When I found those children, they were living in the streets of Athens and picked fruit to earn a penny or two a day.”
“So you rescued them. And I always thought Jerry Lewis knew no equal. …”
“I provide a service, McCracken. I supply products to people who would otherwise be unable to obtain them. And ninety percent of the time everything is respectable, everybody comes out ahead, and nobody gets hurt.”
“But then there are those other ten percent, right? And I’m not talking about just Easton either. You’ve probably gotten lots of innocent kids killed, Sebastian. But they’re better off being tortured in some weirdo’s bedroom than picking fruit, I suppose.”
Sebastian’s lips squeezed briefly together. “I don’t plan to argue ethics with a hired killer, which is all you are. You’re no match for who’s behind all this. My advice is to run before they find you like they found Easton.”
“Before who finds me?”
Sebastian hesitated. “The PVR.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Where have you been, out of the country or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Tell me about this PVR. Why have they got you so scared that you’ve got an army protecting you above the water and divers protecting you below it?”
Sebastian’s eyes flashed fear. “What divers?”
“I saw air bubbles rising on my way up to the deck.” Sebastian was shaking horribly now. “I don’t have any divers!”
McCracken rose to his feet. “Then who …”
As if both men had realized the answer simultaneously, they rushed toward the door together, linked by the terrible certainty that they were going to be too late. They bolted up the stairs with a set of befuddled guards right behind them and had reached the deck when the explosion came, shattering the stillness of the night. Heat singed the air and buckled Blaine’s flesh an instant before the world was yanked from under him. He reached out to grab something, anything, but it was all floating away.
Blackness came mercifully before impact, so it seemed he was still floating into a tunnel up ahead, and he tumbled into it falling, falling …
Chapter 8
WHEN CAPTAIN ALAN COGLAN first saw Sandy
Lister enter the restaurant, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It came as quite a surprise when she approached his table.
“Captain Coglan, I’m Sandy Lister.”
Coglan rose to greet her. “Yes, I know,” he said, starting to feel suspicious now.
“Please sit down, Captain. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time and I’m sorry if I interrupted your dinner.”
T.J. Brown had learned that Coglan ate dinner regularly at this small Italian restaurant near his station post, and Sandy had come with the intention of prying more information from him. Rarely did she take advantage of her celebrity status. It was great for avoiding long waits in restaurants or airports, but generally it was a burden to be shrugged off. Often during interviews her mere presence made people eager to please and under those circumstances they often revealed more than they intended. She was hoping for similar results tonight.
Coglan hadn’t quite settled himself back in his chair when Sandy spoke again.
“T.J. Brown works for me, Captain.”
Coglan’s face stiffened. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea that we speak, Miss Lister.”
“What’s an orbital flight plan, Captain?”
Coglan leaned across the table. “Miss Lister, please. By all rights I should have reported that T.J. had the disk in his possession, but for some reason I didn’t. Your questions might force me to change my mind.”
“I don’t think so, Captain, because then you would have to explain why you waited so long. Your people might also somehow learn that you had dinner here with me, a television reporter. I doubt very much they’d appreciate the timing of that,” Sandy warned, her threat spoken gently.
“Miss Lister, the information you’re asking for is top secret.”
“Not anymore, Captain. The disk was passed on to me by a civilian who died for the effort. Murdered, more specifically.”
Coglan hesitated. “Everything I say will be considered off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’ll forget about this meeting ever taking place?”
“It never happened.”
Coglan pulled his chair farther under the table and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The shuttle program is not my field, but I do know some basics. To begin with, the onboard crew under normal conditions has little control over the shuttle once it attains orbit. Everything is controlled and monitored by computers in Houston talking to computers one hundred and eighty miles above Earth. Through disks, Miss Lister. The disk T.J. brought me was one of the most important of all because it contained the preprogrammed space orbit Adventurer was to follow: when and where the shuttle would be at every instant of its orbit, barring malfunction, of course.”