“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 had 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.
“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.