“Yes?” The phone was answered by a male voice, but not Stimson’s.
“I need Stimson.”
“He is unavailable.”
“Get him.”
“He is—”
“Get him, you ass! Now!”
“I’ll send out a page,” the voice said after a brief pause.
Blaine wished he could have reached through the phone to tear the damn bureaucrat’s throat out. It was another minute before Stimson came on the line.
“This is Stimson.”
“We’ve got problems.”
“Blaine, is that you? What’s happened?”
“Long story. You’ll be hearing about much of it before too long, I suspect.”
“Complications?”
“Violent ones. There are lots of people dead up here, Andy, and I was lucky not to be among them.”
Stimson paused. “Were you blown?”
“My investigation of Madame Rosa’s didn’t include the fringe benefits.”
“Blaine, please!”
“No, Andy, I wasn’t blown. They were waiting for somebody, that much I can tell you, and they must have had a pretty good idea it was me.”
“I need details, Blaine, details!”
“Madame Rosa’s dead. Her whole place is deserted. Somebody pulled a lot of strings and they waited until I got there to pull them. Outside I was made by Santa Claus and a bunch of elves who carried sawed-offs instead of Christmas presents. And you might be getting a bill from the city for one truck.”
“When I told you to crack all the balls you wanted, you took me at my word, didn’t you?”
“Only because I didn’t want mine cracked, Andy. This thing must be even bigger than we thought. And if you ask me, the Santa Claus I blew away has connections in places other than the North Pole.” Blaine paused. “What about the microfiche? Anything?”
“Nothing concrete, but we’re making progress.”
“If your computers can handle a little more work, I need a few checks made.”
“I’ve got pen in hand.”
“First, I need everything you can get me on someone or something called Sebastian.”
“That’s it, just Sebastian?”
“He or it was involved somehow with Madame Rosa, if that helps any.”
“It might. What else?”
“An Oriental named Chen, probably of Chinese extraction. Very small but very deadly. Alas, now very dead.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised. …”
“He’s probably a hired gun. Freelance. I’d like to know who he’s been working for lately.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody placed him with Madame Rosa, somebody with a lot of time, patience, and reasons. The Easton thing was set up for quite a while. Either Madame Rosa’s was infiltrated through and through, or Easton’s killers were invisible.”
“Do you need to be brought in?” Stimson asked grimly.
“The way I look right now, Andy, I’d have to travel in the baggage compartment. No, I’ll get cleaned up and hole up here for a few hours while you dig up that information for me. When should I call?”
“It’s almost two now. Say anytime after four.”
“Perfect.” Blaine was about to say goodbye when one final thought occurred to him. “Oh, and, Andy, that Santa Claus who’s seen his last chimney?”
“Yes?”
“He was black.”
Part Two
The Narcissus
Wednesday Afternoon to Saturday Afternoon
Chapter 7
“The space shuttle Adventurer?”
Sandy Lister couldn’t believe what a nervous T.J. had just told her. She had spent the balance of the morning reviewing the information he had gathered and passed on the previous day concerning Krayman Industries. Little of his research would stand up in court, but it was accurate with one point irrefutable: Krayman Industries had channeled vast energies and resources into gaining control of different segments of the media and all spheres of telecommunication in general. The corporation was the controlling force behind twenty-seven local television stations nationwide, skirting FCC ownership regulations by forming new companies to control subgroups of stations in different regions. Holding all of them together and serving as an umbrella unit for Krayman’s vast holdings in the media, electronics, transportation, and computers was Communications Technology International. Tens of billions of dollars were involved. COM-U-TECH had become the ultimate consortium in the telecommunications field. But why? Men like Krayman did not move randomly. So what was he after?
“It’s something called an orbital flight plan,” T.J. continued, fidgeting nervously in the chair before Sandy’s desk.
“That’s all your air force friend was able to tell you?”
“We ain’t friends anymore, boss.”
“Lunch wasn’t pleasant?”
“Lunch never happened. Coglan just dropped the disk off like it was burning his fingers and pointed me in the FBI’s direction.”
“Obviously, he had a good reason for wanting you to get rid of it.”
“Sure. How does high treason grab you?”
Sandy started to laugh but quickly stopped when she saw T.J.’s sullen expression. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Not unless Captain Coglan was, and he didn’t seem to be in a joking mood.” T.J. sighed. “After the Challenger explosion, it was the Defense Department that saved the shuttle program and now furnishes virtually all of its funding. In typical Defense Department fashion, everything’s very hush-hush, and even if it weren’t, possessing a computer program made up of the last flight of a shuttle lost in space wouldn’t be looked at too kindly by the authorities. To put it bluntly, they might crucify us. So if you’re ready to go to the FBI, I’ll drive.”
“What happened to the gung-ho journalistic bravado from yesterday?”
“Deep down, I’m a coward.”
“Is that why you haven’t bothered speculating on why a murdered Krayman Industries employee would have an orbital flight plan disk in his possession?”
“Look who’s making the connections now. …”
“It would be hard for even a celebrity interviewer to miss them. Kelno worked for Krayman, he had the disk, I’m about to start a story on the man himself when a dying Kelno slips it into my purse. Sounds like a progression to me.
“You gonna take this to Shay?”
Sandy hedged. “Not yet.”
“Because you want it to be your story?”
“Because I haven’t got enough to take to him yet. Right now we’ve got two leads: Kelno and the disk. Your job is to dig up everything you can on Kelno while I find out exactly what good an orbital flight plan would be to anyone other than NASA.”
“How?”
“Your friend Captain Coglan. If lunch didn’t work, I’ll try dinner.”
McCracken began stripping off his dirty clothes as soon as the door to his room in the St. Regis on Fifty-fifth Street was chained behind him. It felt good to be out of them and he called down immediately to the hotel valet service to have his sport jacket and slacks cleaned and pressed. Yes, they assured him, the job could be done within an hour. An extra fee would be required, though. So what else is new? Blaine thought.
He took a long hot shower, steaming the grime away, ordered up a turkey club from room service, and after finishing it dialed Andrew Stimson’s private number at exactly four o’clock.
“Stimson,” came the Gap director’s voice.
“It’s Blaine, Andy.”