Dolorman had lived by that credo for the five years he had managed Krayman Industries and for many years previously. That such a seemingly meek, almost shy man could have risen to such a position would have been impossible if not for the calculating soul that lurked within. For as long as he could remember, Dolorman had thrived on others’ underestimation of him. To be able to surpass a rival before he even considers you a threat is a great gift, especially in the world of business. Dolorman took tremendous pride in that advantage and saw no reason to change things at so late a stage in his life and career.
Similarly, he took pleasure in the fact that he could enter the Krayman Tower in Houston and move to his private elevator without drawing so much as a glance from his own employees. Only those who saw him arrive in his limousine, the one luxury he allowed himself, might gawk briefly or stammer out a greeting. Dolorman would smile back but never stop for a hello or, God forbid, a conversation. The less people knew about him, the better.
The limousine pulled to a halt before the main entrance of the Krayman Tower Thursday morning and Dolorman eased himself gingerly out. He had been on a destroyer sunk by a Japanese kamikaze in World War II and his back had suffered the brunt of the damage. The pain seldom let up, and like everything else in life, it was just something you got used to.
Because Dolorman could swallow his emotions as deftly as his pain, the anxiety he felt this morning showed not the slightest trace on his features. His skin was conspicuously pale, as usual, and his white hair cropped close enough to resemble a solid sheath. He made a straight, solitary path toward his private elevator and rode it to his office on the fifty-third and top floor. His mind recited the various management facilities of Krayman holdings as he passed them floor by floor with the flashing of different numbered lights.
His secretary eyed him subserviently as he moved lightly from the elevator. The pain in his back made Dolorman’s steps seem a glide rather than a walk.
“Mr. Wells and Mr. Verasco are waiting in your office as instructed, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Dolorman entered and closed the door behind him. Wells and Verasco rose out of respect, a study in contrasts. Verasco was a short, squat, olive-skinned man who chainsmoked cigars everywhere except within Dolorman’s chambers; he knew Dolorman couldn’t tolerate smoke of any kind. His roles with Krayman Industries were many, but none more important than overall coordinator of Omega; he had nursed the project almost since its inception. Verasco’s appearance, like Dolorman’s, was deceiving. At first glance he looked sluggish, even dimwitted. But his mind was quick and agile.
Wells was something else again. He was chief of Krayman Industries’ Special Operations Force, a title which could not be found on any door but nevertheless gave Wells responsibility for preventing covert activities on the part of rivals and orchestrating these same activities against rivals when necessary. He was a front-line security man for the consortium, and Dolorman felt the job couldn’t be in better hands. Wells stood a half-foot over six and continued to wear his hair in a stubbly crew cut long after his tenure with the army had come to an abrupt end. His considerable bulk more than filled out his frame and his neck was so layered with knotty muscle that it seemed a mere extension of his head.
Dolorman’s glance toward Wells was typically short this morning; lingering looks were only for the strong of stomach. Wells’s left eye was sealed tight by scar tissue that covered the better portion of that side of his face. An eye patch would have covered the bulk of the damage, but Wells disdained it in favor of maintaining an appearance that intimidated his enemies and sometimes his own men. His disfigurement extended up to a hairless patch on the left half of his scalp and down to his lip, so that side looked always to be cracked in a sinister grin. The only bothersome factor to Wells was the missing sight from his closed eye because it made him vulnerable from the left.
Luck had never been much on Wells’s side. He had been bounced out of the Special Forces in ’Nam after a fellow officer ratted on him. They sent him home to a wife he didn’t miss and a post as a drill instructor for elite recruits at Fort Bragg. A year into his tenure he caught his wife sleeping with a captain. He tore the man’s throat out with his bare hands and was heading for the front door when his wife tossed a pot of boiling oil into his face. Wells turned away in time to save one half, but not the other. The pain was indescribable, but he fought it down and tore out her throat as well.
He was ripping at her chest, trying for the heart, when the MPs arrived. It took a whole squad of them with blackjacks to subdue and then hospitalize him.
The case of the mutilated war hero received little attention nationwide but a brief newsclip reached Francis Dolorman, who saw a rare opportunity. In Dolorman’s world there was often need for a man with Wells’s … temperament. The problem was finding one trustworthy and loyal enough. Dolorman pulled every string he could to win Wells’s release, and then hired him. Wells had been enraged that night in the bungalow but his madness was far from permanent. He wanted very much to live and as a dedicated soldier swore lifetime allegiance to the man who had saved him from certain execution. Actually, it was far more than allegiance.
Over the years Dolorman had made considerable use of Wells’s cruder skills, as well as his planning abilities. Wells was a master of shrewd commando tactics and, from training and instinct, was able to organize carefully planned strikes on rivals when they suited the needs of Krayman Industries.
Of course, if Dolorman had sent Wells to handle the incident in New York, he would be faced now with one less pressing problem to occupy his immediate attention. He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and rotated his gaze to Verasco and then briefly to Wells.
“There are three issues we must deal with today,” he began, systematic as always, “so let us take them in order of occurrence for progress reports. Wells, what is the latest on Kelno?”
“Our people in the New York police department have been especially cooperative,” Wells replied. The left side of his mouth lagged a bit behind his right, leading to a slight slur of his speech, as if he spoke always with a small mouthful of food. “Unfortunately, their efforts have not produced the missing disk. It was not on his person and subsequent checks of his office and home have turned up nothing.”
“Could he have mailed it or used a safe deposit box?”
Wells shook his massive head. “Impossible. Our people insist he had it on him when they made their move.”
“Failure is not becoming to you, Wells.”
Wells took the criticism without emotion. “Public executions are often interrupted by the unexpected. Such was the case in New York. Kelno was able to disappear into the subway before our men could finish him.”
“With the disk, of course.”
“Apparently. They caught up with him at the headquarters of the television network.”
“Where Sandy Lister enters the scene. Problem number two…”
Wells made the semblance of a nod. “We know he whispered something to her, and it is quite possible he somehow slipped her the data. As of yet, though, we have no evidence that she has reported its presence or that it is in her possession.”
“She’s a reporter, Wells. She wouldn’t part with it easily or advertise its existence.”
“I’ve considered that and I’ve also considered this story she’s proposed for her newsmagazine Overview. I don’t think you should keep that interview with her next week.”