The Omega Command (17 page)

Blaine felt the powerful hands of the two giant bodyguards grasp him at the shoulders and begin shoving backward. He was able to hold his ground against them long enough to utter one last sentence.

“Merry Christmas, Sahhan.”

Their eyes met through the dark sunglasses, and Blaine could feel Sahhan’s panic. The fanatic had grasped his meaning. His mouth dropped, but before he could respond, if he had meant to, the huge bodyguards had yanked Blaine toward the rear exit. McCracken guessed there would be a beating in store for him outside and had to decide how much of it to take before putting the two men down.

Not much, he decided after they had tossed him down a set of steps in the back of Alumni House. He was rising slowly from the cement, when a familiar voice froze him.

“I got orders to take over from here.”

The bodyguards held their ground. A fat man passed down the steps between them, followed by a pair of men who seemed smaller but just as deadly. He stopped on the second step, so as McCracken stood up their heights were equal, and Blaine found himself staring into the yellow eyes of Luther Krell.

“Hello, Krell. Long time no see.”

Krell motioned Sahhan’s bodyguards back inside. They retreated subserviently. “I knew I’d get my shot at you if I was patient, McCracken.”

“You’re still waiting, Krell. Today’s not your day.”

The fat man smiled. The men behind him on the steps showed their guns. The area was surrounded by large buildings deserted for the Christmas break, so passersby were not a concern.

“Today
is
my day, McCracken.”

As if on cue, a black Cadillac sedan pulled around the corner of Alumni House and stopped just before them.

“We’re going for a ride,” Krell said. “You’re on your way to hell.”

“What are they wearing there this time of year?”

“Try something tropical.”

Then Krell’s men were upon him, shoving him against the car and searching him thoroughly. When they found nothing, the fat man seemed disappointed.

“Not carrying today?” he teased.

“I was expecting metal detectors at every door. Didn’t want to go and cause a scene. …”

Blaine had barely finished the sentence, when he was pushed into the backseat between Krell’s two men. The fat man climbed into the front along with the driver, who started the big car around the other side of Alumni House and then swung right onto Twenty-first Street.

“I hear you’ve fallen on bad times, McCracken,” Krell said. “You’ve become a joke in the field. I’m surprised they let you back in the States.”

Blaine fixed his eyes on Krell’s. “I’ve got friends in low places.”

“Someone sent you to assassinate Sahhan, didn’t they?”

“Not at all. It’s you I was after, and I’m going to do you a favor. Have these clowns pocket their pistols right now and talk to me and I’ll let you live. Otherwise, you’ll be leaving me no choice.”

Krell swung enough of his hefty frame over the seat to lash a backhand across McCracken’s face.

“Why, you cocky son of a bitch!” he snarled, eyes glowing.

Blaine felt the blood dribbling from his mouth. The Cadillac turned right onto G Street. “Using big words and everything, fat man. Wouldn’t be going respectable now, would you?”

“You’re in no position to ask questions, McCracken. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“Last chance, fat man …”

“It’s going to hurt, McCracken. I’m going to make it hurt.”

Blaine swept his tongue over his back teeth and freed a crown-size capsule that had been lodged in a molar.

“Just promise you won’t sit on me, all right?”

Krell had leaned forward to strike him again, when Blaine bit down on the capsule and fired its contents forward. To the two guards it looked as if he were simply spitting at the fat man and, in fact, the capsule’s contents were projected in saliva. Once they reached air, though, the contents turned into a gas similar in effect to the mustard variety outlawed in World War I. The gas struck the fat man’s face and he howled in pain, clawing for his eyes and mouth. The agony forced his head to slam back, and he smacked solidly into the driver.

The Cadillac careened out of control down G Street. Other cars spun to avoid it as it skidded sideways, tires screeching.

The guard on Blaine’s left was struggling to steady his pistol, when McCracken grabbed his wrist and slammed the steel barrel into his face. He felt the cartilage and bone give at the same moment his other hand shot out and forced the second guard’s gun up as it fired. The bullet cut through the heavy steel roof, filling the small compartment with the sharp smell of sulphur.

The second guard was going for another shot when the Caddy crashed into a row of parked cars on G Street, pitching all of its occupants forward. The driver struggled to regain control, but it was much too late. The Caddy shoved a whole line of cars up onto the sidewalk and then came to a rubber-ripping halt against them.

Blaine saw the first guard’s gun on the floor and grabbed it just as the second guard was recovering his bearings. Blaine pumped two bullets into his head. Blood splattered against the windows. Krell was still screaming. The driver started to reach into his jacket for something, and McCracken didn’t wait to find out what. One bullet tore out the back of his skull and slammed him up against the windshield.

Then Blaine lunged through what remained of the rear door of the passenger side and yanked Krell out after him through the front. He dragged him down the G Street sidewalk until they reached a collection of dormitories off to the right. He pulled Krell onto a narrow cement walk running between two dorms and thrust him to the ground. The fat man was writhing, puking, still clawing for his face. Blaine made sure he saw the gun in his hand.

“Anything,” Krell begged between rasping breaths. “I’ll tell you anything.” Spittle and drying vomit caked the corners of his mouth.

Blaine pressed the pistol against his temple. “What do you know about Sahhan’s army?”

“Nothing!”

Blaine dug the gun’s barrel home until he broke flesh. “Christmas Eve, Krell, tell me about Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t know. I’m just a middleman. I relay orders, arrange shipments.”

“Of arms?”

“Yes.”

“Through who?”

“Deveraux,” Krell rasped. “In France.”

“Deveraux?” Blaine said, more to himself than to Krell. Deveraux was the most successful, respected arms dealer in the world. Why would he be mixed up in something like this? “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“It’s the truth! Nine major shipments so far. One left to go. I coordinate all the activity between Deveraux and Sahhan so there’s no direct link between them.”

“Did Sahhan set all this up?”

“Not at first. … You’ve got to let me live!
I’m telling you everything I know!
”

“Just answer my questions. Who put you on to Sahhan?”

“I don’t know their names. They sent me to him and handled all the financial arrangements. I was just a middleman, I tell you!”

“Were they black or white?”

“What?”

“The men who approached you, were they black or white?”

“White. All of them. They stressed that Sahhan was never to be implicated in the dealings. I was told to get the best from the best. Price didn’t matter. I went to Deveraux.”

“And Deveraux handled the shipments. …”

“But he didn’t realize to who. I had dealt with him before. He thought the weapons and explosives were bound for South America.”

“How was payment handled?” Blaine realized his hand was going stiff from the pressure of holding the gun against the fat man’s temple.

“Cash, always cash. Delivered in leather attache cases. Sums too impossible to believe
… I’m telling you everything!
”

“Where were the weapons shipped?”

“I don’t know.”

Blaine shoved the barrel harder against him and Krell tumbled to the side. McCracken kept him pinned there, one side of the fat head squeezed against the cement.

“I swear I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. Deveraux handled all that. The weapons were gathered in central warehouses, where Sahhan’s men distributed them. The process has been going on for months. Armories have been set up in every major city, all well hidden.”

“Where are these armories? Which cities?”

“They never told me. I never asked. That wasn’t my department. You’ve got to believe me!”

Blaine did believe him. He glanced around. No one was near. The sirens were still blaring. He had little time left before the police would be everywhere.

Krell swallowed hard. “I’ve told you everything I know. You’ve got to let me go.”

Blaine said nothing, just started to tighten his finger on the trigger. Krell had to die.

“
You promised!
”

And in that moment of hesitation, Blaine knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not now, not like this. Krell was a dead man anyway. He had talked and that meant someone else would be along to do the job.

McCracken pulled the gun back and lifted Krell up with one powerful arm.

“Get out of here, fat man! Disappear! They’ll be taking numbers to burn your ass before long.”

Krell looked back just once, shocked but grateful, then stumbled around the corner and was gone.

Andrew Stimson met McCracken in the backseat of another cab ninety minutes later, accepting the details of McCracken’s report with grim reserve.

“You’ve certainly lived up to your reputation, Blaine.”

“You get what you pay for, Andy. There’s no time to fuck with these people. This is the only way I know to get the job done.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I know what we’re dealing with here.” Stimson hesitated. “But I can’t say I approve of your exposing yourself to Sahhan.”

“It got me to Krell, and that made it worthwhile. I’m not worried.”

“I gather your impression of Sahhan wasn’t favorable.”

“He’s a fanatic, Andy, and all fanatics with a following as large as his are dangerous. When it comes to organizing this Christmas Eve business, though, he’s had lots of help. Somebody’s using him and that same somebody set up Krell as a middleman for the arms deals with Deveraux.”

“Our friends who hired Chen and Scola?”

Blaine nodded. “The very same. The one thing out of place is Deveraux. He sets the standard for respectable arms dealers, the ones who don’t operate out of a garage. A couple of yachts, a villa in the south of France. Definitely the good life. He’s sold lots of bullets.”

“Know where to find him?”

“He conducts all his business from Paris. I’ve got contacts who can bring me the specifics.”

A look of concern crossed Stimson’s face. “Be careful who you talk to, Blaine. This is a one-man game you’re playing.”

“Right. What’s the latest from General Peachtree?”

“It’s Peacher. His teams are starting to move into the cities. It’ll take some time before he has anything to report.”

“Then I guess I’d better get to Paris fast.”

“Just try not to leave too many bodies in the streets,” Stimson warned. “I won’t be able to cover for you with my people over there. You’re totally on your own.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Part Three
San Melas

Saturday Afternoon to Tuesday Morning

Chapter 14

THE PAST DAY
had been an exercise in total frustration for Sandy Lister. The only bright spot had been the call to Stephen Shay she had promised T.J. Brown. Shay listened attentively to her story, from the moment she received the computer disk to its disappearance after her interview with Hollins in Billings. Somehow Shay’s silence made Sandy feel all the more tense. During the course of her story, her mouth got drier and drier, and by the end a thin taste of blood coated her tongue.

“You should have filled me in on this at the beginning,” Shay said when she had finished. “You broke procedure.”

“I know.”

“You jeopardized a police and possibly a federal investigation by withholding evidence, and then you breached national security by talking to that man Coglan. Not to mention the fact that you pursued a story totally out of your jurisdiction without prior network approval and—”

“Say no more, Steve. I’m on my way home. If you want my head on a platter, you’ve got it.”

“Wait a minute, you didn’t let me finish. I’m not applauding your methods, but the fact remains you’re on to a hot story here and I was a journalist a long time before I became a producer.”

“All I’ve ever been is an interviewer, remember? Smile at the right times and dig out fresh responses from basically boring people.”

“No, San, the connection to Krayman makes this your piece, so I want you to stay with it. And as for the disk, well, possession is nine tenths of the law, and we haven’t got a damn thing anymore.”

“But who stole it, Steve?”

“That’s what I expect you to be able to tell me by Christmas.”

“It had to be someone from inside the network. And T.J. thinks he’s being watched.”

“Probably his imagination. But I’ll put our security people on it to be on the safe side. You’ve got to stay in touch with me on this from now on, San. Call in regularly. I want to know every move you make. I want to know where you’re going before you get there.”

Sandy breathed a sigh of relief and barely managed to hold back tears of gratitude. “I’m on my way to Texas now,” she told Shay, “on the trail of Simon Terrell, Randall Krayman’s chief assistant until a few years before he pulled out.”

“Terrell … Never heard of him. Why bother pursuing the Krayman angle anyway now that you’ve got the space shuttle bit?”

“Because they’re connected. I just don’t know how yet. That interview with Hollins raised a lot more questions than answers. Randall Krayman wanted very badly to have total control of that ultra-density memory chip used in telecommunications. He’s got his hand in every television, telephone, and radio in the country and there’s something very wrong about that.”

The line went silent briefly.

“That’s quite a mouthful, San.”

“You should have heard Hollins.”

“I will … when you return to tape the interview.”