“The Gap.”
“Ah, the most secretive of them all. …”
“Also the most desperate. They lost an agent a while back and I’m taking his place. The agent was on to a plot by some black fanatics planning to try the civil war all over again starting Christmas Eve.”
“And where do I come in?”
“You’ve been shipping them the weapons to do it.”
Deveraux almost missed the spittoon. He tried to hold his calm. “Because we are friends, Blaine, I will try to forget you said that. You know me too well to suspect me of doing business with such a cause.”
“Not knowingly, perhaps. And in this case the cause has lots of help. Let me put it this way. You have made nine almost identical weapons shipments to different regions of the U.S. in the past six months, haven’t you?”
Deveraux’s eyes flashed unsurely. “Yes, quite large shipments, to various new American mercenary units destined for Latin America.”
“That’s what they wanted you to think.”
“They had proper authorization.”
“Anything Luther Krell’s involved in is never what it seems. You should know that better than anyone.”
“The fat bastard …”
“I’ve taken him out of circulation for a while.”
“Yet another debt I owe you, mon ami.”
“You can pay both of them up by answering a few questions.”
“D’accord. I am at your service.”
“Where were the shipments sent to, François?”
Deveraux spit again and thought briefly. “Major cities. New York, Los Angeles, Houston, Philadelphia, Chicago. The others I cannot recall off the top of my head.”
“The weapons were divided equally by region?”
“More or less. There was no reason for me to question it.” Deveraux hesitated. “Tell me more about what is going on.”
“It gets complicated, but it’s centered around a man named Mohammed Sahhan.”
“I’ve heard of him, mon ami. Very dangerous.”
“And now very armed.”
“I did not know,” Deveraux said apologetically. He raised the spittoon to his mouth, as if not trusting his aim anymore.
“No one’s accusing you. Sahhan had help. Someone set Krell up with him and Krell set you up.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I don’t know. But it’s somebody with power, connections, and resources. Attaché cases don’t normally come packed with cash.”
This time Deveraux missed the spittoon though he still held it under his chin. His lips trembled. “Leather attaché cases,” he muttered.
“The way Krell told me he arranged payment to you.”
“Yes, but there is another client who’s been paying me the same way, also shadowy. They have purchased even more arms than Krell arranged for. But all shipments have gone to one place.”
“Where?”
“An island in the Caribbean called San Melas. Small. Remote.”
“Which tells us nothing.”
“Wait, I haven’t finished yet. The island is privately owned by that American billionaire.” Deveraux hesitated to be sure of the name. “Randall Krayman.”
For a long moment McCracken just sat there looking at Deveraux. Krayman, whose fortune was estimated to be four times that amassed by Howard Hughes, certainly possessed the resources to be the mysterious party backing Sahhan. And the connection between them was now unavoidable. But what would Randall Krayman have to gain from an association with a radical fanatic and his plans for a Christmas Eve revolution?
“Blaine?”
Deveraux’s voice lifted him from his trance.
“I’m sorry, François.”
“The second act is about to start, mon ami. We should conclude our business before then,” Deveraux said, eyes looking away.
“You’re scared.”
“Krayman is a powerful man, not someone to cross.”
“You’re not crossing him, François. You’re just providing information that may be the only thing that can save thousands of lives Christmas Eve.”
“You really suspect Krayman is the force behind Sahhan?”
“I’ve got to proceed on that assumption. What I don’t know is why.”
“That I cannot tell you, mon ami. Where does the island come in? Why does he need so many arms?”
McCracken shrugged. “Training probably. He must be using San Melas to prepare Sahhan’s troops for the assault. It makes sense. A few hundred at a time every few weeks would be more than sufficient. No one would even raise an eyebrow.” Blaine found the Frenchman’s stare and bore into it. “I’ve got to get onto that island, François.”
“Impossible! Reports from my supply planes stress that it is heavily guarded and that the waters are mined. Several innocent fishermen who have strayed too close to the shore have conveniently disappeared.” Deveraux seemed to think of something. “Wait, there might be a way, but it is so risky…” His eyes sharpened. “One final shipment is due to leave for the island from one of my airfields late tomorrow morning.”
“Then it’s simple — I’ll just have to be on board.”
Deveraux shook his head. “Not so simple.” He yanked the wad of tobacco from his mouth and dropped it into the golden spittoon. “The people representing Krayman have insisted that the same crew make the drop each time. For you to replace one of them would arouse suspicion and would not help you accomplish your task in any case.”
“Why not?”
“Because my men are watched constantly from the time they land on San Melas until the time they depart. They are never out of sight of guards the whole time the shipments are unloaded onto trucks on the airfield.”
“Then I’ll have to stow away and make my escape while the shipment is being unloaded.”
Deveraux shook his head more resolvedly. “Non, mon ami. The airstrip is quite a distance from what must be the training grounds, and it is out in the open. You are talking suicide. I owe you too much to let you take such a risk.”
Blaine smiled. “Then I guess we’ll just have to think of something else. …”
When he had finished detailing his plan, the orchestra was tuning up for the second act.
“It is still risky, very risky,” Deveraux said, unconvinced.
“I’ve got to get onto that island, François, and you haven’t come up with a better way.”
The Frenchman nodded reluctantly. “Be at my airfield in Gournay by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“You mean I actually get some time to sleep?”
Deveraux winked. “You can even stay for the rest of the show now, mon ami.”
“What do you know about Randall Krayman, Andy?” McCracken asked from his hotel room later that evening. The call had been routed through a sterile emergency exchange to make tracing or eavesdropping impossible.
“Why?” Stimson asked.
“Because I think he’s the missing piece we’ve been looking for in all this.” And Blaine proceeded to relate his conclusions based on the information passed on by François Deveraux.
“Let me get this straight,” Stimson said at the end. “A billionaire recluse is financing Sahhan’s Christmas Eve strike and training the principals on his private island in the Caribbean.”
“That’s right,” Blaine confirmed. “An island called San Melas, where I’ll be headed tomorrow morning.”
“And what might Krayman have to gain from all this?”
“Won’t know that until I get there, Andy. Maybe your computers can provide us with a head start. There’s got to be something on them that will give us an idea what Krayman, or his people, are up to. Every damn move of this thing has been carefully planned, from Chen to Krell. Any word from Peachfuzz?”