Blaine said it was.
Time was foremost on his mind now, time and the fact that Wells wouldn’t be giving up the chase for the loss of one helicopter. He might try to barricade the entire area to close in on his quarry once and for all. But it was morning now and residents of this Newport community would soon be on their way to work. Wells had his work cut out for him if he expected to find McCracken in all the activity.
After forty minutes in the hot tub to get his circulation going again, Blaine accepted a bathrobe and change of clothes. Before donning the undersized garments, he swabbed and bandaged his shoulder wound. It had proved to be merely a scratch. These people were being most hospitable and he made a mental note to return the favor someday. He could begin by leaving the condo as soon as possible. First, though, a phone call was necessary. He hadn’t reported in for almost two days now. He had plenty to tell Stimson, enough for the Gap to move on Sahhan and Krayman, and to start looking for the mercenary troops scattered across the country.
Sahhan’s troops would strike at the innocent and the mercenaries would strike at the troops with Krayman the force behind them both. The why of it all eluded Blaine, but he knew that was only because there was something he wasn’t seeing yet. Krayman was a pragmatic man. This plan had been in the works for years at least. Nothing was being left to chance.
Blaine used the phone in a bedroom to dial Stimson’s private number. A beep sounded, followed by the whining drone of a tape unspooling.
“The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”
Silence followed, replaced swiftly by a dial tone.
Blaine searched his memory. Could he have dialed the wrong number? He tried again.
“The number you have—”
Blaine replaced the receiver. Stimson’s private number rang wherever he was: car, home, office, anywhere. McCracken considered the worst ramification of the line’s disconnection and dismissed it because it was the one thing he could not afford. The idea of Stimson being dead was unthinkable. Certainly there was another explanation.
Blaine dialed the normal Gap emergency exchange. Another tape-recorded voice greeted him.
“Please leave your number. Your call will be returned immediately.”
Blaine read the number listed on the white Princess phone into the receiver. It rang not thirty seconds later.
“Your name,” a dull voice requested.
“I need Stimson.”
“Your name,” the voice repeated.
“Look, you bastard, I’m not going to bother giving you my name because I’m not on your active list. I’m sanctioned by the chief directly and I’ve got to speak to him.”
“Do you have an operative code or designation?”
“No, goddammit, it was cover clearance. Nine-zero coding.” Blaine slapped his forehead. “No, that’s not what you boys call it. I don’t know what you call it.”
“I’m going to terminate this line unless I receive a proper designation immediately.”
“All right. Just tell me if Stimson’s still alive. I’ve got to know.”
The phone clicked off. Blaine dropped the receiver.
He was completely isolated. Stimson’s plan had backfired. The unthinkable had happened. Someone had gotten to the Gap chief and Blaine had no contact. Equally bad, the call-back procedure he had followed would allow Gap personnel to trace the unauthorized call into their most sterile of exchanges. They would investigate. A unit would be dispatched almost immediately, a unit that would see McCracken as an enemy.
He had to get out of here. But to where? Who could he take his story to?
The CIA. He would have to make do with them. …
The Company was still his official employer. And he could reach them because this time he would have the proper codes. He would give an alert signal and they would make arrangements to bring him in. Never mind the business with Chen and possible Company complicity in all this. The involvement of Krayman could account for everything he had previously blamed on his official employer. They were his best bet at this point, his only bet.
McCracken pounded out a new exchange.
“Box office,” a voice greeted him without benefit of tape-recorded greeting.
“I’ve lost my ticket.”
“Status?”
“Nine-zero coding.”
“That is a discontinued exchange.”
“Check my clearance, dammit! Gallahad, six-zero-niner.”
“What is your designation?”
“Triple-X ultra.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.”
The phone clicked off. Blaine slammed the receiver down.
I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.
How could he have been so damn stupid? Of course his file wasn’t active anymore; the Company thought he was dead. Another element of Stimson’s plan to seal his mission. Well, he was sealed now, all right, sealed off from every potential safe harbor in the government. A black revolutionary army and a mercenary resistance force were about to clash in the streets of American cities just for starters, and there was no one he could report it to. All the emergency numbers stored in his head were of no use because each of the operators would request the same information and he could satisfy none of them enough to be passed on to the next level. They regarded him as dead. Because of that, ironically, he might soon be.
He had to get out of Newport immediately and buy himself some time elsewhere. Wells’s men were no longer his only concern. There were Gap and CIA teams to consider as well, drawn to this area by an uncleared caller’s breach of sterile security lines.
Blaine’s mind drifted back to the fronton, back to a fact that had slipped away during the frantic chase that followed: someone had arranged for the lights to go out and then freed him from Wells’s manacles. For some reason someone wanted him to stay alive.
But more people wanted him dead.
Chapter 21
Francis Dolorman’s back was hurting so horribly Tuesday morning he could barely shift positions in his chair. Getting in and out of it was an agonizing experience for him, no less agonizing than the latest report from Wells.
“So McCracken is still alive after all,” was his only comment to Verasco.
“Solely due to interference from the rebels this time,” Verasco noted. “Wells had McCracken in Newport until one of them freed him.”
“Not like Wells to let his own people be infiltrated.”
“It may turn out to be a blessing,” said Verasco. “One of his men, the rebel, we assume, has disappeared. Wells is in the process of retracing his movements, and undoubtedly the investigation will lead to his cohorts.”
“Tell Wells to concentrate his energies fully in that direction. I’ll handle McCracken.”
“How?”
“Alone he can do us no harm. But if he were to reach receptive ears in Washington … We have the contacts in place to insure his continued isolation. They will be alerted. I want all these distractions cleared up before Omega is activated. Let’s review the timetable.”
Verasco opened a folder perched on his lap. “We will fly tomorrow to the airfield in Maine and make our way to Horse Neck Island for final preparations.”
“All perfunctory at this stage, of course. And the mobilization of Sahhan’s strike force?”
“Nine P.M. eastern standard time. That means six o’clock on the West Coast.”
“Darkness in both instances.”