“According to plan.”
Dolorman nodded, obviously satisfied. “And when does phase two go into effect?”
“Exactly four hours after Sahhan’s troops are mobilized. It will take sixteen minutes for our friend in the sky to pass from one coast to the other, insuring our goal of total paralysis at the optimum time. Phase three entry of mercenaries will begin twelve to sixteen hours later.”
“I thought we had agreed on twenty-four.”
“A slight alteration to obtain maximum visibility at the peak of panic. Their heroic response must appear irrefutable, but it must also seem vague. The rumors and obscure reports will work to our advantage.”
“I assume the preparations for phase four are complete, then.”
Verasco nodded. “All equipment is in place and functional on Horse Neck Island. Construction of all communications and broadcast facilities was completed yesterday. The testing has gone magnificently. Of course, the activation of phase four will be a give-and-take matter. We must be flexible. The timing will be difficult, public sentiment difficult to gauge.”
“They will be our public by that time,” Dolorman assured him. “They will feel what we want them to.”
“But not until after Christmas Eve and your interview with Sandy Lister is scheduled for barely an hour from now.”
“Your tone indicates you feel I should cancel it.”
“I see no good it can do us so close to activation.”
Dolorman eased himself forward. “She has seen people, talked to people. It would take only one receptive ear in the wrong place to do severe damage to Omega. By remaining cooperative with Miss Lister, we assure ourselves that she will have no reason to seek out this ear. We are fairly certain, based on her movements and correspondence, that she hasn’t looked for this ear yet. But that says nothing for the others she has made contact with. One of them still might know the right numbers to call, in which case immediate action on our part would be called for.”
“You don’t expect her to come out and tell you, of course.”
“Knowledge is her only weapon, so I expect her to reveal much of what she knows. The what will lead us to the who.”
Verasco looked unconvinced. “She’s a celebrity, Francis, a star in her own field. It’s her own connections I’m most worried about.”
That drew a smile from Dolorman. “But the most important ones have been severed. I think we can relax.”
Sandy Lister rested her shoulders against the elevator wall and tried to still her trembling. The doors slid closed and the compartment began its descent from Dolorman’s office toward the lobby.
The interview was over.
And Dolorman had beaten her. She had not been up to the task. Desperation had worked against her, stealing her poise.
She had come straight to Houston from her meeting with Simon Terrell and arrived Sunday night. Monday morning first thing she dialed T.J. Brown’s exchange at the network.
The voice that answered was not his.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry?”
“This is Sandy Lister. I’m calling for T.J. Brown.”
“Oh, Miss Lister,” the strange voice responded, “someone upstairs mentioned you might be calling. I just moved down from my office. Your assistant is on vacation.”
“He’s what?”
“It came as a shock to me too. I just got the order to move—”
“Thank you,” Sandy broke in, and abruptly hung up.
She grabbed for the receiver again and dialed T.J.’s home phone number. It rang and rang. No answer.
Your assistant is on vacation. …
Sandy felt a dread chill creep up her spine. With the receiver still in her hand, she dialed Stephen Shay’s private number.
“Mr. Shay’s office.”
“Mr. Shay, please. Sandy Lister calling.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lister, I’m afraid he’s not in.”
“When will he be back?”
“Not for two weeks. He’s gone to Europe for a special conference.”
“Did he leave a forwarding? This is somewhat of an emergency.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the secretary, and Sandy hung up.
Because a man in Shay’s position always left a forwarding address. Unless he had never left at all. Unless it was a front.
Everything was a front.
They had T.J. They had Shay.
Sandy spent the rest of Monday on the phone begging for appointments with a host of NASA officials. None would see her. With two she went so far as to mention Pegasus and received only curt denials. No one was talking. So there would be no help from NASA, not immediately, anyway, and immediately was all that mattered.
That left her only with Dolorman, and she had a strategy prepared. A small tape recorder hidden in her handbag would capture the entire interview. After it was over she would go to the FBI. She would tell them about the plagiarized Krayman Chip and the billionaire’s obsession with controlling America. She would tell them about COM-U-TECH’S possession of Adventurer’s orbital flight plan and the thing Krayman had sent up into space in the guise of a satellite. When they asked for proof, she would hand them the tape recording of her interview with Dolorman. They could run it through their sophisticated machines to discover how many lies were told in response to her direct questions. Of course, that meant she would have to pose them, and that in itself was a grave risk.
Arriving at the Krayman Tower barely an hour before, she had been escorted up by a security guard in Dolorman’s private elevator. Now the same guard was escorting her down and she felt for the reassuring bulge of the tape recorder in her handbag as she replayed the interview in her mind.
Dolorman’s office was huge and plushly decorated. The wall paintings were originals and there were bookshelves filled with leather-bound editions lining one wall. Dolorman’s desk, though, made the greatest impact on her. It was unquestionably the largest she had ever seen, neat and clean, without a trace of clutter.
“Please excuse me for not rising, Miss Lister,” Dolorman said. “But my back has been a burden for several years now and is growing worse.”
Sandy stepped forward and moved halfway between the door and his desk. “Yes, that turned up in my research.”
They eyed each other briefly as the secretary closed the door behind her.
“Your research must have been quite exhaustive,” Dolorman said.
“Just professional.”
“Please, Miss Lister, sit down.”
Sandy took the Chippendale chair a yard in front of the white-haired man’s desk. As she reclined, her hand located the tape recorder through the fabric of her handbag and switched it on.
“You’ll have to excuse my uneasiness,” Dolorman continued. “I don’t grant many interviews.”
“The network and I both appreciate the exception.”
“But the terms are understood, correct?”
Sandy nodded. “Nothing filmed goes on the air prior to your approval. I’ll have the written agreements prepared before I return with a crew.”
“Now it is I who appreciate the exception.” Dolorman leaned painfully forward. “It would help, though, if I understood what precisely the story is going to entail.”
“It started out as a detailed profile of Randall Krayman, the richest man in the world. …”
“Many would dispute that.”
“It doesn’t matter. I found Krayman to be a fascinating individual, a man incredibly attuned to future trends, with the fortitude to throw vast sums into them. I felt there were a great many unanswered questions about this man whose power and influence touches so many lives. I set out to provide some of those answers in my profile.”