by Tom Clancy
Toni offered Stewart a quick bow. The hand position was slightly different than the bow Stewart returned. Toni’s right fist was held in front of her chest, suppinated, the left hand cupping it from the side; the knuckles on Stewart’s fist faced into his cupping hand.
“A right punch, please, here.” He touched the tip of his nose.
Toni stepped in and shot a fast right punch. If it had connected, it would have surely broken his nose. He slapped her arm with both hands, fired an elbow at her ribs, twisted, stepped, punched at her ribs again, then swept her front foot out and upended her. He caught her around the chest with one arm before she fell. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Again please, slowly.”
Toni repeated her attack, and Stewart did the blockelbow-punch, sweep combination again, and kept her from falling with an arm around her chest.
Right across her breasts, Michaels noted with a small feeling of irritation. Was that really necessary? Toni could fall without hurting herself, he’d seen her hit a hard floor and come up like a rubber ball. This floor had mats all over it.
Toni grinned at Stewart, and the expression was one of pure joy. Michaels had seen that look a few times, usually right after a sexual climax—his or hers.
He did not like seeing the look now.
He mentally chided himself: Get a brain, boy! This is a martial arts class! He’s not copping a feel, he’s demonstrating a way to beat the crap out of somebody stupid enough to attack him!
Yeah, well, okay.
“Any questions?”
Michaels decided he had one. “Why didn’t you hit her in the face instead of the ribs?”
Stewart smiled—as did most of the class. Michaels caught it, but didn’t say anything. Stewart caught his look, though.
“Sorry, Mr. Michaels, but I’ve been telling the class that you can do all the damage you need to an attacker most of the time with body shots. The Indonesians seldom go for the face; the biggest headhunters are . . . westerners.”
Michaels nodded. But that pause before “westerners” told him that Stewart had started to say something else, and Michaels would bet dollars to pennies that the something else was Americans.
“All right, pair up and let’s try it. Toni, give me a hand watching?”
Toni said, “Yes, Guru.”
Michaels found himself standing across from a skinny kid with a short crew cut and a pair of nose rings who looked to be about seventeen. The kid said, “Giles Patrick.”
“Alex Michaels.”
“Want to defend first?”
“Sure,” Michaels said.
The kid stepped toward him in slow motion, his punch floating toward Michaels at about an eighth speed.
Michaels blocked, got the elbow in, then stalled. What came next?
“Left punch to the ribs, here,” the kid said.
“Right, right. Let me try it again.”
The kid launched his molasses attack again, and Michaels got the block, elbow, and punch in, but when he tried the sweep, he was off balance and the kid’s foot stayed on the floor.
“Got to square your hips,” the kid said, “Twist in, shoulders and hips facing the same way.”
“Right.”
“One more?”
“Sure.”
This time, Michaels got all four of the moves, and the kid went down with the sweep. All right! He felt pretty good about that.
Toni moved to stand next to him. “Looked pretty good, Alex, but when you block the punch, do it more upward, like so. Giles?”
The kid grinned and came at Toni, and this time he put some speed into the move.
Toni moved easily, deflected the punch upward, giving herself plenty of room for the elbow into the armpit.
“Thanks, Toni.”
He caught a hint of a frown from her, but she nodded and moved to watch the next pair of students.
Frowning? For what? Calling her Toni?
“Okay if I give it a try?” Giles said.
“Uh, sure.”
Michaels set himself and attacked. The kid did a onetwo-three-four, and Michaels hit the mat, hard. He came up fast.
“You all right, Mr. Michaels?”
“Yeah, fine. And call me Alex.” Bad enough he was getting his butt kicked; he didn’t need to feel like somebody’s grandfather.
He set himself for another attack. It was good to burn some tension off and all, but so far, he couldn’t say this class was the most fun he’d ever had. Not at all.
Lord Goswell stood in front of the big seascape that had decorated the east wall of the Smaller Room of his club for as long as he’d been coming here. It was a large oil, eight feet tall by twelve feet wide, done in actinic, watery blues and grays, a wave-tossed sailing ship in the eye of an electrical storm, lightning illuminating the frantic sailors trying to keep the wooden vessel afloat. Very dramatic, what, and almost a photographic realism. He swirled the ice around in his nearly empty gin and tonic glass and was rewarded by the appearance of Paddington and his tray. “Another, milord?”
“Why not? Tell me, do we know who painted this?”
“Yes, milord. It was painted by Jeffery Hawkesworth, in, I believe, 1872.”
“It’s quite good. A painter I should know?”
“No, milord. He was one of the few civilians killed by the Zulu in South Africa at Rorke’s Drift, in 1879. He painted but a handful of canvases. The club came by this some years after he died, a legacy from his brother, Sir William Hawkesworth, who was knighted by Her Majesty Queen Victoria for services in India.”
Goswell nodded. “Interesting.”
“Shall I fetch your drink now, milord?”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider quitting the club and going into service with me?”
“You do me a great honor, milord, but I should have to decline. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“No, of course not. Carry on.”
He watched the servant leave. Drat. You couldn’t buy that kind of loyalty. A pity. Bought loyalty was generally worth less than you paid for it.
Paddington returned, bearing another perfectly frosted glass upon his tray.
“There’s a telephone call for you, milord.” There was a mobile telephone on the tray next to the glass.
Goswell took his glass and the telephone. He nodded. “Thank you, Paddington.”
Speaking of bought loyalty. When Paddington was out of earshot, Goswell activated the receiver. “You have the balance of what I need?”
“Roight, I’ave gawt it.”
“The usual place then. Half an hour.” He shut the phone off.
Goswell stared at the painting, sipping at his fresh drink. A pity this artist had been brought down by some bloody savages. He might have gone on to really great work. Of course, the Royal Army had taught the blackamoors a thing or two during that set-to at Rorke’s Drift, hadn’t they? A handful of soldiers against thousands of natives, and the troops had, by God, stood their ground and given an account of themselves, hadn’t they? Taught the bloody niggers a thing or two about British resolve, by God!
He raised his glass in salute to the painting. “Cheers, old boy.”
17
Thursday, April 7th
London, England
Physically, Toni felt pretty good after the workout, though she was a little peeved at Alex for trying to get overly familiar with her in class. He was feeling insecure, she could tell, so he’d kept calling her Toni, instead of Guru, and he’d reached out to pat her on the shoulder or smile at her a couple of times, and she was sure that he did it just to let everybody know they were more than student and teacher. That was fine when they were alone in the gym at home, but here it was inappropriate. It had a “She can kick your ass and she is mine!” flavor to it, and Toni didn’t much care for that. She loved him, but sometimes Alex could be such a . . . little boy about things.
Of course, most of the men she knew were that way, and he was less so than most. And he did love her, so s
he could maybe cut him a little slack.
There was something else on his mind, though. He was pensive about something, and she couldn’t tell what. It could have been the whole situation at work, but it didn’t feel that way.
She needed to talk about both things—and how to bring them up without starting a fight was the trick.
Having a lover who was your boss and your student got complicated at times. She’d never thought about that before they had gotten together. Probably because, in her heart of hearts, she’d never really expected they would get together. She’d wanted it, more than anything she’d ever wanted, but it had not seemed destined to happen. And then it had, and it had been wonderful, but not picture-perfect.
It was easier to have something in your imagination than it was in reality. All couples had problems; her parents had been married since just after The Flood, and they loved each other, but even they fought. It wouldn’t have been healthy not to. Still, Toni hadn’t had any real long-term relationships before, and every time she and Alex got on each other’s nerves, she sweated it. She was afraid she was going to lose him. She was afraid that they’d grow apart. She was afraid that she’d had too high an expectation about how things would be and that the reality wouldn’t measure up.
The class had been good, though. Guru Stewart was as good a teacher as he was a practitioner. He would take a moment from time to time, while the students were working with each other, to show Toni a move. Their arts were similar enough that she could see the use of what he was giving her, and she much appreciated it.
As the class had been winding down, Stewart had said, “We should work out together, either before or after a regular class, before you leave town. We could teach each other a lot more if we could concentrate on it.”
She was thrilled. “I’d like that,” she said.
Now, as she and Alex rode in the cab from the school back to the new hotel that MI-6 had sprung for, Toni realized just how much she had been enjoying the silat practice. It was simple, straightforward, no hidden agendas. You worked your body along with your mind, and it kept them both focused on simple things: strike here, step there, get a good base, use your angle and leverage.
Much less complex than dealing with people’s emotions, even your own. Maybe especially your own.
Back at their hotel, as they were getting out of the cab, Michaels said, “We’re being followed. Did you notice?”
She didn’t look around but at him. “What?”
“There’s a man in a gray Neon parked across the street and back a hundred feet. He was behind us on the way to the silat class. I’m pretty sure he was with me on foot when I went out to grab a sandwich at lunch today, too. It would be an awfully big coincidence if this guy just happened to be there every time I went out.”
“British Intelligence?”
He nodded at the uniformed doorman as the man opened the portal for them. He felt sweaty and smelly after his workout, but he smiled at the doorman as if he and Toni were dressed for a royal wedding.
“Could be, I suppose. If we had one of them digging around in our secrets at Quantico, I’d have the FBI on their tail to make sure nobody grabbed them up and squeezed something out of them.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” she said.
“Well, if we were having one of theirs followed, I’d make sure the field op doing the work was somebody they wouldn’t spot—assuming we didn’t want them to spot him. The Brits ought to have guys who are as good as ours at sub-rosa surveillance. This is their town; they know it. By all rights, I shouldn’t have seen him.”
They crossed the lobby and reached the elevator. Toni beat him to the button.
“Maybe they wanted you to see him. Let you know you were being protected.”
“Be better just to tell me I was being covered, wouldn’t it?”
“Would we tell them?”
“Maybe. Especially if we thought they’d figure it out anyway.”
The elevator arrived and chinged, the cast bronze doors opening with ponderous grace. The operator smiled at them. Good thing the new hotel he and Toni had transferred to was being subsidized by the British—the director would have a stroke when she got the bill, otherwise.
“A friendly test? You used to be a field op yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but I’ve lost a few moves since then. Oh, I look in the rearview mirror a couple times when I’m driving, and glance around every now and then. I’m not completely asleep since all that business with the Selkie came down and I was very nearly assassinated, but I don’t put a lot of effort into it. Not as much as I should. No, this guy just isn’t very good. I can’t believe MI-5 or -6 would send him out and think I wouldn’t notice him.”
“Maybe they just don’t want to waste a good man on you. Sent in the second team because they figure you’re an ugly American who walks around with his head in a thick and blinding ego fog.” She smiled.
“They might be right. But I think I’ll give Angela Cooper a call and see what’s what.”
They got onto the elevator. The elevator operator said, “Floor?”
“Four, please.” Toni said. In place of her normal faint resonance of the Bronx, she had a passable imitation of a British posh accent. “Four” came out “Foah.” Michaels blinked at her.
In their suite, Michaels used his virgil to call Cooper. Toni started the hot water running in the shower, and he watched her strip off her sweats as Cooper came on-line. He caught her at home, and she had her camera on. She wore something red and silky, what he could see of it. His view stopped just below her shoulders. He flipped his own cam on.
“Alex! What can I do for you?”
“Answer a question honestly.”
“Of course.”
“Are you or MI-5 having me followed?”
“We certainly aren’t. I doubt that SS is, but I can check. Hold on a moment.” Her cam froze, and the word holding appeared on his thumbnail screen.
Toni peeled her panties off, pulled her sports bra off over her head. She turned and gave him a glorious frontal view, then waved bye-bye as she stepped into the shower and slid the door shut.
He would make this call short, he decided. He wanted to get into that shower before Toni got out. He’d been horny all through the silat class, and it hadn’t gotten any better on the ride home.
“Alex? MI-5 says they are not having you surveilled. Is there something we ought to know?” She smiled.
He thought about it quickly. “No, I think I’m just getting paranoid in my old age.”
“Hardly old,” she said.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Sorry to bother you at home.”
“Call any time. It’s never a bother.” She leaned back, and the red silky shirt or gown or whatever gaped a little at her neck, showing the top of her cleavage.
He discommed, and as he did, his male radar picked up a blip. Was that . . . interest? He’d only been with a few women. Since he’d gotten his divorce, Toni was the only woman he had been seriously interested in, and he was out of practice, but it sure sounded as if Cooper didn’t find him totally disgusting.
Interesting. Good for the old ego, to have a beautiful and bright woman maybe possibly be interested in him. Assuming he wasn’t reading the signals wrong.
Not that it mattered. He had much better waiting for him here. He started for the shower, pulling his damp clothes off as he went.
“What did she say?” Toni called from the shower.
“She said it isn’t her people,” he called back.
“Then we ought to find out who it is,” she said.
He pulled the shower door open, was rewarded with a blast of hot vapor that fogged the mirrors behind him. “Tomorrow. Got room for me?”
She glanced down. “If you stand in front. I don’t want to get stabbed in the back.”
He grinned. “Well, look at that. I wonder where that came from?”
“A present from Ms. Cooper, perhaps?”
H
e frowned. “What?”
“Well, you didn’t have it before you got on the virgil, did you?”
Was she teasing him? She was smiling, but he wasn’t sure.
While he considered that, the point became, well, moot.
Toni noticed. “I was just joking, Alex.”
He was embarrassed. He grabbed the bar of soap and a wash cloth. “Turn around,” he said. “I’ll wash your back.”
“Alex—”
“I’m really tired,” he said. “It was a hard workout, I’m not used to it. I need to get to sleep.” It sounded lame, and he knew she knew it. He rubbed the soap into the cloth, fast, worked up a thick lather. She turned around and he scrubbed at her back. Maybe a little harder than he should.
Something was going on between them, something he didn’t understand. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Not a damn bit.
Toni didn’t pursue it, though, and he was glad. He didn’t really want to get into a deep emotional discussion right now. He was physically wrung out.
He was tired, but, unlike Toni, who fell asleep a few minutes after their shower, Michaels sat reading for an hour. He finally got into bed, turned off the light, and tried to sleep. After lying there for almost another hour, he realized he wasn’t drifting off to sleep anytime soon. He was wound up, too tight to relax.
He got out of bed carefully, went into the bathroom, and slipped into jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes. He dug his kick-taser out of his kit and checked the battery. The little wireless weapon used compressed gas as a propellant, was nonlethal, and fired a pair of charged darts that would knock a man on his butt if they hit him, even through clothes. The effective range was only a few meters, but that was where most gunfights were likely to happen. The old FBI shoot-out maxim concerning such encounters was, “Three feet, three shots, three seconds.” If a guy was fifty meters away from you and pumping elbows and ass in the other direction, he wasn’t real dangerous. The armorer at Net Force had told him somebody had come up with an electromesh vest that would defeat a taser’s charge, but a vest wasn’t a full-body suit; you could always shoot somebody in the leg or head. And it was a simple device. It had a laser sight on it. You put the tiny red dot on the target—allowed for a little spread of the needles in flight—and that’s where the darts went when you pushed the button. If you weren’t too far away. If your hand didn’t shake too bad. He’d only had to fire the thing on the job once, and it had worked well enough then.