Night Moves

by Tom Clancy

  The smiling man achieved the curb and stopped three meters away, well outside the range for a quick lunge with a short knife.

  “Mr. Ruzhyó,” the man said. It was not a question. His right hand had drifted down to the hem of his jacket by his hip. There was a weapon there, a knife or a gun.

  “Yes.” No point in denying it. This man wouldn’t be taken in by a protestation of mistaken identity. If he’d had the knife out and opened, it would be no contest. Ruzhyó could move five or six meters and stab a man clawing for a pistol nestled in a concealed holster before the man could draw his weapon. This was not an especially challenging feat. Any good knife fighter could do it; it was a simple matter of speed and reaction time. But with the knife in his pocket, it was a different proposition. Maybe he could get there first, maybe not. Probably he could take his killer with him, at the very least. But if there was a shooter in a car or hiding in a building already lined up? Well, in that case, any sudden move would end with Ruzhyó facedown on the concrete, probably dead before he got there. It would be a clean, quick end. It was tempting to see.

  “Hello, sir. I’m Corporal Huard. Major Terrance Peel sends his regards and wonders if you might be free for dinner this evening?”

  Peel? How did he know Ruzhyó was in London? And what did he want?

  The young soldier offered Ruzhyó a card. It had an address on it.

  “About seven o’clock all right?” Huard said.

  Ruzhyó nodded.

  “Will you be needing directions or a ride?”

  “No.”

  “Right, then. See you later.”

  Huard smiled, turned, and marched off. Ruzhyó watched him until the man was out of sight. Nobody else joined him. It made him feel a little better that Huard seemed to have been alone. But even so, he should have spotted him sooner.

  Ruzhyó looked at the card. Peel. How interesting. It had been nearly two years since he had met the man. The major had trained one of the paramilitary units for Plekhanov, after having been thrown out of the British Army for . . . What had it been? Torturing an IRA prisoner to death? What was he doing now? And how had he known Ruzhyó was here? On this corner, at this time? He must have had his men following him. Why?

  And why hadn’t he noticed a tail sooner?

  He put the card into his pocket, the address already committed to memory. He would go and find out.

  Saturday, April 9th

  Somewhere in the British Raj, India

  Jay wasn’t alone this time. He had brought a native guide to stand watch. Well, it was actually a “motion detector” program, one that would squeal if anybody—or any thing—entered his scenario uninvited—and warn him in time to get his gun ready. At least he hoped it would warn him in time. Having the program look like a turbaned native guide was as good as anything. And he had altered the scenario a little more, in that he was no longer carrying the old double-barreled elephant rifle lovingly handcrafted by a Victorian English gunsmith. Now the weapon he had on a strap digging into his shoulder and leveled, ready at his hip, was a shotgun. And not just an ordinary shotgun, but a South African Streetsweeper, a short-barreled, semiautomatic, drumfed twelve-gauge, with twelve rounds of double-aught buckshot alternating with twelve sabot slugs in the magazine and one more in the chamber. If something moved in front of him, all Jay had to do was point the gun and start pulling the trigger, and he could put up a screaming maw of deadly metal teeth that would chew up anything in their path. Nothing alive could eat that much lead and keep coming. The gun was heavy, but it was a comforting weight on that strap digging into his shoulder.

  “Keep a sharp eye out,” Jay said.

  “Yes, sahib.”

  Jay bent to look at the ground, using the new skills he had learned from Saji in the New Mexico desert and mountain scenario. Cutting sign, and looking as much for what wasn’t there as much as what was. He knew that the tiger must have gone this way because, in the perverse logic of computer VR, it couldn’t have gone this way. And since he knew that, he should be able to track it. You couldn’t move through this kind of brush without leaving a sign.

  The smelly jungle heat washed over him like a dead man’s final breath, cloying and nauseating, but he ignored it. He could have made a more pleasant scenario, a nice ski lodge in the Alps, or a sunny ocean beach at Malibu, with wheeling seagulls and bikini-clad starlets bouncing past, but this was the place where the tiger had jumped him, and this was the place he had to get back on the figurative horse. If he didn’t, he knew he would always be afraid. And you couldn’t webwalk if you were afraid; there were too many set-piece scenarios you had to live in, too many jungles out there to avoid them all.

  The fear tasted like warm zinc in his mouth. He sweated, he trembled, he felt his wind nearly catch in a sob every other breath. Once upon a time, he had been Super Jay, faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive, able to laugh at any and all dangers in any dark corner of the net. But not anymore. The tiger’s massive claw had wiped that invulnerability away. It had shown Jay the darkness at the end of the road. The darkness where everybody had to go eventually, a thing he had known intellectually but had not really in his heart of hearts believed.

  He believed it now.

  He hated the tiger for that. For making him afraid. For forcing him to acknowledge what everybody knew but nobody really talked about. Jay didn’t believe in a benevolent god waiting to greet him at the pearly gates to some mythical heaven, no more than he believed in a malevolent ruler of some never-ending hell. His faith had been in himself, in his own abilities, and the tiger had taken that from him. Saji’s talk of Buddhism had helped, and he felt drawn to that religion because it was so pragmatic and based in earthly reality, but it hadn’t erased the fear.

  He saw a mark in the jungle floor, a slight depression on a patch of old leaves and twigs long since rotted to damp humus. He glanced up at the guide, who stood scanning the jungle, then back at the mark. Not very deep for such a huge tiger, but it was part of a track, he was sure of it. It had gone this way.

  Which meant that Jay was going to have to go this way, too.

  He raised from his crouch. “Come on, Mowgli. Through here.”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  So far, the scenario was holding steady; that was something.

  He wondered how long he could maintain the surrounding imagery if he saw the tiger? Not very long, he figured.

  Jay took a deep breath, adjusted the shotgun’s strap, and started forward.

  Saturday, April 9th

  The Yews, Sussex, England

  Peel smiled at Huard. Inside his office, the former church, the younger man looked somehow out of place. Probably hadn’t been in a church since he was a lad, not that Peel could claim too many such visits himself. Outside of attending regimental weddings and funerals and this place, religion hadn’t been his cup of tea.

  “And your impression of the fellow?”

  “Well, sir, he didn’t seem all that swift. I mean, he didn’t see me until I stepped in front of him, almost on his toes, and he just stood there with his hand in his pocket like he was playing with himself. I’d say he’s lost most of his moves since he was with the Russians. If he ever had any moves. Sir.”

  Peel nodded. “You have the recording?”

  “Right here.”

  Huard tendered an infoball the size of a marble.

  Peel slotted the infoball into the computer’s reader and clicked it on. The holographic projection appeared at one-sixth scale over Peel’s desk. The image of Ruzhyó from the minicam in Huard’s belt buckle was remarkably sharp and stable. Ought to be, for what they’d paid for the bloody camera. The former Spetsnaz agent was across the street, his image blocked by passing vehicles as Huard started toward him.

  “Computer, magnification times two.”

  The holoproj blinked and doubled in size. Ruzhyó stood on the street corner, staring into space. Yes, well, he did look distracted—hello?

  “Comp
uter, stop play. Rewind fifty frames, replay, magnification times three.”

  Huard, still at a modified parade rest, frowned. “Sir?”

  “Watch, Huard. And learn.”

  The image blinked and began again, larger, a closer view of Ruzhyó. There. Just as the image waggled a little—that would be Huard stepping from the curb—Ruzhyó’s eyes shifted.

  Peel grinned. “There’s where he spotted you, Corporal.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s just seen you across the street. And without moving his head too much, he’s checking out his surroundings. Looking for other players.”

  Huard shook his head. “I don’t see it, sir.”

  “No, of course not. Computer, normal-size image.”

  The view shifted, just as Ruzhyó put his hand into his pocket.

  Peel said, “He’s got a weapon in his pocket. Knife, or maybe one of the small South American keychain pistols.”

  “How can you tell that? Sir.”

  “Because that’s what I’d have done if I saw you coming toward me across the street. If you had made any sudden moves once you got there, he would have cut your throat or put a couple of small-caliber bullets into you.”

  “I was armed, sir.”

  “Huard, this man was killing people when you were still in short pants. That you were unaware of him seeing you and preparing for your arrival is hardly unexpected. Had you reached for your pistol, I expect we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Huard didn’t believe him, but he said, “If you say so, sir.”

  Peel grinned. Youth was so wasted on the young. They thought they were going to live forever; it was amazing that as many of them lived as long as they did. If Huard survived, someday he might understand.

  “That’s all, then. Carry on.”

  “Sir.” Huard came to attention, did an about face, and left the building.

  “Computer, replay sequence.”

  The machine obeyed. Peel watched. He did enjoy watching a real professional at work. He was looking forward to seeing Ruzhyó again. Good men were hard to find.

  23

  Sunday, April 10th

  London, England

  Toni didn’t have any spare time, not with the crisis as dramatic as it was, but she’d realized long ago that if she didn’t exercise, she wouldn’t be much good in the middle of a high-stress environment. She had to have a valve to bleed off the pressure, and if she went a day or two without doing silat, or at least some serious stretching, she got cranky and stupid. So when her days got really busy, when things started going to hell in a handbasket and there simply wasn’t time to work out, she stole the minutes from elsewhere. Sometimes it was a skipped lunch, sometimes dinner. Sometimes, it was sleep. She could miss a meal or an hour of shut-eye and still function, but without exercise, she was surly and out of sorts. She made dumb mistakes, growled at people, couldn’t focus or get herself centered.

  So, this morning, the workout was going to have to come off the top. Not yet five A.M. and she was up, washing her face, the bathroom door closed so as not to wake Alex, dressing in sweats for a trip to the hotel’s gym. True, it wouldn’t be the best workout this early, but anything was better than nothing. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be up before dawn and breaking a sweat, it was a need. An addiction, maybe, but it was putting money in the bank: Today’s deposit might not be as big as she’d like, but at least there would be something to draw on later if she needed it. And given how things were going, she would need it. So much for their vacation.

  But in truth, she was a little excited. Carl Stewart was going to meet her in the hotel’s gym. When she’d gone by his school and explained to him that her job was going to keep her from his class in the evenings, he’d offered to meet her for private sessions, and it turned out he was an early riser.

  She’d laughed at that. “Ah. One of those people who run around throwing open windows, breathing deep the air, and smiling at the sunrise?”

  “God, no,” he’d said. “Just a slave to my internal clock. I’m a wren, been that way all my life. Up at four, to bed by nine or ten, no help for it. I have learned to make the best of it. I usually get my workout done in the morning, though. Not a lot else one can do when most of the rest of the world is still beddy-bye.”

  “Well, in that case, I’d love to train with you.”

  “There’s a decent gym in your hotel,” he’d said. “Save you a taxi ride to the school.”

  “And cost you one,” she’d said.

  “Not really. I have a car. And it’s not all that far from where I live. I have a flat in Knightsbridge.”

  “Knightsbridge? That’s a pretty nice area, isn’t it? We drove through there. By Hyde Park?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Yes, well, my parents got a bit of an inheritance from my grandfather on my mother’s side, and they have a small family business that does all right.”

  As she headed for the hotel’s gym through the quiet and empty hall, Toni grinned to herself. Before the computers had gone south, she’d checked out the real estate in the area called Knightsbridge. Flats went for the equivalent of half a million U.S. dollars. Houses started around three million and went up. There was a fourbedroom semidetached house—what they called a double condo in the States—for seven million. And offers had been made on most of the listings already.

  Apparently the Stewart family business was doing all right indeed.

  Carl was waiting in the gym, which was in itself interesting, since you supposedly needed an electronic keycard to be admitted. Toni inserted her own card into the lock and went through the heavy glass doors. They were the only two people there.

  “Good morning,” he said. He seemed too awake and cheerful for this hour.

  “Morning.”

  He was warming up and stretching, and she joined him. The gym had several weight-stack machines, a stair-stepper, an elliptical walker, and a treadmill, all of which were equipped with the latest VR interfaces. There was an aerobics area in front of a mirrored wall opposite, a twelve-by-twelve-foot square. No mats, but the carpet was padded enough, and there was more than enough room for two people to practice silat.

  Ten minutes later, they were ready to begin. “Shall we do djurus for a few minutes?” he asked.

  She nodded. That was how she always began her practice. The short dances were the basis for everything else. All of the combat moves could be found in the djurus, if you knew how to look.

  For a long time, Toni had practiced the Bukti dances, the eight basic and slimmed-down djurus, before she began the Serak moves; lately, however, she had been skipping straight ahead to the parent art. Bukti Negara was still used in a lot of places as a kind of test, to see if a student was serious about training. If, after a couple of years practicing the simpler stuff, a student was still hanging around, then she could be introduced to the more complex and demanding forms. Serak, so the story went, had been invented by a man of the same name in Indonesia. Serak, or Sera, also known as Ba Pak—The Wise—was Javanese and had been a formidable fighter, despite having only one arm and a clubfoot. That the man could function at all was noteworthy; that he had developed a martial art that made him equal or better as a fighter against other trained men who had all their limbs was truly amazing.

  After ten minutes of djurus, Carl stopped. “Want to work some combinations?”

  “Sure.”

  Once again, Toni thrilled to the knowledge that Carl was a superior player. None of her attacks and counterattacks got through. He blocked them effortlessly, it seemed to her, always keeping the centerline. She had to work hard to keep his second and third series of counterpunches and kicks from landing, especially the sneaky rising punch, a strike that wanted to come under a highline defense but over the low-line block. She managed to stop him from connecting solidly with her, but he brushed her chest once, and another time tapped her on the chin. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough for her to realize he could have tagged her if he’d wanted.<
br />
  This was great. Just what she needed.

  He was showing her a take-down he liked, they were pressed together, her groin against his thigh, his right hand on her butt, levering for a hip sweep, when she caught a glimpse of somebody watching them from the hall. She didn’t have time to look as Carl completed the throw, taking out her leg and dropping her to the carpet, following up with a kick and punch.

  When she got to her feet, the watcher in the hall was gone. Probably a bellboy delivering somebody’s breakfast.

  “Again?” Carl asked.

  “Yes.” She grinned. This was really great.

  She stepped in with a punch.

  Alex felt a sour pain in his belly, a churning, twisted feeling. He had felt it before and he knew it for what it was: jealousy. He had watched them together in the workout room, Toni and the English silat instructor, seen them glued together, the man’s hand on her ass. Yeah, sure, it was part of the deal, he knew enough of the art to know that, but still it bothered him as he hurried down the hall toward their room. She hadn’t seen him, and he didn’t want her to know he’d been there. Normally, he’d have been asleep at this hour, but he’d woken up as she shut the door on her way out and couldn’t drift back off. So he’d gotten up, thrown on some clothes, and gone to watch them work out. Maybe he could learn something, he’d figured.

  Yeah, right. He’d learned how to feel up somebody’s butt.

  He knew he was being unreasonable. It wasn’t the man’s hands on Toni that bothered him as much as how much she was obviously enjoying herself. Probably it was just the silat, being able to work out with a guy as good as Stewart was. Probably. But he couldn’t get rid of a nagging worry: What if it was more? He and Toni hadn’t been getting along that well in the last couple of weeks, that business about not sending her on assignment and all. Maybe she was interested in the big Englishman in some way other than as a sparring partner?