Night Moves (1999)

by Tom - Net Force 03 Clancy

  He opened his eyes. "The grass."

  Saji nodded. "What about it?"

  "It doesn't belong here. How did it get here? There's nothing else around like it."

  "Good. Could it have blown here?"

  Jay shook his head. "No wind. And if it had been here very long, it would have been dry as a bleached bone, but it's still green."

  "Which means?"

  "Something put it there. Maybe it fell out of a shoe or was stuck to somebody's pants leg."

  "Very good. Now what?"

  Jay considered it. Saji had told him, but he couldn't remember it. Okay, think logically, Jay. It was hard, but it wasn't like he had to do any major programming, just take the next small step. Which would be ... ?

  "Spiral out, look for tracks in any dirt that will take them?"

  "Good. Let's see it. Careful--you don't want to obliterate any sign."

  Jay spiraled out from the grass, moving slowly, looking for tracks. He couldn't spot any for fifty feet in a circle around it. He shook his head. "No tracks."

  "You sure?"

  "Hell, yes, I'm sure!"

  Saji waited for a few seconds.

  "Sorry. I'm on edge."

  "No problem. Look over here." Saji led Jay to a patch of dust, pointed at it. "There."

  "Come on. That dirt is perfectly smooth, not a mark on it, you can't tell me you see a track there!"

  "Carpet People," Saji said.

  "Come again?"

  "They wear pieces of cut carpet on their feet, booties over their shoes, that don't leave tracks. You see a perfectly smooth spot in the desert, it's wrong. Look there, next to it. See the wind riffles? The rain pocks? The way the dust is uneven, here and here? Now look back at that spot, there."

  Jay looked. Yes. The dust was perfectly smooth.

  "Get down to ground level, get the sun to the side."

  Jay did. Yes, he could see a slight edge around the smooth spot, a rough oval shape. "I see it!"

  "Sometimes, what you have to look for is the absence of something that should be there. Sometimes it will be very subtle, like this no-print footprint. Our quarry passed this way, heading north, staying close to the cliff edge. A man tracking him on horseback wouldn't get too close to the drop-off, even if the horse would let him. That big cactus you mentioned, way the hell over there?"

  "Yeah."

  "I bet he stopped there to rest in the shade."

  "How could you possibly know that?"

  "It's to the north. There's no shade behind us for miles. After walking out here in the hot sun for a couple of hours, your half-cooked feet wrapped in carpet booties over shoes, moving slow so as not to disturb the dust, wouldn't you stop in the shade to take a drink?"

  Saji started walking briskly toward the barrel cactus.

  "Uh, Saji? Don't we need to be careful of stepping on sign?"

  "Nope. If he went to the cactus, we don't need to know how he got there. He didn't go over the edge, or we'd see the buzzards circling his body. He didn't come back our way. He went to the cactus. We'll pick up his trail there."

  "Right," Jay said. "You're the boss."

  "No, Jay, you are the boss. I'm just a guide."

  He moved off. Jay followed him.

  Wednesday, April 6th

  Jackson, Mississippi

  John Howard stood staring in the Holiday Inn room where Mikhayl Ruzhyo had spent the night before. The maid hadn't cleaned the room yet; Ruzhyo had paid for two nights and put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door before he left. Even so, the room hardly seemed to have been occupied. The bed was made, the single used towel had been refolded and put on top of the unused ones. A paper-wrapped glass in the bathroom had been rinsed clean, dried, and put back where it came from. And if he had used the crapper, the man had even folded a new point on the remainder of the toilet paper roll when he was done.

  "No-impact camper," Fernandez said. "Wish my bride was so tidy."

  Howard chewed at his lip. "I suppose it was too much to hope he'd leave a map with a destination circled, along with his airline reservation number and flight times."

  "We'll get him, Colonel. We traced him this far, we'll pick up his trail from here, too. Looks as if he is heading east."

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe he is heading east, or maybe we'll get him?"

  "Both."

  Wednesday, April 6th

  The Yews, Sussex, England

  Peel stood outside the old church that was now his office, staring at Lord Goswell, who was still traipsing around carrying that ancient shotgun, trying to find one of the rabbits that had been raiding his garden.

  The old boy considered himself quite the hunter. Peel had heard his old hunting stories a dozen times. Back in the early sixties, when such things were still routinely done, Goswell had gone on safari to Africa. There, he had taken an elephant, a lion, and a leopard, along with assorted wildebeests and springbok and other smaller game animals. Of course, his lordship's eyes and ears had been a lot sharper and younger fifty years ago, and he'd had an army of bearers to carry his gear, not to mention a local white hunter to find his targets. With that kind of stalk, one just showed up and pulled the trigger when told, and if one missed the shot, the white hunter would save one's arse. Hardly the same as tracking a wounded cape buffalo into a bamboo thicket alone, was it?

  Just at the moment, the old boy, who was half deaf and blind, was probably as much threat to his own feet as he was to any lurking rabbits. He had been hunting bunnies on and off for months, and while he had fouled the air numerous times with that black-powder cannon of his, he had yet to hit anything other than the ground--or once, the side of the tool shed.

  Goswell wasn't an awful man, merely a prime example of his class. Born rich, educated at the best schools, with all the right connections, the man had never had to want for anything. He'd married well, had the usual half-witted, inbred children, who'd also married well. One or the other of them would come to call now and then, more often since their mother had died a few years back. Even a couple of the grandchildren came round to see the old boy, and he doted on them, of course. It was true what they said; the rich were different, especially the old-money rich. They expected certain things as their due, never considered otherwise.

  The old man whipped the shotgun up, aimed--but held his fire. Lowered the weapon and muttered to himself.

  Peel grinned. Well, he could find out how it felt to be rich. He had a million in the bank. He could quit right now, invest the money conservatively, and live very comfortably off the interest for the rest of his life without ever touching the principal. There was security, especially for a man who had always expected to die with his boots on. But he could do even better by simply continuing on, working for Goswell. Everything the same, except that his reports about Bascomb-Coombs would change somewhat. His men would continue to follow the computer expert, save at certain specified times. One watcher would be taken off, thinking another would replace him, only that wouldn't happen. There would be a gap, as long as Bascomb-Coombs needed, and Peel would fill it in when he wrote up the reports. Not bad work for a million, altering a few schedules.

  The old man wandered around the corner out of sight and, as he did, Peel reflected that the big sound-suppressor headphones made Goswell look rather like some kind of geriatric alien.

  Peel glanced at his watch. About time for his men to check in.

  Of course, the deal with the Jew scientist would eventually involve more than just keeping his lordship in the dark; he knew that. The other shoe would drop, and it would certainly involve work somewhat more strenuous than altering a computer log. And while Bascomb-Coombs seemed convinced of his invincibility when it came to his Qubits and all this quantum nonsense, if somebody kicked in the door and started shooting, it would take a man who knew how to shoot back to save his brilliant arse.

  Well, Peel had done that for a long time, first for the queen, then her duffer son the king, and for a lot less money than he was getting no
w--

  A bomb went off. Half a second later, another blast followed.

  Peel dropped into a gunfighter's crouch, looking for danger, his hand automatically darting to his pistol. He relaxed when he saw the greasy white cloud of smoke swirl past, and heard the old man cursing. "Bastard! You filthy, thieving bastard!"

  Peel grinned. Missed another one. He straightened, shot his cuffs, and went to make sure the old man was all right. Just because he was betraying Goswell's trust didn't mean he shouldn't be civilized.

  16

  Thursday, April 7th

  London, England

  Michaels decided to accept Toni's invitation and go along to the silat class. He ought to work out, he'd been neglecting his practice the last few days, and God only knew when they'd get home and back into a normal routine. So far, they had zip on this new threat. He'd probably feel a lot better if he exercised, developed a good sweat.

  "You've got the long stare," Toni said.

  She sat in the seat across from him in the cab, and he smiled reflexively at her. "Sorry. I spent most of the afternoon counting figurative paper clips. I'm not any closer to this guy than I was before. I feel stupid."

  "Why do you feel as if you personally are responsible for catching the mad hacker? Dozens of governmental agencies around the world are chasing him, and none of them are any further along than we are."

  "Yeah, but I sit at the top of the pyramid in the can-do U.S. of A. Nobody is eyeballing the Portuguese or the Tasmanians and expecting them to track this guy down. We're the only superpower left."

  "Hi ho, Silver!"

  He blinked at her. "Huh?"

  "How the Lone Ranger got his name. Tonto nursed him back to health after the Butch Cavendish gang am-bushed the ranger troop. He came to, asked about the others. Tonto said, 'Him dead, all dead. You ... only ranger left. You ... lone ranger.' "

  "Really?"

  "Truth. You know what it says on the barrel of the Cisco Kid's gun?"

  He blinked at her. "What?"

  " 'Don't make me hurt you.' "

  He smiled at her. "How do you know stuff like that?"

  "A misspent youth. Older brothers who collected everything from cars to old 78 rpm vinyl records. I can tell you about Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autrey, if you want. Want to know about Red Ryder's sidekick?"

  "Maybe not," he said.

  "You don't want to hear about Li'l Beaver?" She batted her eyes at him and smiled.

  "Well ... yeah. But ... not in front of the cabbie."

  They both laughed.

  The silat school was a dump, in a ratty neighborhood that made Michaels wish he had brought his taser. It was clean enough inside, though, and the students were polite when Toni introduced him.

  The instructor, Carl Stewart, arrived, and Michaels met him, too. Seemed like a nice guy, a few years older than Michaels, in pretty good shape. A little taller, a little grayer, a little wider across the shoulders and thicker through the arms. He wore bifocal aviator glasses, and Michaels wondered why he wasn't wearing contacts or droptacs instead.

  "Toni tells me you've begun studying silat, " Stewart said. "Are you going to join the class this evening?"

  "If that would be all right, yes."

  "Certainly." He smiled at Toni, she smiled right back, and Michaels felt a little pang of ... something.

  Jealousy? No, of course not. He trusted Toni.

  The class began, and Michaels dutifully went up and down the floor practicing the two djurus he had learned. He stole quick glances at Toni, saw her footworking first the tiga, then the sliwa--the triangle and square--for her djurus. She looked very sharp.

  Stewart paused in front of Michaels. "You seem a bit distracted, Mr. Michaels. It would be better if you concentrated on your own form."

  Michaels flushed, nodded, said, "Sorry, Guru."

  Steward nodded, smiled, and moved along to watch other students.

  Good thing this wasn't sitting Zen exercise, or he'd have gotten whacked with a stick, Michaels thought. He refocused on his moves, but he felt awkward. He'd only been doing this a few months, and much of it still seemed counterintuitive and unnatural.

  After about fifteen minutes of djurus, Stewart called a halt and took questions. Even though his students were doing different forms than Michaels had been doing, he heard a couple of things about stepping in balance and keeping his hips corked that Toni had stressed.

  "All right, then. Let's work on combinations," Stewart said. "Toni? Let me use you."

  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 block-elbow-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 an
d 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 one-two-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?"