Parking and sitting for long periods in front of a bank was also an unwise action.
If you drove into a strange area and found yourself near a primary school, close enough to view the children playing, you could safely bet everything you owned against a plugged ruble that police would be arriving shortly to see if you were some kind of molester waiting for a chance to expose yourself--or do worse--to the children. If you did not have an excellent reason for being there--and there were no reasons excellent enough to convince the police that a man should be perched and watching children, except possibly that you were one of them laying in wait for someone like they thought you were--you would be directed to move along.
In such a situation, it would be to your advantage to have some knowledge of where else you might go to watch for your man leaving.
Peel turned into a parking lot in front of a small, gray, two-story building.
Ruzhyo drove past the lot and spotted a parking place on the street only a few meters ahead, and under the overhang of a smallish oaklike tree. He grinned. The first rule of automobile surveillance, as taught to him by Serge, the old Russian Spetsnaz operative who had trained him in the basics, was: Always park in the shade. The warmer the day, the more important this becomes.
Ruzhyo pulled the car into the slot, killed the engine, and looked to make certain nobody followed Peel into the parking lot. Nobody did.
Peel alighted from his car and headed for the building, giving no sign that he saw Ruzhyo. Peel had already told him the building to which he was going was secure, there was no need to follow him inside.
Ruzhyo shifted in the seat and looked for signs of anybody who might either be there already or arriving to position himself so as to watch Peel's departure. Should he see anything he considered threatening, he would call Peel, using his mobile telephone, and they would decide how to proceed from there.
Seated in the car with nothing to do but watch, Ruzhyo thought again about going home. The travel problems had mostly resolved, and he could easily figure out a way onto the European mainland. There had been another case in the newspaper just yesterday of some fool who had managed to bypass the fences and security cameras and guards to get into the Chunnel on foot. It had taken him all day to walk from England to France, and it was a wonder the slipstream of the trains, barreling along at 160 kilometers per hour, hadn't sucked him off the narrow ledge to his death. Several others had died thus in the last few years.
Such a thing just proved that if a man wanted to get somewhere bad enough, he could find a way.
He owed no allegiance to Peel, and the money he was being paid meant nothing; he had plenty of money. But he would give this a few more days. It was mildly interesting, and Peel had managed to spot and surprise him. That meant something in his business. A few more days wouldn't hurt.
30
Tuesday, April 12th
Washington, D.C.
Tyrone stood more or less hidden inside the sporting goods store, looking out at the food court. He'd cut classes to come to the mall. Bella was there, seated at a table in front of the Tor-tee-ah Mah-ree-aa, surrounded by half a dozen girlfriends and a couple of boys. The males weren't anybody Tyrone recognized as belonging to Bella, just some small moons orbiting her bright star. Bella laughed and they all laughed. When she talked, they listened. She was something.
He had mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, he hated her guts for how she had dropped him. No warning, blam! Right between the eyes, and hasta la vista Ty-rone-ee! She wasn't used to having guys tell her they didn't like how she was behaving, and he had sure done that. Just like that, it was end game, and don't bother to put another coin in, because you don't get a replay.
On the other hand, just look at her. She was so beautiful, the center of every room she entered, guys would line up just to kiss the ground she walked on. And, once upon a time, she had bestowed her favors on him. Kissed him, touched him, let him touch her, and the thought of being able to do that again, to walk around knowing he had her attention, well, that was something magic, no question, no Q. He'd once had his hand on that perfect breast, tangled tongues inside that perfect mouth. It was exciting to think about it, and lucky he was between two racks of ski clothes so nobody could see just how exciting it was.
She had practically invited him to the mall. He could walk out of this store, kinda amble over to where she sat, and see what was what. Would she smile and welcome him into the fold, have him sit next to her? Because, in the end, she respected him for telling her how it was? Or was it some kind of sicko-sticko where she'd dry ice him in front of her friends, embarrass the hell out of him, make him look like a total fool? He didn't think she'd do that. She could have done it a lot of times before now and why wait so long? But he wasn't sure.
Once upon a time not too long ago, he'd have run as fast as he could move and never worry about it for a nanosec. He had loved her. He thought she loved him, too. But that was then. Life changes a lot in a few months, no feek.
When he thought about Bella, he felt like he was a washcloth, twisted, wrung out, tossed onto the edge of the tub still in a knot without even being hung out to dry. This could be the time to find out where he stood, to know for sure.
Thing was, did he really want to know? Being dumped once was awful. Being humiliated in public on top of that would be zero cubed. He could hear Jimmy Joe and the rest of the geek patrol now: "Whoa, slip, I hear you got driced by The Belladonna (donna-donna-donna-wah-wah-wah-whaah) right in the middle of the mall! Count Zero, cold cut, got your card maxed. How you feel about that?"
Tyrone shook his head. He didn't want to play that scenario in RW or VR, thank you very fucking much.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But nothing lost, either, right?
But if it got Bella back, got you to her house on the couch, got you another chance at putting your hands on that perfect body, those lips against yours, wouldn't that be worth the risk?
Oh, yeah.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Took another. Worst-case scenario, he'd look like a big fool. Best case?
He had an imaginary flash of Bella, naked, hair spread out on a pillow. It was vivid enough that he forgot to breathe. He was fourteen, and that was an image to die for--never mind that it was also to go to jail for, even if she was older than he was. Bella. Naked ...
Jesus Christ!
When he remembered how to breathe again, Tyrone headed for the door. Do or die, slip. Do or die.
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
John Howard stood outside the MI-6 building, watching his boss walk across the street and head toward him. He waved and saw Michaels see him and wave back.
"Colonel. How are you?"
"Pretty good, sir. All things considered."
"Anything new on the search for the assassin?"
"Yes and no," Howard said. "We know he was on a flight out of Seattle on Wednesday. We know he came here. We have confirmation via a scan of passengers going through customs. Fiorella pulled up arrivals from the U.S. early Thursday morning. We got a photographic match."
He tendered a hardcopy color print of a man strolling through the airport. A grid of fine lines had been superimposed over the photograph.
"You sure this is him?"
"It looks like him. Right place at the right time. Computer says the ears and hands match our reference. Unless he has a twin brother, it's him, all right."
Michaels nodded at the building. "Shall we go inside ?"
As they passed the guards and headed along the hallway, Michaels said, "It's been almost a week. He could be anywhere by now."
"Yes, sir, that's true. He could have moved on before the travel computer systems all went south. We've got mainframe time on Baby Huey, and with British cooperation, Lieutenant Winthrop is back home using it to crunch flight and train and auto rental information, even boat rentals from London to anywhere else. Even a fake passport picture will have to look something like him."<
br />
"He could get one with a phony beard and a wig," Michaels said.
"We're redballing any male traveling alone who is anywhere close to the right height, weight, and age."
"He could hire an escort and travel with her."
"Yes, sir, and he might find a witch doctor who could turn him into a gorilla, too, sir. We've got to start somewhere."
Michaels smiled at that.
They arrived at the office where Howard had left Toni Fiorella.
Inside, Fiorella and a tall, striking, short-haired blonde stood and looked at an enlarged holoproj image of dozens of faces lined up in rows.
"Got the first run of photos from Jo Winthrop, Colonel," Toni said. "All with either ears that match our size specs or are covered by hair so we can't see them clearly. Hi, Alex. Have a good walk?"
"Yeah, thanks," Michaels said. He looked uncomfortable. Pale.
"Oh, excuse my manners," Toni said. "Colonel John Howard? This is Angela Cooper. She is our liaison to MI-6. Colonel Howard is the head of the Net Force Strike Teams."
The blonde extended her hand and smiled at Howard. "How do you do, Colonel. Pleased to meet you."
He shook her hand, returning the smile. He caught a glimpse of Michaels peripherally. The man had a sickly grin pasted in place, but he looked to Howard as if he was about to throw up.
Cooper released Howard's hand, and he caught her flick a quick gaze at Michaels. He followed it, and saw Michaels glance away, refusing to meet her look. It was nothing, no more than half a second's worth of what might be his imagination. But--
Oh, my.
Howard usually went to church on Sundays with his wife and son, but he didn't consider himself any kind of prophet, able to see more than everybody else could see. Then again, he'd been around the block a time or two, and he liked to think he was not too bad at reading people.
Something was there. Something in the glance that the good-looking dishwater blonde had thrown at Michaels, the way he had refused to engage her, something was going on here.
Howard, like most men away from home a lot, had been tempted by the possibility of extramarital liaisons from time to time. There had been more than a few women interested in getting to know him horizontally, and a couple of them had been attractive enough so the thought had started to cross his mind. Who would know? Who would be hurt by it? How did the old song go? If you couldn't be with the one you loved, couldn't you love the one you were with?
No harm, no foul, right?
Fortunately, in all the years he'd been married, all such thoughts had died before they had gotten more than a few steps from wonder toward action. He didn't think of himself as particularly righteous--he'd sowed a fair number of wild oats as a young soldier before he got married--but he'd put all that aside when he'd said "I do." Maybe he was luckier than most; he hadn't slipped since. But he had known a lot of men who had chosen to go and sin some more. He'd seen plenty of these men standing next to women they pretended not to know as well as they did know them.
He couldn't have sworn to it on a Bible in a court of law, but that little exchange between Michaels and Cooper told Howard something he'd just as soon not know, too: These two had something going on together. And more than that, from how she acted, Toni Fiorella didn't know it.
Oh, boy. All of a sudden, Howard was very glad he was not Alex Michaels. Very glad.
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Ruzhyo saw the shooter the second he opened his car door.
It was good luck, really; he'd just happened to be right next to the car and looking that way as he walked along twelve or thirteen meters behind Peel. If he hadn't looked at just that instant, it might have been too late, but he had seen the glint of sunlight on stainless steel as the man pulled his jacket shut to hide the handgun tucked into his waistband on his right side. Half a second later, he'd have missed that and not known for sure the shooter was anything other than just another pedestrian hurrying to a late appointment or to pick up something before the shops closed.
The shooter came out only a meter or so behind Ruzhyo, who just kept walking, drifting to his right slightly, as if window-shopping at a hat store. The shooter, a tallish man with thinning, sandy hair, dressed in a windbreaker over a tan polo shirt, khaki slacks, and running shoes, walked past, intent on his target.
Ruzhyo glanced around. He didn't see a backup man. He moved away from the window and onto the shooter's tail, hurrying his pace. He reached down to where his mobile phone was clipped to his belt and tapped the "send" button.
The number was preprogrammed, one of two Peel had given him, and the mobile phone on Peel's belt would now be vibrating with the call. Nobody else had the number, Peel had told him, and if it vibrated, that meant Ruzhyo had spotted a deadly threat too close to use the other number to call and talk about it.
Peel made an immediate right turn and into the door of the closest shop. A bookstore.
The shooter angled that way to follow.
Ruzhyo speeded up so that he reached the bookstore's door half a meter behind the shooter. It would be easy enough to blast the shooter and put him down and out, but they wanted to keep him alive long enough to find out who had sent him. That might be a little trickier on the street, but inside a shop, with fewer witnesses, it should be easier.
Peel knew what was needed, and he quickly led his would-be assassin down an empty aisle bounded by tall shelves of musty books. Before the shooter could get to his weapon, Ruzhyo got to him. He shoved the little Beretta into the shooter's spine and said, "Move and you die."
The shooter was a pro. He froze.
"Clear," Ruzhyo said.
Peel turned around, his hand under his sport coat at the right hip. He smiled. "Henry? I thought you retired ? "
The sandy-haired man said, "I should have, so it seems."
"Bit late now," Peel said. "Let's go somewhere and have a little chat, shall we?"
"That won't do, Terry, you know that."
"You can't win, Henry. My man there is ex-Spetsnaz. He can make you a paraplegic and we still get to have our talk. Why don't we keep it civilized? We might even be able to work something out so that nobody has to feed the worms."
"Really, Terry, I hoped you'd think better of me than that--
With that, Henry leaped to the side, a move unexpected enough so that Ruzhyo's shot missed his spine and punched a small hole over the man's left kidney. The blast was loud, channeled by the books and shelves so that it lapped back over the three men. They had a few seconds left to finish this at most.
"Alive!" Peel shouted, pulling his own gun.
Ruzhyo tracked Henry's right hand, knowing that was the one closest to his hidden pistol. He would shoot for the hand, and if he missed, an abdominal shot with a .22 wouldn't be immediately fatal.
Maybe Henry realized he couldn't get his own pistol out fast enough to outshoot them. He didn't even try. Instead, he shoved his left wrist to his mouth and bit down on his watch band. Ruzhyo knew what the move meant, and apparently, so did Peel, who said, "Bugger all!"
Ruzhyo put his pistol back into his pocket, turned, and headed for the exit at a fast walk. Peel was right behind him. People, even bookworms, would come to see what the noise was about.
Whatever poison pill Henry had just bitten into was undoubtedly fast-acting, and there was no way to torture information from a man who would rather kill himself than reveal it. A pro, all right. Henry would probably be dead before any medical help could reach him, and beyond help in any event. Ruzhyo respected a man who died well. If you knew your time was up, it was better go out the way you elected to leave. You lost the war, but if you could cheat your enemy of anything at that point, you could carry some small satisfaction with you to your grave.
Outside, on the sidewalk again and moving moderately fast but not running, Peel gained past Ruzhyo and headed for his car. He said, "I rather liked old Henry. A shame."
As he followed him, Ruzhyo considered how he
was going to rid himself of the Beretta. He would have to lose it somewhere as soon as possible. A man was dead in a bookstore, and it would be poison that caused his demise, but even a hollowpoint sometimes retained enough of itself to be matched ballistically to the gun that had fired it. And a gun that could be connected to a dead man was a bad talisman to have around.
31
Tuesday, April 12th
Washington, D.C.
Jay brought Saji a glass of water, shook his head, and said, "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
Seated in the overstuffed chair, she smiled. "More than I should, yes."
He went to sit on the beat-up gray leather couch he'd bought at a garage sale. There was a faint smell of patchouli in the air. Her perfume? Residue from incense clinging to her hair? God, she was gorgeous. "I should know better after all my years on the net, but I didn't expect this."
"Does it bother you that much?"
He thought about it for a second. "No. Not really. It's the mind that matters, not the body."
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