Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  “They must have bar snacks in here, Mac,” Dawson hinted. “What do you think?”

  MacLeod was anything but hungry, but he understood that Dawson wanted to sober up his friend. He said, “Nothing as good as your buffalo wings, I’ll bet.”

  Dawson waved regally. “You’re probably right. But some wings and some coffee would do me.”

  Woodrich huffed, then bobbed his head. “I could use one more drink.” He held up his finger. “One more for the boys who didn’t come back, Joey.”

  “Al…”

  “For the bright-eyed boys who never came back,” he said. “You. Me. We didn’t come back.”

  Dawson sighed. “All right, Al.” He signaled the waitress.

  “We’re cabbing it,” Woodrich told MacLeod, as if to apologize for his drinking. “My car… I had a little mishap while I was gone.”

  “Oh, you drove?” MacLeod asked easily, but his curiosity was piqued. This man left town when one of his best friends was on his way to see him; he was halfway to a nervous breakdown; and he had just been in a car accident.

  “It’s easier than the train. It only takes an hour.” He seemed to realize he was giving away information. The fact that it mattered to him made MacLeod even more curious. “Or so.”

  The round of drinks came. MacLeod stuck to his first single malt, making it last while Woodrich sucked down his fourth whiskey. Maybe the man was getting a divorce. Maybe he’d gotten bad news from his doctor. Whatever the case, MacLeod was sorry for Joe that they’d come all this way to visit a man who was in no shape to entertain company.

  “Did you hear Beauchard’s speech last night?” Woodrich asked them. “I thought it was brilliant.” His mood lightened. “He could really turn this country around.”

  Senator Anthony Beauchard of Virginia was stumping for the Republican presidential nomination. He was billing himself as someone who could “Take Back America.”

  “But do you think he’ll get the votes?” Dawson asked. “Some of his positions aren’t very popular.”

  MacLeod hid a smile. Dawson hated Beauchard. More than once he’d said he’d move to Australia if Beauchard became the next president.

  “People have a knee-jerk dislike of him because they don’t want to admit he’s right. This was a good country. But it’s been ruined by people who won’t take responsibility for their lives. Welfare cheats and drug pushers. It’s time to get tough.”

  “Al, you sound like a Nazi. What’re you going to do, line all the poor people against a wall and shoot them?”

  “I’m amazed at you, Joey. I can’t believe you even said that. Listen, Tony has some great work programs to get people off welfare. He believes everyone has a chance. They just have to take it.”

  “A chance? If you’re some black kid in Harlem?”

  MacLeod crossed his legs, finished his drink, and listened quietly as the two men began to argue.

  He tensed as a tingle spread through him: an Immortal loomed nearby.

  On alert, he scanned the room, assessing each face, anticipating a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

  The tingle vanished.

  MacLeod cut into the discussion. “I’m still pretty wiped out from the time change. I think I’ll make it an early night.”

  Dawson nodded. “Good night, Mac. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Say, nine? Alan’s got a tour of the Pentagon set up. You’re welcome to come.”

  “Yes,” Woodrich said. He raised his hand as a waitress neared. She nodded and came toward them.

  “That’d be interesting.” MacLeod stood and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Until tomorrow.” Woodrich shook with him. His hand was clammy. MacLeod could smell his fear. He wasn’t sure he wanted Dawson going anywhere with him. Ah, well, Joe had always been able to take care of himself.

  He pulled out a credit card; Woodrich waved his hand and said, “On me. I insist.”

  MacLeod thanked him, retrieved his laptop, and began to sweep the lobby. There was nothing suspicious, just the albatrosses, whales and occasional mermaids conversing at tables, bellhops steering luggage carts toward the reception, the concierge on the phone.

  He put his hand on the hilt of his katana and headed for the elevator. A small group clustered in front of the doors, waiting. None was Immortal. He folded his hands and rocked back easily on his heels.

  As soon as the elevator came, he made a sharp left and took the stairs.

  His room was on the fifth floor, and he made quick time. The hall was deserted. Though he detected no Immortals, he eased the katana out and kept it at the ready. There were other dangers in the world, and his instincts told him to be cautious.

  Ninjalike, he crept toward his room. His footsteps were soundless. When he reached his door, he put the laptop carrier on the floor, withdrew his key card, and inserted it into the lock. The green light blinked, and he threw the door open. His left hand found the light switch while the right pulled out his sword.

  Nothing.

  He inspected the rooms—the sitting room in green and white with the ubiquitous television; the luxurious bathroom; the bedroom with its large, empty bed. The closets were clear; so was the space under the bed. Nothing had been moved. No Immortal was near.

  How would you feel, Joe, if you woke up each morning of eternity knowing someone might kill you today?

  Woodrich looked like a man who felt like that.

  MacLeod went back to the front door to get his computer. On the floor beside it was a folded note on an ornate silver tray:

  P-K4.

  No Immortal had left the note in the hallway. He would have sensed it.

  He turned the paper over. There was an address handwritten at the bottom of the page: 4 Piazza Chondo, Tokyo, Japan, along with the postal code and a fax number. Did he remember Machiavelli’s handwriting? Were the thin, Gothic letters his? He examined the tray, realizing it probably belonged to the hotel. It wasn’t as fine as it appeared on first glance, just cheap plate.

  MacLeod shut the door and put the note on the table in the sitting room. He pulled his laptop out of the case, plugged into the phone jack, and booted up. He brought up the main menu. There were three messages from someone named GRAND MASTER in his mail box:

  P-K4.

  P-K4.

  P-K4.

  It had to be Machiavelli. He read the forwarding addresses. The last address in the header was for a server in Tokyo. That Machiavelli was computer literate surprised him not in the least. He would expect the Immortal, a ferreter of intelligence and exploiter of information, to have tentacles in all the latest forms of technology.

  He turned off the computer without answering and made a request for a wake-up call in the morning. Then he took a shower and was in bed with a book Meyer-Dinkmann had given him when his room phone rang.

  He picked it up. “MacLeod.”

  “It’s Alan Woodrich. Can you come right over? There’s been trouble. Joe told me to call you.”

  “What kind of trouble? Where’s Joe?”

  “He’s been, um, injured.”

  MacLeod jumped to his feet. “He’s hurt? What happened?” With his free hand he gathered up his clothes.

  “He’s… I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Did you call an ambulance?”

  There was a pause. “I can’t. Please, just come.”

  “Give me directions.”

  Woodrich rattled them off. MacLeod slammed down the phone, dressed, and grabbed his sword.

  Samantha flew into her hotel room down the street from the Capitol Hilton, threw her carpetbag on the floor, and fell backward onto the bed fully dressed and in her cowboy boots.

  Duncan MacLeod was in Washington.

  Incredible. Amazing.

  And too much of a coincidence.

  Per Machiavelli’s orders, she had followed Woodrich after her meeting with him to his own meeting with the other mortal in the bar of the Hilton. Watching from afar, she was almost sorry for his distress.
<
br />   Machiavelli had never explained the exact nature of the threat Woodrich posed, and at first, she had trusted his statement that the man needed to be controlled. Now she was not so sure. But she wasn’t sure of anything, anymore.

  As for example, when Duncan MacLeod had walked into the bar. Duncan MacLeod.

  One look at him, dark and tall and intimidating, and she had fled. She knew he had sensed her; she knew he had tried to locate her.

  She should have seized the chance and approached him.

  But why was he there? More to the point, why was he there with Woodrich? What did he know?

  Was he working with Machiavelli?

  “Ask him,” she said aloud, and pushed off the bed. She would go straight to MacLeod, right now. This time she wouldn’t lose her nerve. Her head, maybe, but not her nerve.

  The others were counting on her.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Taro’s home phone number in Japan. “C’mon, c’mon,” she urged the connection, as a series of clicks and soft background noises in the earpiece made a counterpoint to her heartbeat. Finally the phone rang. His machine picked up. She couldn’t leave a message. It was too dangerous.

  She called a couple others. No one was home. That terrified her. Someone should be home.

  She licked her lips and picked up the large bag that served both as purse and overnight case. And she picked up her sword, a short Shinto o-dachi that Umeko had given her. It had been forged in 1655 by a Shinto priest named Buso. Samantha knew Umeko had taken the sword from someone she had killed. Would MacLeod eventually take it from her?

  She took a breath, put on her coat, and went out the door.

  MacLeod ran to the parking garage, where his rental car had sat unused for the majority of the trip. He gunned the engine and sped away, his reflexes coming into play: within the hurricane of his fear for Joe lay a seed of deep calm and steadiness. Despite his urgency, his mind began to map out contingencies and strategies: what to do if an Immortal was there; if a common mortal criminal was there; if Joe was severely injured; if Joe was dead.

  No, not dead, his mind insisted; he wouldn’t let himself go there. He had to stay in control. His sword was ready. He must be, too.

  It took him thirty minutes to reach Woodrich’s apartment building, a Colonial of brick and green trim. He announced himself to the doorman, who had already received instructions to let him up, and this time took the elevator, only because it was quicker.

  He rapped sharply on Woodrich’s door. It opened immediately. Woodrich stood before him in a dim foyer, his white shirt streaked with blood. MacLeod pushed him out of the way.

  “Joe!”

  “Mac. In here.”

  Following Joe’s voice, MacLeod strode into what looked to be a home office. The room was a shambles, filing cabinet drawers upside down on the floor, papers everywhere, a chair and a coffee table overturned.

  On a black leather couch, Dawson reclined with an ice pack on his forehead. His face was mottled with cuts and bruises. He waved a hand at MacLeod and said, “I’m okay. Just a little shaken.”

  MacLeod crossed to him and lifted the ice pack. A bump the size of a plum bulged from Dawson’s forehead. MacLeod checked his eyes. They were reassuringly clear.

  “What happened?”he asked.

  “The cab driver was having trouble making change. I took the key and came on up because I had to use the can. I surprised two guys. They were ransacking the place.”

  “Two guys,” MacLeod repeated.

  “One Asian. One had some kind of European accent. Maybe Italian.”

  MacLeod made himself breathe. Machiavelli wouldn’t do his dirty work himself. If he had anything to do with this.

  “Where else does it hurt?” MacLeod pressed on Dawson’s rib cage.

  “Damn!” he said, catching his breath, and waved MacLeod off. “Mac, I’m okay. Trust me. I know when I’m really hurt.”

  MacLeod stood and looked hard at Woodrich. “Who were they and what were they after?”

  Woodrich shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  MacLeod said, “If I don’t get answers, I’m calling the cops.”

  “No,” Woodrich blurted out. He didn’t realize MacLeod was no more anxious to bring in the police than he was. More than one police investigator of more than one department had observed that a certain Mr. Duncan MacLeod had been present at a few too many crime scenes. “Please.”

  MacLeod waited. When Woodrich made no answer, MacLeod pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket.

  “All right,” Woodrich said.

  “Tell me all of it,” MacLeod ordered sternly.

  “I have access to… technology. I…” He looked toward the wall. “I’ll be killed if I tell you this.”

  “You’ll be killed if you don’t.”

  “No. Because he doesn’t have…” He sighed. “He doesn’t have all of it yet.”

  “And that’s why those men were here.”

  He shook his head. “My contact understands that we aren’t finished with the project. There are some big bugs in the software.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve been selling secrets to him and you don’t know? NSA secrets?” MacLeod gestured for Woodrich to follow him out the door. Dawson started to get up. MacLeod growled at him, “Stay put,” and ushered Woodrich out of the apartment and into the corridor.

  “My place is clean. I have devices that sweep for bugs on a continual basis,” Woodrich huffed, sounding insulted.

  “You also thought it was safe enough for my friend to enter,” MacLeod responded. “Or maybe Joe was your first line of defense.”

  “No, never.” Woodrich stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Look, please take Joey back to your place. I’ll deal with this. It’s not your business.”

  “Wrong.” MacLeod waited.

  “I’ve already said too much.”

  “And I’m telling you, if you don’t tell me everything, you’ll be dead before tomorrow.”

  Woodrich’s eyes widened. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m trying to help you,” MacLeod said, exasperated.

  “Why should you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Joey said some things about you,” Woodrich observed. “Things I’m beginning to believe.”

  MacLeod was on his guard. “What kind of things?”

  “That you’re one altruistic son of a bitch. Some kind of throwback knight in shining armor.”

  He relaxed, ashamed for having doubted Joe’s discretion for even one second. “We all have our faults. What’s yours?”

  “Beauchard.” He sighed. “I wanted him elected. I started ah, checking on things for him.”

  “Checking on things. What things?”

  “I captured and copied e-mail that would help Tony. Classified stuff. Senate e-mail. Whatever his opponents sent out.”

  “That’s what your contact is after? Political information?”

  Woodrich shook his head. “That’s small potatoes. What he wants is…” He trailed off.

  “Go on.”

  Woodrich reddened. “Ever read William Gibson? The science-fiction writer?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You know in those books how he pictured the future? Electronic messages captured at the point of origin, saved or modified, rerouted?”

  MacLeod narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Anyone can do a lot of the lower-level stuff. There are all kinds of products that capture your phone number and match it with census data, buying habits, your credit report. For sixty bucks you can buy a gizmo that’ll alter your voice on your home phone. You can sound like a woman if you’re a man, a child, whatever you want.” He was warming to his subject.

  “But we’re talking about a serious, all-encompassing capture system. A global network where all the routers are programmed to send a specific user whatever he wants.”

  MacLeod said, “You ca
n program the routers?”

  Woodrich turned to him. “They’re like satellites for computers. They usually look like little computers themselves. They’re the devices that receive Internet messages, among other things, and route them to the next router, which sends them to the next one, and so on, until they’re sent to your netserver and then to you.”

  MacLeod was stunned. His mind raced as the implications sank in: you could access military secrets, court records, hospital test results. Telephone calls were routed via computers now, and voices digitally processed. You could invent false messages. You could delete others.

  “How can he implement it?” MacLeod asked. “Wouldn’t you have to have direct access to the routers?”

  “They’re working on that part of the project with someone else. I don’t know how.” Woodrich cleared his throat. Confession might be good for the soul, but it was taking a toll on him. “Another NSA department is working on that end. There’s a buffer between us. We have no communication. To make it…” He trailed off and looked at his hands. “To make it impossible for people like me to give away the store.”

  MacLeod let that go for now. He needed Woodrich. There was no sense in making him less forthcoming with recriminations.

  “He’s pressuring you to find out about accessing the routers?”

  “No,” Woodrich murmured. “So he must have someone in our other department. Someone like me. A traitor.”

  “Can you access NSA files from here?” MacLeod asked, fishing in his pocket. “Can you identify this person?”

  He handed Woodrich Umeko Takahashi’s business card. Woodrich’s brows raised a fraction, perhaps at the description of her occupation. “I can get into some parts of the system.”

  “Let’s go,” MacLeod said.

  They reentered the apartment and went into the study. On the couch, Dawson raised his head and grunted from the effort. MacLeod looked at him anxiously.

  “I’m all right, Mac.”

  “You’re a lousy liar,” MacLeod shot back, smiling at him. No matter what else happened tonight, the fact that Dawson was relatively unhurt was enough to steady him.

  Woodrich picked up an overturned chair and cleared a space on the littered floor to set it down. The computer was already on. MacLeod wondered what sensitive secrets Joe’s attackers had managed to mine before Joe had surprised them.