by Tom Clancy
For a seemingly endless moment the cab remained stationary, and Max was sure the driver wasn’t going to bite at his offer. Then he saw him push down the lever of the meter to start it running, and expelled a sigh of relief.
Her face bewildered and terrified, Kirsten shifted around in her seat as the taxi angled from the curb, staring at him through the rear window.
Their eyes met briefly, his narrow and resolute, hers moist with tears … and then the taxi joined the heavy flow of northbound traffic, and was gone.
It was the last they ever saw of each other.
Max heard a short, frustrated breath escape the man that had taken hold of his right forearm.
“You come with me, kambing,” he hissed, and tightened his grip. His lips were against Max’s ear, his body pressing up behind him.
Max didn’t budge. The man’s partner had jogged after the cab for several yards, then been forced to get out of the way of speeding traffic, scrambled back onto the sidewalk, and turned around—but he hadn’t yet returned to where they were standing.
Which left Max with a small but workable opening.
Moving with reflexive swiftness, he brought his left arm around in front of him, reaching across his middle, shifting his weight onto his right leg to pull his captor sharply toward him. As the man staggered forward with one hand still clamped over Max’s forearm, Max put his free hand over it, gripped three of its fingers, and bent them back hard.
The man released him with a gasp of pain and surprise, struggling to regain his balance.
Max moved away from him and wheeled in a full circle, glancing up and down the street. A few nearby pedestrians had paused to gawk at the scuffle, but most were hustling past as if they hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Maybe they really had not, or maybe they were just mindful that, however prosperous, Singapore was still a dictatorship where it was best to mind one’s own business.
Either way, he had more urgent concerns. The magazine reader was coming at him from the left, and now he had the jaywalker for company. A third member of the strike team was hustling toward him from the right. Counting the man he’d just shaken off, and the man who had been chasing the cab—both of whom were behind Max—the odds against him were at least five to one.
The only direction left open was straight ahead, toward the hotel.
He ran across the sidewalk and bounded up the stairs to its entrance.
Max cut a line through the lobby without a backward glance. He was acquainted with its layout from his regular stays in UpLink’s long-term guest suites, and he knew what he was looking for. To the rear of the desk and main lounge area was a bank of elevators and, on their right, a short, straight corridor leading to a service entrance. Beyond that, a stairwell that would presumably take him down to the basement and loading doors. No hotel security guards on duty, or at least none in sight… and he’d been hoping their presence might turn aside his pursuers. Still, if he could reach the service entrance before his pursuers caught up to him—a big “if” since they’d been following right on his heels—he’d be able to shake them by ducking out the side of the hotel.
Max saw a clot of new arrivals making a commotion at the checkin desk, German tourists from the sound of them. Hoping for momentary cover, he plunged into the noisy, milling group, then moved on past the entrances to the hotel dance club and bar, past the elevators, and over toward the service entrance, still not looking back over his shoulder—no time for that, no time at all.
The gray metal door was slightly recessed from the wall and had a pane of wired glass set into it at eye level. No one was anywhere near it. Max turned the knob with his left hand, pushed the door open with the flat of his right, went through, and stepped from carpeting to bare concrete.
Blackburn took a hurried look around—narrow flights of stairs ran up and down from where he stood on a wide landing. He started toward the descending stairs, but got no further than the end of the landing before the door crashed open behind him, a hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he was pulled backward with tremendous wrenching force.
Max caught hold of the rail an instant before he would have gone stumbling off his feet. He whirled on whoever had grabbed him, found himself standing with a butterfly knife pressed against his throat.
“Come with me.” It was Jaywalker. Facing him from inches away, his fist clenched around the weapon’s double handle. ”Now.”
Blackburn met his gaze and saw no hint of human emotion in it, only a sort of cold, vortical emptiness. Then he heard muffled footsteps and broke eye contact, switching his attention to the door pane. Magazine Man and two others were approaching from the outer hall. They would burst through onto the landing within seconds. And there was still nobody else around.
Blackburnstood motionless. His hands at his sides.The blade against the right side of his throat, less than an inch below the ear, where it could easily slice into his carotid artery. Blood trickled down from where its razor edge had broken his skin.
His mind raced. He was carrying a Heckler & Koch MK23 in a concealment holster against his waist, but his assailant wasn’t going to give him the chance to draw it. He was in the most vulnerable position he could imagine, and the close quarters left precious little room to maneuver.
So what, then?
He didn’t have a split second to waste debating it with himself. Sweeping his left arm up from his side, he slammed the outer part of his forearm against the back of Jaywalker’s knife hand, knocking the blade away from his throat, then grabbing his wrist to keep him from bringing it back up. Caught by surprise. Jaywalker tried to tear free, but Blackburn held fast to him, bringing his knee up into his groin. Jaywalker doubled over, gasping for air, his knife clattering to the floor. Max moved in closer and followed with a rapid combination of punches to the head—left cross, right jab, left hook. Gasping for breath, his nose and lips bleeding. Jaywalker staggered back against the rail. Max didn’t relent for a heartbeat. His chin tucked low in a boxer’s stance, he hit his opponent with another smashing blow to the side of his face, putting all his weight into it, wanting to take him out before he could recover… and before his friends came to his assistance.
But he only got half of what he wanted. As Jaywalker dropped to the floor in an unconscious heap, the fire door winged open and the others bolted through onto the landing. The one in the lead was small and wire-thin, wearing a baggy tan shirt, chinos, and Oakley sunglasses. Running up behind him. Magazine Man was perhaps a head taller and a good deal bulkier.
It was Oakley that proved to be trouble of a sort Max never could have seen coming.
^ He was reaching for his gun when Oakley dropped into a low squat, and, spinning on one leg, snapped the other leg out parallel to the floor, the side of his foot striking Max’s ankle with shocking impact as the kick reached the end of its arc. Caught completely off guard by the move, firebolts jagging up to his knee. Max went staggering, fumbled for the rail, was unable to grab it this time, and tumbled down the stairs.
He rolled twice, somehow keeping his right hand fastened around the butt of his semi-auto, his other arm twisting underneath him as he threw it out to brace his fall. He hit the lower landing with an audible crash, winced, a huge flare of pain suffusing his entire left side.
There was little doubt he’d seriously injured his shoulder blade, perhaps even fractured it.
He still had his gun, though. Still had the blessed thing cocked and ready in his fist.
Rocking onto his back, he saw Oakley hurtling down toward the landing, toward him, coming on like a goddamned homing missile. The funneling, empty look hadn’t left his eyes. Aware he’d be finished if his shot went awry. Max brought up the pistol, aimed dead center at his attacker’s rib cage, and squeezed the trigger.
The report was oddly flat and unechoing in the concrete stairwell, but its effect was nonetheless dramatic. Blood and shreds of material blew from the front of Oakley’s shirt as the heavy .45 ACP slug tore into him. His sunglasses whirle
d off his head and smacked against the wall. He sailed backward as if suddenly having been switched into reverse, his arms flailing, his eyes wide and unbelieving. Then he sprawled limply onto the stairs.
Max glanced past his body at the upper landing, saw that Magazine Man had slipped a hand under his baggy shirt, and fired again before he could pull whatever the hell he was reaching for.
There was another flat thud from his gun muzzle, another explosion of crimson, and Magazine Man went down clutching his chest.
Blackburn knew he’d only gained a brief reprieve, and struggled to a sitting position. The three men he’d overcome couldn’t have been too far ahead of the rest of his attackers. If they’d stayed in contact with them—which was likely—the others would be coming through the door at any moment.
His situation was going to get worse, much worse, once they did.
He needed to move fast.
Max got to his feet, grasping the rail with one hand to support his weight. His ankle and shoulder wailed from their injuries. He looked up and down the basement corridor into which he’d fallen, saw large double doors perhaps ten or fifteen feet over to his right, and made a snap decision to see where they led.
He boosted himself off the rail with a small gasp of exertion, reached his goal with a few limping steps.
Suddenly there was a loud crash—the staii-well door flying open behind him.
Then footsteps.
Banging down the stairs.
Max felt a thrill of renewed urgency. It wasn’t hard to visualize the newcomers’ reactions when they saw what he’d done to their friends. They would not be pleased, to say the least.
He pushed the whole length of his body against the metal lock bar, and the doors opened out. Weak daylight flooded over him. Ahead was a loading ramp that rose to a short alley lined with Dumpsters. A delivery truck was parked at the curb at the mouth of the alley. The word *‘New Bridge Linens” painted across its flank in English, a delivery man on the driver’s side of the cab.
Max paused. Saw that the delivery man’s head was craned so he could peer out the passenger window. Saw the expression of menacing scrutiny on his features. And realized he’d been about to go running straight toward his opponents’ getaway vehicle.
The delivery man turned toward his door, threw it open, and emerged from the truck, hurrying around its front grille toward the alley. Max could tell at a glance that he was enormous, and did not feel like having to take him on. In the best of conditions it would be a tough fight, and he was far from at his best right now. His gun upraised in his right hand, he withdrew into the doorway, grabbed the lock bar with his left hand, and hauled back on it, praying he could find another way out before his pursuers overtook him—
Exquisite pain sliced through his right arm all at once. It jerked into the air as if snagged on a fishing line, jerked out of his control, the semi-auto flying from his fingers. A harsh breath escaped Max’s lips as he glanced incredulously down at himself and saw that something had caught onto him below the elbow, tearing through his jacket sleeve, actually sinking into his flesh—a kind of metal grappling hook at the end of a thin chain, what he believed was a goddamned martial arts weapon the Chinese called a flying claw. The man grasping its handle ring, his stare devoid of mercy, could have been Oakley’s twin.
The double doors flung wide open behind Max. With his peripheral vision he saw the bulking figure of the man move up on his left.
He desperately gripped the tautened chain with his good hand and struggled to tear it loose, but the claw wasn’t coming out, the claw had gouged too deeply into his arm, the claw was buried inside him.
My God, who are these guys? he thought, his blood streaming thickly from his wound, dripping over the chain to the floor. The man at the other end of the weapon holding onto it like someone engaged in a deadly tug of war. Who — ?
Before he could finish asking himself the question, the driver’s massive hand swung out at his temple and the world exploded into blinding whiteness and then went black.
EIGHT
NEW YORK CITY / PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 19, 2000
FROM THE WALL STREET JOURNAL:
Industry Focus: Roger Gordian’s Growingy Failing Monstrosity
BY REYNOLD ARMITAGE
There is drama in the numbers: by its own accounting estimates UpLink’s earnings have fallen 18% in the past year, the largest slide in its third consecutive quarter of decline. Its stock prices continue to drop at an even more precipitous rate, having closed the week by falling $15.4656 to $45.7854 a share on Big Board composite volume of 100 million shares, a decHne of 25%. As a result of these losses the corporation’s market value has plunged by about $9 billion, considerably below even the gloomiest of analysts’ predictions and raising new questions about whether the high-tech giant can support its heavy investment in a global “personal communications satellite” network—one requiring the launch of about 50 LEOs and 40 gateway stations around the world, for a total investment of over $3 billion over the next five years.
There is drama in the numbers, but the entire story is more complicated than they reveal upon first examination. Certainly the defense and communications operations at the heart of Roger Gordian’s past success desperately need to have the causes of their ill health diagnosed and remedied. But to completely understand the forces bringing down his parent company, one must look at the poor track records of its spawn. To offer but a few examples: the lackluster performance of UpLink’s specialty automotive subsidiary, the chronic profit drain of its medical devices and power generation divisions, and the recent Dow losses suffered by its computer hardware and software offshoots due almost entirely to Gordian’s imperious and unreasonable decree against the sale of cryptographic technology to emerging overseas markets. Indeed, the catalog of failures and borderline failures for what had been one of America‘s leading companies seems endless.
Unease runs deep among investors, who fear that Roger Gordian has created a patchwork monster, a multi-limbed aberration whose lifeblood is being diverted away from its corporate center to sustain its unwieldy reach. To be blunt, as UpLink’s once highly valued stock continues to lose ground, it becomes less critical to ask whether its problems are due to hubris, inattention, or simple bad judgment on the part of its executives, and fitting to state the obvious bottom line—its board has failed to uphold its basic fiduciary responsibility to shareholders, namely guaranteeing a premium return on their investments.
Let us pause here to consider an image of cojoined or “Siamese” twins— better yet, make them triplets—their bodies connected by an implacable tube of flesh, nerves, and intertwined blood vessels. In the cradle, they coo and embrace. As young adolescents they plan for a future that seems a bright, infinite frontier.
But adulthood brings change and discord. One of them grows to enjoy composing gentle romantic poetry. Another’s great pleasures are drinking and arm-wrestling in rowdy taverns. The third simply likes to fish in the sun. Miscreated, mismatched, and miserable, they try to reach some lifestyle accommodation, equally dividing their time between preferred pursuits, but their basic incompatibihty of nature causes all three to fail.
The poet cannot write because the long nights in hard bars make soft, lyrical thoughts impossible, and because he suffers hangovers from the alcohol flowing through their common bloodstream. The prodigal grows depressed and contrary while his versifying brother struggles to focus on the intricacies of rhyme and meter. Their constant arguing exhausts the fisherman, so that he merely sleeps away his mornings by the stream, and his rod frequently drops from his fingers to be dragged off into the water by a darting bass or trout, gone with a splash.
Eventually the three brothers wane and perish. The cause stated on their death certificates? One does not know the medical term, but perhaps it might rightly be called overdiversification.
What can be done to spare UpLink from a similar demise? For answers we might contrast the untena
ble general-ism of its expansion to the cautious, focused growth of Monolith Technologies. …
Although it wasn’t yet time for the reception to conclude, Marcus Caine was feeling bored and stuffy-headed in the packed United Nations chamber. From his place at the dais, he sat staring past exotic floral arrangements at a profusion of television cameras, cables, floodlights, and microphone booms, all manipulated by a crew of scurrying technicians. Behind him was a large collapsible backdrop showing the U.N. symbol, a globe viewed from the North Pole and surrounded by olive branches. Because this was a UNICEF event, there was the added touch of a woman holding a young child in the center of the globe. Caine’s wife, Odielle, sat quietly at his right, her face thin and clamped. On either side of them were officers of the organization’s Executive Board and high-ranking members of its parent body, the Economic and Social Council. Below him, rows of interpreters in headsets were translating their insipid, windy speeches into six languages.
As the current speaker droned away about Caine’s philanthropic largesse, he absently glanced down the length of the table at Arcadia Foxcroft, Lady Arcadia, his connection to the Secretariat, and the woman who had arranged the ongoing event. Wanting to stop his mind from drifting off entirely, he stared at her, made her his fixed point of concentration. It wasn’t hard. She had the sort of face one would expect to see on a fashion model’s head-shot—exciting, glamorous, provocative. Her peach-colored dress accented a spectacular figure. Lively blue eyes flashing, delicate lips parting over perfect white teeth, she was having a conversation with the fellow next to her, laughing at something he’d said. Though he couldn’t hear the laughter from his seat, Caine was very familiar with the sound of it.
Somehow it always made him think of sharpened glass.