by Tom Clancy
And a bunch of half-baked local radicals were about to discover that making threats against a United States embassy was an extremely stupid idea.
Friday, September 17th, 1:25 p.m. New York City
Luigi Sampson, Security Chief for Genaloni Industries, left the midtown Chinese restaurant, flanked by two bodyguards. Despite his position and ancestry, Sampson did not like Italian food. He did enjoy Chinese cuisine, however, and large amounts of it. For lunch, he had consumed an order of hot and spicy chicken, hard wheat noodles, sweet and sour pork, lemon duck and snow crab in peanut sauce, as well as two beers and three cups of tea. There had not been enough of the meal left to bother packing into little paper containers.
Sampson used a toothpick as he strolled toward his chauffeured automobile, parked illegally in front of the restaurant. He flicked bits of his meal into the air, to fall upon the sidewalk.
In the plain one-color, four-door sedan across the street, Ruzhyo looked at Winters, the driver, then at Grigory the Snake, seated in back. "Are we ready?"
"I am ready," the Snake said.
"Go to it, hoss."
The three of them wore identical charcoal suits, not too expensive ones, with shined black-leather shoes, dark sunglasses and new, short haircuts. In addition, each of them carried cards and badges that identified them as Special Agents of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. These IDs were, of course, forgeries, but the best that money could buy, and as such, would pass any examination up to destructive tests.
The license plate of the car had been switched, and the one it now wore had come from a vehicle currently parked in the FBI lot, not that far from where they now were.
The Snake still looked like a big, dumb Russian to Ruzhyo, even with his disguise, but there was no help for that. Besides, big dumb Russians and big dumb Americans looked much alike.
Winters was the best driver among them. It was his country, and he needed to stay at the wheel.
Ruzhyo adjusted the pistol in the holster behind his right hip. It was a SIG.40, a no-nonsense flat-black German combat weapon, very expensive and dependable, and was carried by many FBI agents. They looked the part, even the Snake.
"All right. Let us go."
Ruzhyo and Grigory the Snake alighted from the car and started across the street.
The bodyguards noticed them immediately. One of the guards said something to Sampson, who paused in picking his teeth, looked at the approaching men and grinned. He laughed and said something to his men. Ruzhyo could not hear, but he had an idea of what it might be. These men would have no love for their own federal authorities.
As Ruzhyo and the Snake drew near to the trio, Sampson said, "Good afternoon, boys. You guys're with the Bureau, right?" He smiled at the two guards, to show how adept he was at recognizing federal agents.
This was exactly as Plekhanov and Ruzhyo had planned.
Give people something close to what they expected and they would fool themselves, you did not need to say a word.
Ruzhyo affected the flat Midwestern American accent he had practiced. "Luigi Sampson? I'm Special Agent Arnold, this is Special Agent Johnson." He held his badge case up in his left hand to show the ID card and badge just as real agents did, always keeping their weapon hand clear. He nodded at the Snake, who glared at the bodyguards.
While their IDs were fake, the names were not — Agents Arnold and Johnson were assigned to the New York office. "We'd like you to come with us and answer a few questions."
"Sure thing, boys." To the nearer guard, Sampson said, "Verification?"
The bodyguard had a small computer flatscreen he tapped commands into. After a beat, he said, "They're on the list."
"Call the lawyers and the boss. Tell ‘em." Sampson flicked the toothpick into the air with his thumb and middle finger. "Third floor of the Federal Plaza, right?"
"That's the twenty-third floor, Mr. Sampson. You've been there before," Ruzhyo said.
Sampson's grin increased. He thought his crude test was enough. He was a fool, more so for believing he was clever. Wise men always left room for new things; fools thought they knew it all already. "Always glad to help out my government. Let's go."
In the back section of the car with the Snake, Sampson said, "So, what's it all about, boys?"
As Winters pulled away, Ruzhyo noted one of the bodyguards step into the street to make a note of their vehicle's license number. Good. He looked at Sampson. "You work for the Genaloni crime family. You have personally killed six men, and ordered the deaths of more than a dozen others. You and your ilk are responsible for drugs on the streets, prostitution, smuggling, gambling, other illegal activities too many to list."
"Whoa! That's slander, Agent, ‘cause it ain't true. I'm a security man for a legitimate company. Better be careful what you say — you could get sued, you know. Our lawyers don't have enough to do."
"You are criminal scum," Ruzhyo said. "And you will pay for it very soon."
Sampson laughed. "Good luck proving it, pal. Better men than you have tried." He leaned back into the seat, his face going hard. "I'll be back on the street in time for dinner."
"You will not," Ruzhyo said.
"Yeah? Well, you're stupid if you think that."
"No. You are the stupid one—you believe we are with the FBI."
The look on Sampson's face was a mix of fear and disbelief, but by then the Snake had his gun out and pressed it into the man's side. "And you would be extremely stupid to attempt to move," the Snake said. The Russian accent was so thick in his voice you could lean against it without falling.
"Jesus!" Sampson said.
"Afraid he ain't gonna be offering you much help, hoss," Winters said.
"What the hell is going on? Who are you? What do you want?"
"To feed the wolves a poisoned bait," Ruzhyo said.
The criminal frowned. He did not understand. Nor would he have time to worry over it. Fate had reached into the lottery basket and closed his cold hard fingers.
Luigi Sampson's number had been drawn.
10
Friday, September 17th, 2:30 p.m. New York City
Ray Genaloni was mad enough to kill somebody with his bare hands. The man who stood in front of his desk, one of Luigi's bodyguards, was not delivering good news and he was the only target of opportunity — but that would be a bad idea, to kill him. Instead, Ray kept his temper held down, as if pressing a lid on a boiling pot to keep the steam from escaping.
"Excuse me, Donald," Genaloni said, "but what exactly do you mean the FBI doesn't have him?"
"We sent the lawyers, Boss. The feds say they didn't pick up Luigi."
"But you and Randall say they did?"
"We had just come out of Chen's. There were two of ‘em, another one in the car. Luigi made them, and Randall and I know feds when we see them. Their IDs checked out, they are on the New York Bureau list, the car they were in had no-hit plates — which we ran through our police contacts and found they were blind-issued to the New York City FBI motor pool. They got him, all right."
"Then why are they telling the lawyers they never heard of him?"
Donald shook his head. "I don't know."
Genaloni sat silent for maybe fifteen seconds. He saw the bodyguard's sweat. Good. Let him be nervous. Finally, he said, "That's all. Go find something to do."
After the bodyguard left, Genaloni sat and stared at the wall. What the hell were the feds up to? Why were they putting the squeeze on him? Luigi was stand-up, they could threaten him with anything they wanted and he wouldn't give them shit, but We-ain't-got-him was a new game. And it was one he didn't like. They were up to something and whatever it was, he didn't fucking like it.
Fine. They want to play cloak-and-dagger? No problem. He had a knife sharp enough to shave with just sitting around doing nothing. All he had to do was reach out and grab it. We'll just see about this crap.
He picked up his phone. "Scramble, code two-four-three-five, Sunshine," he said.
He punched in a number.
We'll just see about this crap.
* * *
"I understand," Mora Sullivan said, knowing her voice would not give her away.
She waved the phone off, stood and began a measured pacing.
Three steps this way, turn, three steps back, turn, then repeat, as she began to assimilate the assignment. The Selkie did not sit and meditate. Yes, she could be still when necessary, when the stalk required it, but at this stage the Selkie thought best when she moved, when she was on her feet, exploring avenues, watching for side roads, scheming.
She could become anything, anybody, and the world was her chew toy, but this would be a dangerous one. There could be no room for error. Nearly always on her assignments there was wiggle room, space for small mistakes. Though she never left anything undone if she knew about it, there had been occasions when she had made errors. Tiny things, those errors, not wide pathways upon which a pursuer could have traveled to catch her. But now and then, she had missed something. She was the best, but even the best could overlook some bit of business, realizing it only afterward, when it was beyond her control to repair.
Step, step, step, turn—
People had not noticed the little clues she had accidentally dropped, because most people never thought to look for them. And eventually the links had rusted away under time and weather, become no more than stains on her trail, small, dark blotches that offered nothing to normal vision.
But this time? This time there would be a microscope turned upon her actions. Police officers, no matter what their organization, were special cases. First and foremost, the police protected their own. The message was simple: You may do many heinous acts and escape, but killing a cop is not one of these acts. Do so, and you rise to the top of the list, never to be removed until you are caught or killed — preferably killed. Sullivan knew this. Her father had been one of those who had gunned down a policeman, and paid for that with his own life. The policemen who had caught him had executed him, and it had been no chore for the killers to justify their revenge, no chore at all.
Step, step, step, turn—
Killing her target would not be the problem. That was the easy part. An assassin who was willing to be caught or to die herself could pretty much take out anybody in the public eye, from the President on down.
Getting away with such an assassination was another thing. Especially when the best and brightest lights of the top anticrime organization in the world would be shined into your escape tunnel. There would be no wiggle room on this one, no errors permitted. The smallest clue would be found, magnified, analyzed, tested, followed.
The thought was both scary and attractive. The Selkie thrived on the risk. She enjoyed epinephrine as if it were a fine wine, savoring the jolt it gave. The truth was, she could walk away tomorrow and live a long and well-supplied life. Once you had more than a few million working for you, you didn't really need more. She had a goal and she would reach it because she always reached her goals, but she was self-aware enough to realize that for her, the game was as important as the get. And this would be a challenge. She'd never deleted an FBI agent before, especially one who was head of a sub-agency.
Step, step, step, turn.
So, the plan would require a meticulous surveillance, an undivided attention to every possible problem and enough time to make certain everything was covered. Everything.
Before she left, she would take on a new identity. She would become a woman who belonged in Washington, D.C., who had reason to be near her target, who would pass any inspection if necessary.
Sullivan stopped pacing, and grinned to herself. Already, the adrenaline bubbled in her, made her skin and muscles tight, gave her breathtaking rushes.
She was a creature of the were. She could change her look as easily as some people changed their clothes, could become anything she wished.
Already the Selkie's metamorphosis had begun.
Saturday, September 18th, 4:19 p.m. Los Angeles
Ruzhyo stood on the moving walkway at the Los Angeles Airport, heading for the car-rental pickup. According to the pilot, the temperature outside was nearly body heat. It might be fall, but summer was not done with this country — it had been almost that warm on the East Coast when he'd boarded his flight.
The business in New York had gone well. Less than twenty-four hours after they had kidnapped him, Luigi Sampson was no more.
Well, Ruzhyo thought, that was not strictly true. The chopped-up pieces of the criminal were by this point a semiliquid goo inside a large, glass-lined holding tank filled with a very strong acid. It had been necessary for the Snake to carve the dead man into sections small enough to fit through a pressure-valve opening atop the containment vessel, a chore that affected Grigory not in the least. He had an uncle who was a butcher, and had worked in his uncle's shop summers before entering the military. The tank was for storage of a corrosive used in etching steel at a metal-finishing plant in New Jersey. The solution, of which the criminal was fast becoming a part, was generally used in small amounts; by the time the workers got around to tapping the tank for their work — the second of two such storage vessels — the late Luigi Sampson would be merely organic contaminants, and unlikely to be noticed save as perhaps a slight discoloration as he was sprayed with the acid over masked sections of steel plate.
The acid was very strong. But to be certain, the Snake had hammered out all of the dead man's teeth, and the American Winters had sprinkled these teeth one by one over the side of a ferry to Staten Island, interspersed with handfuls of popcorn he had thrown to the seagulls that followed the ferry.
The FBI disguises were likewise no more. The IDs and clothes had been burned and the ashes flushed away; the badges had been pounded to flat scrap and put into a metal-recycler station. The car's plates had been switched back, the automobile itself returned to the agency from which it had been rented with more fake identification. The guns had been wiped clean, packaged, marked "Rock Samples," then mailed to a large post office box rented to a nonexistent person in Tucson, Arizona, where they would sit until the rental expired or the post office tried to find the box holder, whichever occurred first, and months away in any case. Disposable items, all.
Such a ruse would not work again — the Genaloni organization would now be alerted. But it was not necessary.
It was remotely possible that the bodyguards might be offered pictures of the real agents Ruzhyo and Zmeya had impersonated, but it was most unlikely. Genaloni's suspicion and natural distrust of the authorities would be enhanced, and he would not turn to them for aid in finding his man even if he did believe them, which he would not. The crime boss would not pursue the matter with the federal authorities, and they, in turn, having other things to do, would quickly forget about it.
The FBI would think Genaloni had killed one of his own. And Genaloni would think the FBI was out to get him. The former was incorrect, but the latter was now true. Genaloni, according to the research Plekhanov had supplied, was not a patient man. He would likely do something rash. And if he did not, then Ruzhyo would do it for him — or at least it would seem so.
Giving one's enemy something else about which to worry was an old but still useful device. Plekhanov knew history well, and he was a master manipulator. A good man to have on one's side in a conflict. A bad man to have as an opponent.
There were other small things Ruzhyo and his crew could do to further harass both Net Force and the criminal family they had set upon each other, small things, but each adding a bit more to the load.
Sooner or later, even the strongest camel will collapse under one more additional straw added to its load.
It was Ruzhyo's job to supply the straws.
Sunday, September 19th, 2:30 a.m. Kiev
John Howard was just a little peeved at the CIA station chief. Morgan Hunter was maybe forty-five, hair gone gray, but still in pretty good shape, to judge from the fit of his
suit and the way he moved. And he'd been a Company man for twenty-odd years, had worked in Chile, done a stint in Beirut, then in Moscow after the breakup, before landing here. So he ought to know his business.
"I'm sorry, Colonel, but what can I say? None of our contacts among the local radicals have squat on this, outside of the original reports. We haven't been able to run it down."
"The clock is ticking, Mr. Hunter."
They were in the small conference room in the sub-basement, a room Howard had been given for his operation. There were landline phones, computers, printers, television monitors and other such impedimenta on the tables and walls.
The CIA man gave him a superior smile. "I am aware of that, Colonel. We wound the clock, so we know. As you might recall, we brought it to your agency's attention in the first place. An agency that is here more or less by our invitation, sir."
Howard was making ready to reply when Julio Fernandez entered the room. He gave the colonel an uncalled-for snappy salute and said, "Sir, we might have something."
"Go ahead, Sergeant."
Fernandez glanced at Hunter, then back at his commanding officer. Howard had to work to keep his own grin in check. The look said much, not the least of which was: Is it okay to talk in front of this jerk, sir?
Hunter caught it, and his jaw muscles flexed.
"Sir, Lucy — that's Lucy Jansen, Third Team — made, uh, friends with one of the guys on the short list." He handed Howard the list with a name circled in red. As Howard looked at the name, Fernandez continued. "Guy speaks German, so does she, so that gave them something in common. They, ah, connected in a local bar and after five or six glasses of vodka, the guy let it slip about having an old wire-guided missile launcher he was gonna have a chance to use real soon."