by Tom Clancy
He said as much to Fernandez.
Fernandez laughed.
"What?"
"Oh, I was just imagining what the commander of the British armies must have said to his field officers toward the end of the Revolutionary War: ‘What? A bunch of out-of-shape gutter-scum with big ideas and almost no strategic or tactical experience just kicked the shit out of His Majesty's finest? How could we have possibly lost to rabble like that?' "
Howard chuckled. Fernandez had a way of putting a spin on things you wouldn't expect from a noncom who'd earned his rockers the hard way. And the posh British accent just added to it. And he had a point. The terrorists could have been more adept. The blood on the warehouse floor could have been that of his troops. There was always that possibility.
"Thing is, John, the glory might be a bit thin on this one, but a win is a win. That's why we went, ain't it?"
"Yeah. You're right."
"Damn, and me without a tape recorder? Can I wake up some witnesses for the colonel to repeat that, sir? The me-being-right part?"
"To what are you are referring, Sergeant? I don't recall saying any such thing."
"That's what I thought, sir." He grinned. "Guess I'll see if I can catch a few winks."
"Good night, Julio. Thanks."
"Sir. And if it is any consolation, I got a feeling this won't be the last episode in this particular war. Next time might be different."
Howard watched his best man amble toward a row of empty seats. Yes. There was always that. A small battle did not a war make.
Wednesday, September 29th, 10:54 p.m. Portland, Oregon
Ruzhyo watched the front door of McCormick's Restaurant. The place was away from the main section of town, toward one of the bedroom communities to the west. It specialized in fish. The food was supposedly excellent, and it looked to be so from his brief visit to reconnoiter earlier. It was the best restaurant near the company that produced one of the fastest computer chips for home use, a company just up the road in Beaverton, a town named after the dam-building aquatic mammal.
Ruzhyo sat in the rental car across the street, parked in the shadows of a sign in front of a Korean travel agency. Sixty-two meters away from the door, according to the Ranging optical tape, an easy distance. The car was a full-sized one with a large engine, though he did not think he would need the power for his escape. With both eyes open, he looked through the large aperture of the Bushnell HOLOsight. What he saw was an unmagnified image of the door with a glowing red crosshair superimposed upon it. The scope was a state-of-the-art gunsight; unlike a laser, it emitted no light to the front, and thus did not reveal the user. The scope had cost more than the weapon upon which it rode, a 30–06 bolt-action Winchester deer rifle, itself an excellent piece of equipment. He had bought the sight at a gun store in San Diego; the rifle he'd purchased in Sacramento, second-hand, from an advertisement in a newspaper. He had assembled the rifle and scope, and sighted the weapon in at a rock quarry along an old logging road west of Forest Grove, Oregon.
With the sighted-in rifle, Ruzhyo could shoot consistently into a circle made with his thumb and forefinger out to a hundred meters. More than sufficient.
He had considered using a suppressor on the rifle, but the projectile would break the sound barrier and make a loud crack after it left the barrel anyway, so there was really no point in trying to damp the noise. Besides, in these conditions, the shot would echo, seeming to come from everywhere. And even if they knew exactly where he was, it would mean little. Executives of the local computer company did not go forth armed, nor with bodyguards. There had never been any need. Nor would there likely be a need after this night, though it was unlikely they would believe it to be so.
By the time police arrived, Ruzhyo would be miles away. He had three escape routes mapped out in his mind, and all included quick stops where he would not be seen, where he could lose the rifle. He wore waterproof thinskin synsilk gloves — there would be no prints or fluids left on the scope, rifle or bullets inside the weapon.
He glanced at his watch. Just after eleven, local time. The party had been in the restaurant nearly two hours. Their vehicles were parked in the front. The diners would be in sight for plenty of time.
He lowered the weapon.
Eight minutes later, the door to the restaurant opened.
Ruzhyo put the silicone earplugs into his ears. The sound of a high-powered rifle shot inside an automobile could easily destroy unprotected eardrums.
Six men emerged, talking, laughing, taking their time.
Ruzhyo raised the rifle. He took a deep breath, let half of it out, held the rest. He clicked the safety off, lined the glowing crosshairs up on the second man in the group, put the sight picture on the man's forehead, right between the eyes…
He squeezed off the shot.
With a rifle, you don't hear the one that kills you.
The man was dead before the sound of the bullet reached him.
Ruzhyo put the rifle down on the floor of the car and started the engine. He pulled out of the travel agency's parking lot and drove away. Traffic was light this time of the evening. He was half a mile away, at the entrance to the elevated freeway, when the first police car flew past, lights flashing, siren wailing, going toward the restaurant.
He did not look back. There was no need. Nobody was following him.
20
Thursday, September 30th, 8:01 a.m. Grozny
"You have another call, Dr. Plekhanov," Sasha shouted from the outer office. The intercom still operated only sporadically, but that hardly mattered now. "Mr. Sikes, from Bombay Municipal Systems."
Plekhanov smiled. The phone had certainly been busy the last couple of days. Exactly as he'd expected it would be.
The plantings were beginning to bear fruit. After the computer foul-ups had killed hundreds of people in Bombay, those in charge would have called Bertrand, the second-rate programmer who had installed their security system. And while even Bertrand was skilled enough to see what had been done, he would be unable to offer a guarantee that he could stop it from being done again. So they had called Plekhanov — whom they should have called originally — and why, yes, he could most assuredly guarantee them that no such security breach would happen if he installed a new protective system. Of course he could make that assurance: There were only a handful of programmers expert enough to slip his wards, only one who would bother, and that one's interests—his interests — would best be served if the system stayed unbreached.
Given how people worried over such incidences, it would take only one or two more assaults on the stoplights and buses of big cities before most — if not all of them — came running to Plekhanov for his help. So by the time the movers and shakers of the municipal transportation systems for all of Asia's major cities met for their annual get-together later this year in Guangzhou, China, most of them would be in Plekhanov's camp. He would, after all, do excellent work for them, at better than reasonable prices. They would all owe him. They would all want to keep him happy, so as to avoid suffering fates similar to those unlucky enough to be the victims of what had to be terrorists. Who would bother to rascal a transportation computer save a terrorist? Where was the profit?
"Hello?"
"Vladimir? Bill Sikes, Bombay Transport."
"Ah, Bill, how are you?"
"Not so good. You heard about our problem?"
"Yes, I am afraid so. A terrible thing. I am so sorry."
"Yes, well, that milk is spilt, but we don't want to lose any more. Can you help us out?"
"But of course, Bill. Of course I'll help."
"Another call!" Sasha yelled from her desk. "From Korea!"
Plekhanov leaned back in his chair. His smile was truly a happy one.
Thursday, September 30th, 8:15 a.m. Washington, D.C.
Tyrone Howard met his friend Jimmy Joe in the strip club called Big Boobs. It was off-limits to boys their age, and neither of them were within years of being old enough to be there, but th
ey wore adult personas and had enough skill to pass a casual scan. Slipping into an R-rated VR room in a public newsforum was something anybody with half a brain could do. All you could see was naked women here; the XXX-rooms were harder to sneak into, and besides, Tyrone didn't want to risk that. His parents would flay him if they found out, and since his dad worked with a player like Jay Gee, he could find out if he wanted.
"So, Jimmy Joe, you scan anything?"
"No mucho, spiderboy. Lotta strand-poppin' on the FEN, though."
Tyrone nodded. Far East Net had been DFB — data flowin' bad — the last few days. He'd seen that himself. The mad programmer was kicking serious ass there.
On the stage in front of a flashing light show and a driving bass beat, a tall blue-eyed brunette showed the audience that her hair color was natural. Boom, bop-a boom! He stared. She smiled at him, not knowing that his appearance was a fake. Of course, her appearance could be fake, too. She might be a sixty-year-old fat man.
If you were hunting for truth, VR wasn't the best place to look for it.
"I'm gonna hit the OHTs and see if there's any feedback," Jimmy Joe said. "You just know some wirehead with a strainer program and no life is catching minnows. Maybe one of them can lead us to the big fish."
"Scan and download that," Tyrone said. The brunette stripper had left the stage. A new one came out. Well, well, look at that: Belladonna Wright herself. This was Jimmy Joe's doing, the override and image-craft such that the new woman wore Bella's face and body. No way would Tyrone risk that, even in VR. If Bonebreaker found out, that would be… bad.
"I'm gonna ride," Tyrone said.
Jimmy Joe grinned real big. He made the sound of a chicken clucking: "Buck-buck-buck-buuucckk!"
"You right about that. I'm not ready to spend six weeks regenerating bone tissue, monkey-boy. Especially for an overlay that even isn't real."
"Your loss," Jimmy Joe said. "Who is gonna know?"
"Only takes two words in Bonebreaker's ear and you're pretzel-boy."
Jimmy Joe shrugged. "Better to burn it than bank it." He turned to watch the ersatz Bella shuck her costume.
"Me, I'm ridin'," Tyrone said. But he sneaked a quick look as he headed for the door.
Maybe he'd take a pass at CyberNation, see what was up there.
Thursday, September 30th, 8:20 a.m. Quantico
Parked in the Viper across the street, Jay Gridley watched Tyrone Howard leave the strip joint. The boy didn't see him. He smiled. The colonel had asked him to check up on his son from time to time, and Gridley didn't mind doing so, but he wouldn't mention this. Teenage boys were curious, and a VR stripper was a lot less dangerous than some of the stuff a kid could get himself involved with, on- or off-line. If a teenage boy wasn't interested in looking at a naked woman, that would be the time for his father to get worried.
No harm, no foul.
Tyrone mounted his Harley and roared away. Gridley watched him leave before he started the Viper's motor. He had plenty of other stuff to worry about.
Thursday, September 30th, 11:55 a.m. Quantico
Toni Fiorella stretched in the gym, warming up her knees. She looked up and saw Rusty enter. He waved at her. He was already dressed to work out.
He was a pretty good student. Very flexible, if a bit too much addicted to speed and power, neither of which were necessary in bukti negara. If he got to the serak, he could use that, but that was years away, if he stuck to it. So far, at least, he had shown up for every practice, and his moves indicated he'd been practicing on his own. He was still a little leery of working close, he kept wanting to distance himself too much for the proper working of the techniques, but that would level out with time.
"Hey, Guru."
"Rusty. Let's get started."
He nodded. He stood with his feet apart, his hands by his side, palms forward, fingers pointed at the ground.
Unlike some of the traditional Japanese styles, there were only a handful of Indonesian terms you had to know to practice her version of silat; one was the word for "on guard." "Jagah," she said.
She mirrored Rusty's pose. Her guru was right. Teaching helped sharpen your own skills. You had to think about things, get them right in your own head, before you passed them along. The ceremonial bow, something she had been doing for years, was a good example. For her, it was automatic, one long and smooth piece, but for a beginner, it was a series of small moves, and each move had a meaning:
I present myself before the Creator in the beginning—
The left foot came in, next to and slightly in front of the right foot, knees bent, hands moved to the left side, by the hip, palms down, left over right.
I present myself to the best of my ability in the knowledge of the Art—
The hands came up and out together as in supplication, palms up, almost as if holding a book. The right hand folded into a fist, the left hand wrapped around the right, both came back toward the chest.
I ask to receive from the Creator all those things which I do not see—
Another book-reading move, open hands coming back to cover the eyes.
— to engrave upon my heart—
The hands pressed together in namaste, the classic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart.
— until the end.
And the final move, a repeat of the second, the palm-down block by the left hip.
"Do your djuru, please," she said.
Rusty nodded, and began Djuru One.
It was the simplest of the dances, but from it, everything more complex arose. A metaphor for life, she had come to realize.
Thursday, September 30th, 12:30 p.m. Quantico
The Selkie bought a Coke, sweet-and-sour chicken, and sticky rice from the Chinese place the target sometimes rode his trike to for lunch. It was a warm day, a little breeze keeping the humidity bearable, and she sat at one of the small white wrought-iron tables just outside the restaurant. She wore a baggy gray T-shirt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. The wig she affected was brunette, and even with most of it stuffed under the cap, was enough to add to her changed appearance so that she didn't look much like anybody the target had ever seen.
There he came on the raked three-wheeler, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck reflecting the hazy sunshine.
She opened the cardboard containers and dumped the chicken and rice together onto a paper plate. She stirred the combination with the split-apart-throw-away chopsticks, allowed the sauce to soak into the rice. There were a dozen other diners outside enjoying their lunches and the day, and she did not make eye contact with any of them, or the target.
The target parked the trike, pulled his gloves and helmet off and hung them on the handlebar, then walked into the restaurant. His legs were tight, pumped from the ride. The spandex shorts hid little an interested viewer might want to look at. And it was interesting. She was not a nun, though she put sex aside when she was working. Mora Sullivan could roll and break beds if she felt like it; the Selkie could not afford the risk.
It had not always been that way. Once, early in her career, she had picked up a target in a bar. He'd been a good-looking man, and she'd gone with him to his hotel and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter.
When he fell into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she had taken a silenced.22 pistol from her purse and shot him twice in the back of the head.
He'd never known what hit him, and at the time, she'd felt pleased with herself. She had made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to do so than making love to a passionate woman, falling asleep, and never waking up.
It had been foolish, what she had done. She had left hair and fluids at the murder scene, had been seen by hotel staff, even though she had been in disguise. Nothing had come of it — it was years past, the file long since buried — but it had been stupid. Another time, another place, and the target here might be fun to romp around with, but she was not willing to ri
sk capture to be sentimental.
She ate the chicken. She'd had better. Had worse, too.
Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.
The Selkie smiled.
21
Friday, October 1st, 7 a.m. Kiev
Kiev had several decent restaurants, but the breakfast was catered in a private suite at the new Hilton hotel, not far from the banks of the beautiful Dnieper, in a site formerly occupied by a theater and row of shops. Unlike a public restaurant, such a suite could be — and had been — swept for electronic listening devices. The sixth-floor windows could be — and were — rigged with simple vibrators that would defeat a hidden laser reader aimed at them from half a block away. The food servers had been dismissed, the doors locked, the secrets thus kept among the players. Not that anybody would likely be spying upon them. Nobody outside this room had a real clue as to what was going on inside it. But one erred on the side of caution, always.
Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quantities, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.
They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldn't have expected coffee this good in such a place.
"You all have your new transfer numbers?" Plekhanov asked.
There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.