by Tom Clancy
"Yes," they said simultaneously.
Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inconsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.
Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.
Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once they'd been…
"Comrade Plekhanov?" the woman said.
"Yes?" This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called "comrade" in a long time — not in the way she meant the word.
"There has been some… difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are passed."
"Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool." That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. He'd retired as a major before going into politics.
"You are also a Cossack, Yemelyan." Khomyakov said.
"That is how I know," Razin said. "Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged."
Plekhanov looked at the woman. "Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an… accident, Ludmilla?"
She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. "He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary."
"Death is final," Razin said.
"Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful."
"And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him."
The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.
"Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet?" Khomyakov said.
Razin snorted.
Plekhanov raised an eyebrow at her.
"Bulavin is fond of both liquor and women," Khomyakov said. "He has been discreet, careful to keep his activities in these areas confined to those which would not irritate his union members if they found out. Not too much drinking in public, the occasional fling with a secretary. Men are men, and not bothered by such things. Perhaps we could supply him a woman willing to… doctor his liquor and engage in activities his members — and his wife — would find less than… tasteful? There are many possibilities along these lines. And our woman would, of course, have an excellent holographic camera."
Razin said, "Pah! You would put him in bed with a boy? A sheep? This is a woman's answer to everything! If it moves, screw it!"
"Better, perhaps, than a man's answer — if it moves, kill it," she said. She smiled.
Plekhanov liked both her response and her solution. Brutes could be found anywhere; subtlety was more of a prize. A live enemy in your pocket was sometimes better than a dead one in the ground. Sometimes.
Well, at least he knew who the new President of Ukraine was going to be.
Thursday, September 30th, 11 p.m. Washington, D.C.
"I bet you've never seen anybody get killed, have you, Scout?"
The little dog wagged his tail, momentarily diverted from his sniffing and peeing. When it didn't seem as if the comment would lead to a command, he resumed his work.
In her old-woman disguise, the Selkie moved toward the target's condo. She had decided to do it tonight. The target was still awake, a bit late for him, but his reading light was on, and it was going to be simple, clean, in and out. By the time anybody knew he was dead, she would be home and Phyllis Markham would have vanished forever.
The Selkie bent down to pet the dog. As she did so, she unsnapped his leash, but said, "Scout, heel."
She adjusted her thin white cotton gloves, took a grip on the cane and came slowly and painfully to her feet. When she continued on her gimpy way, the dog stayed with her. Anybody from more than a few feet away would likely think the toy poodle was still on the lead, especially if they'd seen them together before. People saw what you gave them to see.
When she got to the target's condo, she forced herself to take several deep breaths. No matter how many times she did a job, the adrenaline rush always came. Her heart raced, her breathing speeded up, she felt tight, itchy, anxious to move. It was something she could use, the rush, and part of the allure. If it ever got to the point where she didn't feel the touch of stage fright, the roiling butterflies in her belly, she'd quit, no matter how much money she was shy of her goal. If she got that blasé, it would be too dangerous.
The darkness was alive with fall smells: foliage, grass, the perfume of a softener-sheet in somebody's clothes dryer's exhaust. The air was sensually cool on her skin where she was not covered with makeup. The stars glittered through the city glow, hard gems in a mostly clear sky. A moth fluttered by, and his flight left ghostly trails in the night air. Sensations always turned psychedelically sharp when the life-and-death game came to its final moves. This was another part of the attraction.
One was never so alive as when dancing with Death.
She looked around, and saw she was alone. She urged Scout into the bushes to the left of the front door, where he couldn't be seen. "Scout, down, stay," she said.
Obediently, the little dog sat, then stretched out. She'd tested him, and he'd held that position for at least an hour.
She wouldn't need but five minutes at the outside. The Selkie moved to the door and rang the bell.
* * *
In bed, Alex Michaels dozed, the technical report balanced on his knees. The sound of his front doorbell jarred him awake. He looked at the bedside time display. Who'd be here this hour of the night?
He got up, slipped a robe on over his naked self and belted it shut.
The doorbell rang again.
He frowned, still half asleep. It was probably somebody from work.
Yeah? How come they didn't call? They have your numbers.
He opened the drawer in his bedside table, took his issue taser from the drawer and dropped it into the robe's pocket. Not that he was really worried, but there had been some robberies in D.C. where a couple of strong-arm types had knocked on doors and then forced their way inside. Better prepared than not.
When he looked through the peephole, he saw the old lady who had the poodle. He relaxed as he opened the door.
She looked upset. "I'm so sorry to bother you," she said, "but Scout got off his leash." She waved the little plastic roll-up case with the dangling clip. "I think he wiggled through your gate into the back. If you could open it for me? I didn't want to be yelling for him in the middle of the night, waking people up and all."
"Sure," Michaels said. "Why don't you just come on through the house to the back."
"Oh, I don't want to trouble you. I can go around."
"No problem." He smiled, had her come inside, then closed the door. "Follow me." He led her through the living room.
Behind him, the old lady said, "I don't know what got into him. He never does this. I think he heard something in the bushes."
"My neighbors all have cats," he said. "Though most of them are bigger than your dog. He mi
ght get in trouble if he catches one."
They were in the small kitchen, almost to the sliding glass door, when Michaels heard the little dog bark. It sounded like he was out front. Probably had lost the cat and gone back looking for his momma.
"Oh, there he is," he said. He turned—
— and saw the old lady with her cane held over one shoulder like a baseball bat.
The expression on her face was cold but determined.
She swung the stick at him as if she were trying to belt one out of the park—
Shit!
Michaels tried to do two things at once. He dug for the taser in his robe's pocket and jumped backward. He didn't do either of them well. He hit the edge of the breakfast table, tangled his robe around one of the chairs and pulled it over. The chair fell between him and the old lady — and that was what saved his ass.
The cane whistled as she whipped it back and forth, but as she stepped toward him, she hit the toppled chair with her shins and stopped.
"Fuck!" she said. The word was not only unladylike, it was in a deeper, smoother, younger voice.
Still stumbling backward, Michaels banged into the sliding door. The crown of his head thumped against it hard — it made an almost metallic gonging sound, but the glass held—
The old lady kicked the fallen chair out of her way, started to take another step, the cane pulled back to brain him, but he had the taser out now and he pointed it at her and pressed the firing stud—
No, not the firing stud, he'd accidentally hit the laser sight instead! Damn!
A tiny red dot appeared — but on the wall next to the old lady. He moved the taser, put the gyrating dot on the old lady's chest—
She snarled and threw the cane—
It hit Michaels low, below his outstretched arm, across the belly. He didn't feel any pain, but it was hard enough to jolt his aim. The laser dot jerked to the side, off the old lady—
She spun and ran. By the time he recovered, she was mostly out of his line of sight, almost to the front door. Jesus, she was fast! Taser needles were only good for five or six yards, even if he could hit her this far away—
He started after her. He didn't know who the hell she was or what she was doing here, but this was his goddamn house and now his surprise gave way to rage—
Just who the hell did this woman think she was? How dare she?
He heard her yell something he couldn't make out, but by the time he got to the front door, she was twenty yards away and going strong. In the back of his mind, the sight of a seventy-year-old lady sprinting like an Olympic athlete was pretty amazing, even though he knew she was a younger woman in disguise.
He started after her, but she'd had too good a start. And she was fast. No way he was going to catch her wearing a robe and slippers.
The danger was over. He'd chased her off. Now what he needed to do was call the cops. Let them hunt for her.
Michaels started to step back into the house, but stopped when he heard something in the bushes. He leveled the taser, and swept the laser's red dot back and forth, seeking a target. "Who's there? Don't move, I'll shoot!"
He was ready to blast somebody, anybody who got in his face.
Nothing.
He stepped cautiously toward the bushes.
On the ground in a down position, front legs stretched out and looking up at him, was the little old lady's toy poodle. It yapped once. Wagged its tail.
Michaels shook his head. Jesus H. Christ!
He bent down. "C'mere, boy. Here, Scout."
The dog came up and hurried over, head lowered and tail going like crazy. Michaels picked the little dog up. It licked his hand.
Michaels frowned, realized he was breathing way too fast. He blew out a big sigh and tried to calm himself.
What in hell was going on here?
22
Thursday, September 30th, 11:55 p.m. Washington, D.C.
Goddammit!
In her clean-car, driving into the Maryland night, the Selkie's smoldering rage flared yet again. She pounded the steering wheel with the heel of her right hand. "Shit, shit, shit!"
She knew it was a waste of her energy, that it did no good at all. Done was done, and there was nobody to blame but herself. It was her fault. She'd put the damned dog into a down-stay, but she hadn't told him "quiet." One of the goddamned cats must have spooked the dog, and naturally, he'd barked at it because she hadn't told him not to!"
Stupid. An amateur's mistake, so simple it never occurred to her. But even though it was a waste of her energy, it still pissed her off. She beat on the steering wheel again.
It was incredible, but that was how it always went when luck went bad. The smallest thing that could go wrong to screw up things always went wrong at exactly the wrong instant. That bark, just as she was set to strike, had ruined the deletion. A second earlier, and she'd have been a smiling old lady hobbling along behind the target. A second later, and the target would have been out cold on the floor, waiting for the final stroke — game, tip over your king.
If the dog hadn't barked. If the target hadn't had a taser in his pocket. If that chair hadn't gotten in her way—
If, if, if.
Damn!
So now they had the dog, her cane, and unless they were all a whole lot stupider than was likely, they knew that Alexander Michaels was targeted by an assassin. They'd find the place she'd rented in the neighborhood quick enough, though there was nothing in it to tie her real identity to it. They'd know she'd been stalking him. She didn't think there was much they could use from what they had, but one thing for sure:
Getting to the target was going to be a whole lot harder now.
That brought a smile, despite her anger. Oh, yes, she was still going to delete the target, no question of that. The obstacles would be bigger, the risks riskier, but she didn't take a contract and not deliver. Never.
Well. She'd wanted a challenge. She sure as hell had one now.
Friday, October 1st, 12:34 a.m. Washington, D.C.
Alex was trying to pretend it was no big deal, but Toni knew better. He was rattled. He looked calm as he stood there, dressed in tan slacks and a T-shirt, with no shoes, holding the toy poodle that had been part of the would-be assassin's cover. He petted the dog absently as the cops metaphorically tipped their hats and left. They'd kept the local cops from lighting up the place with their flashers, but even so, there was a lot of activity around Alex's condo for this time of night. Neighbors peeped through windows or stood on door stoops, trying to puzzle out what was going on.
Toni was relieved that Alex was all right, that the assassination attempt had failed. And she was also gratified that he had called her first, before he'd called anybody else. That meant something.
Toni had lost no time in co-opting this investigation. It belonged to Net Force, part of the Steve Day case. The local cops had been called in only to provide a net to catch the woman, and it was probably too late for that. The woman wasn't going to be hiding under a bush a block away or anything. If it was a woman. Maybe it was a small man under the disguise?
"Alex?"
"Hmm?"
"We'll need the dog."
He looked down at the poodle, then back at her. "The dog? Why?"
"We'll want to run a scanner over him, see if there is an ID chip implant or anything."
"No, I think he'll stay with me. Have somebody from the lab come by, they can check him here."
"Alex, he's evidence."
"No, he is what kept me from going to fill a hole next to Steve Day's." He looked at the dog and scratched behind one of its ears. "He's a good boy, aren't you, Scout?"
Toni nodded. Anybody who didn't know him would think Alex was used to assassins coming into his house, no sweat, and isn't it a nice night? But she knew him. Maybe better than he knew himself. "I guess we can work on this for a while." She held up the cane, wrapped in no-smear plastic sheeting.
"She wore gloves," Alex said. "White, silk or cotton, probably. I bet i
t was wiped clean after she put them on. The gloves."
"Won't hurt to look," Toni said.
He shrugged.
The last of the D.C. police were gone, but there were four of Net Force's agents still there. A man on each entrance to the house, one in a car across the street, one standing by the sliding glass door. They'd stay with Alex until they got this sorted out.
Toni felt a surge of anger she had to hold on to. Whoever this person was, she — or he — was going to be sorry if Toni got to them before anybody else did.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. It was just such a surprise, seeing this nice little old lady from my neighborhood ready to knock my head over the left-field wall."
"I bet."
"I've seen her around for at least a week."
"So did the agents on your door during the protocol watch. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing. You were being stalked."
He shook his head. "Because I sit in Steve Day's chair. This woman probably had something to do with that."
"Yeah, that thought had crossed my mind."
"Well. Take that stick into the lab."
"I can stay around if you want."
"No, go back to work. I'm all right."
She left, reluctantly, and the image of Alex standing there petting the little dog stayed with her as she drove back toward HQ.
Friday, October 1st, 7:37 a.m. New York City
Johnny the Shark stood in front of Ray Genaloni's desk with a sheet of paper in one hand.
"Okay, what?"
"This just came from our guy in the D.C. cop shop," Johnny said. "I thought you'd like to see it first thing."
Genaloni took the paper, put on his reading glasses and looked at it.
Before he got six words into it, Johnny said, "Seems some woman tried to kill the Commander of Net Force."
Genaloni looked up from the paper, over the top of the reading glasses. "Tried? Tried to?" Then it sank in, the rest of it. "A woman? You saying the Selkie is a fucking woman?"
Johnny held both hands up in an I-dunno gesture. "This is what our guy in D.C. sent."
Genaloni read the paper. It was a copy of an incident report, and it was lean, not much to it. And it didn't look as if the cops were gonna stay on it, either; the feds had kicked them out.