by Tom Clancy
"Mister, you killed a man I liked and respected. If you don't shut up right now, you might accidentally fall out of this thing. At this speed and height, you will bounce like a rubber ball when you hit the ground."
The Russian apparently decided he had nothing else to say.
Saturday, October 9th, 6:54 p.m. Quantico
The phone rang in the conference room. Alone, Michaels grabbed it. "Yes?"
"Sir, patching through Colonel Howard," said the voice.
"Commander?"
"Right here, Colonel."
"Mission accomplished, sir. We're in the air and on the way home."
Michaels felt an immense welling of relief. "All right! Congratulations, Colonel. Any problems?"
"Nothing to speak of, sir. A walk in the park."
Toni came back into the room. Michaels looked at her, pointed at the telephone's receiver and gave her the thumb-and-forefinger sign for "okay."
"We should see you in about sixteen hours, Commander, give or take."
"I will look forward to it. Congratulations again, Colonel. Well done."
Michaels broke the connection and grinned at Toni. "They got him. On the way home. Be here tomorrow."
"I'll give Jay Gridley a call," she said. "He wanted to know how it came out."
"Do that."
"So, now what, Alex? If you're right, we have the man who killed Steve Day, even if we can't prove he did it. The woman who muddied up the waters is dead."
"Back to business as usual, I guess," he said. "If I survive the meeting with Carver when I tell him what I did."
"You will. The Director looks at the bottom line. This is like Bush's Noriega deal, or that Iraqi snatched from Baghdad during the last days of the Clinton Administration. Our current President wanted this guy caught, he's caught. He's the DOJ's problem now."
"After we have a few words with him."
"Of course. But basically, it's all over."
"Yes," he said. "All over. And all in all, we didn't do too bad, did we?"
"No. We didn't do too bad."
They grinned at each other.
EPILOGUE
Sunday, October 10th, 11:30 a.m. Quantico
Ruzhyo, dressed in the fatigues of a United States Marine sergeant, stood outside and next to the chain-link fence that surrounded the Net Force HQ building. He was three hundred meters from the front entrance, but the deer rifle inside the duffel bag on the ground next to his feet was more than accurate enough to make that shot on a man-sized target. The rifle was a Remington, and not a Winchester, but it was also 30–06 caliber, and also a bolt-action, like the weapon he had used in Oregon to kill the computer businessman. The main difference was that the scope was optical and not holographic, with a ten-power magnification, and zeroed in at three hundred meters. He had picked this spot for the shot before he set up the rifle.
There was a bus stop here, still so new there was no graffiti drawn upon it. He could dawdle for a few minutes before anybody noticed him. Even on a Sunday, there were people coming and going in enough numbers so that no-body would worry overmuch about another Marine waiting to catch a bus.
If the Net Force Commander did not come out for lunch, Ruzhyo would leave, then cycle back later, to see if he could catch him departing for the day. If he did not spot him then, perhaps he would set up along his route home. There was always somewhere.
A plain white Dodge van with government plates pulled up near the entrance. Ruzhyo had a tiny eight-power Bushnell monocular in his pocket, a device small enough to conceal entirely in one hand. He leaned sideways against the fence and cupped the monocular in front of his eye.
The door to the building opened and an attractive brunette emerged, moved to stand by the van. Immediately behind her was Alexander Michaels, and two men who looked like guards flanked him.
Ruzhyo's luck was good. This would have to be fast. A man standing at the fence aiming a rifle would draw attention, Marine or not. He bent, unzipped the duffel bag. The rifle was ready. All he had to do was lift it, stick the barrel through the fence, which would offer an excellent shooting platform, line the crosshairs up and squeeze off the round. A five-second operation if he hurried, perhaps ten if he took his time.
Smooth movements were the key. Nothing jerky. Just lift the weapon, push it through the link, take the deep breath and hold it, find the target. He moved.
The scope, a Leupold, had excellent optics. The sight picture was clear and sharp.
There he was.
Ruzhyo placed the wavering crosshairs on the man's chest…
At this distance, the scope's circular field was large enough so that Michaels did not fill it. Ruzhyo could see the woman, one of the guards, and a military man in uniform stepping from the van.
He allowed half of his indrawn breath to escape. Began his squeeze…
Shit! Ruzhyo took his finger from the trigger. The military man, a black, held another man by the arm.
The man he held was Vladimir Plekhanov!
Ruzhyo was aware that he had to decide to shoot or not, and he had to do it fast. He could not continue to stand here.
So, for all his skill, they had figured out that Plekhanov was their enemy, and they had not only done that, they had him.
Plekhanov, captured. Ruzhyo had spoken with the Russian only two days ago. Amazing.
The moment held.
Should he shoot Michaels? Or should he shoot Plekhanov? The man might give him up when questioned. Ruzhyo knew well there were drugs, instruments that could pry secrets from the tightest lips. The Americans did not often use such things, but they could, if they chose to do so.
So. Shoot?
No. He would not kill Vladimir. If the Russian wished to give him to the Americans, so be it.
And as for the Net Force Commander? There was no point in shooting him now, either. It would not help Plekhanov. It would serve no purpose. Even as he was, Ruzhyo did not kill without reason.
He pulled the rifle from the fence, bent and put it into the duffel bag. He looked around. Perhaps fifteen seconds had passed since he had removed the weapon from its concealment. No one appeared to notice him. He zipped the bag closed. Stood.
A bus approached. He would take it, rent another car in the next town, drive and find a place to sit and think. He had the other rental car, of course, but he did not want to use that one again. It was a warm day for October, and already the interior of the car's trunk would probably be beginning to smell bad.
The bus hissed to a stop. The door accordioned open. The driver smiled at him. Ruzhyo returned a smaller smile, but it was more for the thought that crossed his mind than anything else.
At least he would never again have to listen to Grigory the Snake brag about his Medal for Action in Chechnya. And by the time somebody opened the car's trunk and discovered what lay therein, Ruzhyo would be far, far away.
In the desert, perhaps.
—«»—«»—«»—
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