Cybernation nf-6

by Tom Clancy

  According to the posting in the hotel, they scheduled these flights on the half hour, starting at six A.M., with the last one returning from the ship to the Mainland at midnight, thirty-seven flights a day, split up among three aircraft. Which meant at capacity, they could move over six hundred and fifty people a day to and from the ship from this one heliport, and there were at least three other ports in operation just on the Florida coast, not counting those in Cuba or the other islands. At forty bucks a head for the trip, that was a hundred grand a day to pay for aviation fuel. Which also meant that if the things ran at full operation, and each of the passengers lost on average, say, only a hundred dollars each at the casinos, the gross would be over a quarter of a million dollars a day from the Mainland alone. Almost eight million a month. Assuming the Cubans had anything to lose, and anybody coming from elsewhere also did, that could work out to more than a hundred million a year, easy. Of course, they might not run to capacity day in and day out, and there would be operating costs, and even a few winners, too, but if even a quarter of that was profit, it would be a tidy sum. Better, Guru used to say, than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick…

  The copter spiraled up and outward to its cruising altitude, only a few thousand feet, Toni would guess, and leaned into the rising sun. Fifteen or twenty minutes out, they passed a matching copter going the other way, a mile to port.

  She looked over the passengers without staring at any one in particular. About what she’d expect. There were several couples, sporting fresh sunburns and wearing shorts and colorful Hawaiian shirts, likely going to see if they might be able to win back some of their children’s college tuition.

  There were a few women who appeared to be traveling alone, most of them also middle-aged, although there were a couple of younger ones in their mid-twenties who looked as if they might be former beauty queens. Hunting for rich husbands, maybe? Or perhaps high-priced hookers going to offer their services to winners looking for a way to spend their free money?

  A couple of men looked like she’d always pictured high rollers — dressing in western chic, with ostrich-skin cowboy boots and string ties, wearing Stetson hats.

  There were some young guys, college-age, Toni guessed, laughing and talking among themselves, off on an adventure. Several of them had already cast appreciative glances at the ex-beauty queens.

  There was a very fit-looking shaved-bald black man of thirty or so in a yellow silk T-shirt and khaki trousers, with dark sunglasses, who leaned back in his seat and appeared to be sleeping. He wore a gold Oyster Rolex on his left wrist, a gold nugget pinkie ring, and a matching bracelet of heavy gold links on his right wrist. From the way he sat and the look of his musculature under the thin silk, Toni’s first impression was that he was a cop, or some kind of security officer, a bouncer, maybe. He might be asleep, but he looked as if he could go from zero to sixty in a heartbeat.

  Behind him sat a couple who looked to be in their early seventies. Retirees from some colder climate moved to Florida, she figured.

  Not that exciting a group, and nobody who looked like what she thought an international computer terrorist ought to look like.

  Well, what did you expect? Geeky-looking guys with pocket protectors and horn-rimmed glasses, their fingers glued to Palm Pilots or flatscreens?

  She grinned at herself. Figuring out who might be a heavyweight Bulgarian weight lifter was something you maybe could do by looking, but computer wizards came in all sizes and shapes. It was a fallacy to think they all looked like classic movie nerds. She of all people ought to know that — here she was pretending to be a tourist when she was, in fact, a spy.

  Well. She’d be at the ship in a few minutes, she’d get checked in, find her cabin, then take her camera and wander around, snapping perfectly innocent pictures of whatever was open to public view. She had the picture Jay had sent late last night, she’d strained it from the covering JPEG of her mythical aunt. It was a college yearbook image of this guy Keller, and Jay had added ten years to it with a plastic surgery art program. The hair might have changed length or color, contacts could change eye color, too, but the shape of the ears and head would be the same. Even crooks having their faces remodeled seldom did their ears.

  She had memorized the picture, then wiped it from the flatscreen’s drive, overwriting the file so it couldn’t be recovered. Like Alex said, she was just supposed to gather small bits of information they could use, but it would be embarrassing at the least if her flatscreen got lost and wound up being scanned by some curious tech-head who found something he shouldn’t find.

  So far, so good.

  As the commuter helicopter approached the gambling ship, she saw that the actual landing site was a huge flat-topped barge anchored a few hundred yards away, with several long passenger boats shuttling people back and forth from it to the floating casino. She counted six helipads on the barge. There were three craft similar to the one she was in on the deck of the barge, with another one taking off, and a fifth one circling for a landing. That made sense — all those copters taking off and landing on the ship itself would be a windy, noisy commotion better left elsewhere. Smart.

  On the Bon Chance

  Santos watched the dark-haired woman walk away from the shuttle boat toward the cabin check-in queue, and nodded to himself. She moved well, inside her balance, something most people did not do. Something in her stance, her carriage, it indicated some kind of physical training. A dancer, maybe, or a gymnast, she had the hip swing and that muscular roll to her walk. She wore a T-shirt and shorts, running shoes, no socks, and pulled a carry-on bag behind her, a big purse slung on a shoulder strap. Very sleek in the butt and legs. She was alone, wore no rings, a tourist from the States. Were he not so busy with all the things he needed to do right now, she would be a pleasure he would like to try. Missy would love that, wouldn’t she? To see him with another woman? She was so sure of herself in that way, she would not believe a man could prefer somebody else to her, it was a major part of her power. And she had reason to believe in it, she was most adept in those ways.

  Hmm. Maybe he was not as busy as he thought. When you could kill two birds with one stone, was that not a rock worth throwing? And how long did it take to slip out of your clothes and into a good-looking woman anyway? He could skip a workout in the gym, trade that for one in the bedroom, yes?

  He grinned at the thought. Missy would steam like turtle soup…

  “Hello, ’Berto.”

  Speak of the devil.

  Without further planning, Santos allowed his gaze to linger on the woman from the helicopter as she walked toward the registration area. Missy could not help but notice he was looking at something other than her. He held his stare long enough for her to be sure of it, and for her to turn to see what held his attention. He caught the flash of anger as it lit her face. She turned back to look at him. It was there only for a moment before she hid it, the irritation, but it was there. Ah, good. Already he felt a warm satisfaction.

  “Your trip was successful?”

  “My trips are always successful.”

  “Made some new friends, did you?”

  He shrugged, slow and lazy, gave her a small lopsided grin, but said nothing. Not yet, but if she wished to think so, why shouldn’t she? It would serve his interests.

  Her smile didn’t change to look at, but it grew chilly; he could almost feel it. “We have a lot of things to discuss. Why don’t you meet me in my office in an hour.” With that, she turned and walked away, and he could see the anger in her steps.

  Ah, better and better!

  Now, of course, he more or less had to follow up on the attractive brunette with the dancer’s stroll. He would talk to the clerk at the room check-in and ask about her. Find out who she was, which cabin she was in. It was a big ship, but not so large as all that. He could find a way to run into the woman on deck or in the casino, maybe even the gym, since it was obvious she worked out. He had access to the ship’s security cams, and could find ou
t where she was easily enough. A chance meeting, a little conversation, perhaps a drink, and they would go on from there.

  A man had to do what he had to do, but, he had to admit, some jobs were more fun than others…

  Zehlendorf Forest Berlin, Germany Summer 1959

  Jay was in tracking mode, a skill Saji had taught him when he’d been recovering from his stroke. He walked carefully along the dirt road, cutting sign, looking for the smallest indication that his quarry had come this way.

  The road was easy. It was dusty, and upon it, the passages of somebody in a vehicle or on foot were simple to spot, no problem. Somebody looking to hide his trail could brush the tracks away with little effort, but because the dust was so fine, it showed every tiny detail, and erasing something itself left a sign that was more interesting than the tracks. A man trying to avoid pursuit could change his mode of transportation, from a car to a bike to a pogo stick; he could change his shoes, and with a little bit of misdirection, lose a pursuer who was following combat boots when they turned into running shoes. But wiping away all tracks? That might seem smart on first thought, but really wasn’t if you knew anything about how to follow a trail.

  Sometimes, as Sherlock Holmes was wont to say, it was the absence of the dog barking in the night that was important.

  The lack of impressions on a dirt road were more telling than any bootprint.

  Carpet-walkers would sometimes glue carpet to the bottoms of their shoes, so as not to leave impressions, but that worked on sand or rocky soil, not on a red-dirt road with baby-powder-fine dust; instead, it would leave distinct patches of relatively smooth tracks. And somebody dragging a branch or burlap sack behind them would likewise wipe out the tracks, but leave drag lines that would last through a dry and moderately windy day, even though rain would eventually patter them down.

  No, a smart runner would get off the road entirely, head for the rocks or streams where any tracks either wouldn’t show, or would be swirled away in a few minutes or even seconds. And he would double-back, angle off in false starts, and head in the wrong direction long enough to gull a so-so tracker before he circled around for his true destination.

  But if somebody was taking only the barest precautions, and they didn’t really think they were going to be noticed or tailed, they weren’t likely to be as cautious. You didn’t go into full alert and stealth mode every time you went out to collect the mail from your box, or the paper from your front lawn — what was the point?

  Keller wore carpet shoes, and for most people, most of the time, his basic moves would have done the job. Nobody driving along the road would notice any tracks. Anybody walking but not looking wouldn’t notice the smooth patches. Even somebody looking for tracks of a particular kind of shoe would probably miss ’em. But Smokin’ Jay Gridley wasn’t just anybody, was he?

  It was a nice day for a walk. Greenery everywhere, flowers in bloom, the smell of pollen and dust in the summery, early evening air…

  Ahead, on the right, was a weathered wooden building. It had a caduceus painted on the side, the winged staff with two snakes twined around it, indicating a doctor’s office, the paint weather-worn and faded from black to a light gray. Yes, this must be the place.

  Jay walked to the front door. The office was closed for the day, and the door was locked, but the latch was an old-style spring lock, and it took all of ten seconds for Jay to open it with a skeleton key he pulled from his pocket.

  It was dark and quiet inside. Jay looked around, didn’t see any alarms. He flipped a light switch up. There was a four-drawer steel file cabinet full of patient files next to a big wooden desk. The drawers were locked, but he opened them with a couple of bent paper clips. So easy when you knew how.

  He found the file quickly enough, too. Keller hadn’t even bothered to use a phony name, and had paid for the office visit and medication with his corporate credit card — which is how Jay had tracked him here so quickly.

  He read the report. “Fell down stairs” was what had been written on the new patient form. The physical examination showed multiple contusions and abrasions, no broken bones or torn ligaments. In one corner, in tiny, neat lettering was a note: “Altercation c jealous boyfriend over woman,” it said. The letter “c” had a line over it, and the words were underlined twice. Apparently the good doctor, one Willem Konig, M.D., had gotten a different cause for the injuries than had his receptionist.

  So. Whaddya know. Keller had gotten his butt kicked for fooling around with somebody else’s girlfriend. That was interesting. Keller had never been a ladies’ man in school, but you never could tell. Jay himself hadn’t been that much of a lover back then, either. Things changed.

  He put the report back into the drawer, closed and re-locked it, looked out the window to make sure nobody was around, then exited the building, locking it behind him. Technically, he was bending the law here. While he had a legal warrant to do an electronic search, that permission only extended to the U.S. borders. While Net Force did have reciprocity agreements with dozens of countries, including Germany, and the U.S. federal warrant would eventually have gotten a counterpart here, he didn’t have time to wait. He wasn’t planning to use this information in court, so it didn’t have to have all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed, as long as it helped him find his quarry.

  Outside, behind the doctor’s office, was a small hill. Jay climbed to the top and looked around. Krumme Lake was to the west, a short distance away, on the edge of the Berlin Forest. The Grunewald area was right over there. There were roads, a train track, and what was still West Berlin, deep in the eastern heart of a divided Germany, that wouldn’t be reunited for decades. The Cold War was still cranking up in this era.

  So, Keller was in Germany, or at least he had been yesterday, and a routine request from State to the German government for any use of Keller’s U.S. passport had come back negative, so if he was gone, he must have done it illegally. Given his current status, Jay couldn’t say Keller wouldn’t do that, but since he didn’t know anybody was looking for him, there wouldn’t be any compelling reason for him to sneak out of the country.

  Why Germany? Who was the jealous boyfriend who must live here who clobbered Keller? Where had he gone?

  That was the problem with searching for information. Sometimes you came up with more questions than answers…

  “Hold on a second,” Jay said aloud. Wasn’t there something else about Germany he had come across recently? Something about a barge…? No, that was Japan. It was a train. CyberNation ran a tourist train or somesuch here. And there were the iron horse’s tracks, right there. Maybe it was a sign.

  And maybe not. But it gave him something he could check. Train schedules were public information. Find all those that had passed on this track down there for the last couple of days, run them down, find out where they went. Find out if the one owned by CyberNation was around. If it was, that would certainly be a big coincidence, wouldn’t it? And a great place to go and look…

  31

  On the Bon Chance

  Toni played the tourist, mindful of what she had come to the ship to do. She carried a cheap electronic camera, and she took pictures of her room, the exterior decks, the swimming pool, and the helicopter barge. She bought a gambling credit card for two hundred dollars and played the slot machines. She lost eighty dollars over a period of four hours, then hit a three-cherry payout for a hundred dollars. She had lunch in one of the cafeterias, a club sandwich and iced tea, with a slice of very good banana cream pie for dessert, and that cost her half what it would in most D.C. restaurants.

  In the early afternoon, she slathered herself with coconut-scented sunblock and lay in one of the deck chairs near the swimming pool. It was hot, but a nice breeze off the water kept things bearable.

  A steward came by and asked her if she wanted a drink. She ordered a margarita, and when it came, it looked like a big green snow cone.

  She went to her cabin, showered, put on shorts and a T-shirt, then took her
camera to the ship’s stern, where passengers tossed bits of food to a flock of hovering sea-gulls. She took pictures of the birds, and more views of the ship from that angle.

  The periodic drone of passenger helicopters landing and taking off from the barge was noticeable, but not overly loud.

  She could get used to this. Too bad Alex wasn’t here to enjoy it with her.

  Late in the afternoon, she went back to her cabin and changed into workout clothes, bike shorts and a halter-top, running shoes, white cotton socks. She didn’t want to practice silat while she was here, even in her room, but she could at least ride the stationary bike and maybe do a few sets on the weight machines. She draped a towel around her shoulders, tucked her room keycard into her left sock top, and headed for the gym.

  There were a dozen people in the gym, which was down a level from her cabin. The place had eight or ten weight station machines, pneumatic rather than stacks of iron, six bikes, three stairclimbers, two treadmills, and in one corner, a heavy punching bag hung on a thick nylon strap, the bag itself center-wrapped with layers of duct tape. Toni wished she could work the bag, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Even in this day and age, a little woman beating the stuffing out of a punching bag drew raised eyebrows and male interest. Men who might not ever speak to you while you were on a bike or stairclimber would feel the need to say something if you were kicking a heavy bag. It was somehow a challenge to their masculinity.

  Toni got a free bottle of spring water from a dispenser, found an empty spot in front of the mirrors, did a little stretching and a few warm-ups, then moved to one of the cardiobikes. The one she picked had one of those fan blade front wheels, so the harder you pedaled, the more air you had to move. This was good, because it helped keep you cooler. The electronics allowed a choice of difficulty. She started off slow, and built up resistance after a few minutes.