by Tom Clancy
"No trouble, really," she said. "It's practically on the way to my flat."
"In that case, okay, sure."
London was a big city, it never shut down, and even at midnight the streets were still clogged with traffic. There were twelve? fifteen million people here? Too many in too small a space.
"Making much progress?" she asked as they wound their way past a pub that spilled laughing patrons onto the sidewalk.
"Not much."
"Us, either," she said. "Much of the British grid seems to be back up, but the rest of the world is still putting pieces back together." She waved at the happy-looking people coming out of the pub. "Fancy a pint and some late supper?"
As she asked, Michaels realized that he was hungry; he'd had a sandwich at his desk at noon, nothing since. "I could eat."
"There's a nice quiet place not far from my flat. They serve decent fish and chips."
Again, the little danger signal cheeped in his mind, but he was tired and hungry and he didn't feel like bothering with it. What harm could there be in a beer and a little fried food?
"Sure, why not?"
The pub was moderately full, but as she'd said, fairly quiet. They ordered fish and French fries — chips — and took pint glasses of beer to their table to wait for the food.
He took a couple of swallows of his beer, dark brew called Terminator Stout. She nodded at his glass. "Came from America originally, that," she said.
He looked at the beer. "Really?"
"Indeed. Some microbrewery on the West Coast. Chap from London passing through tasted it, liked it, started importing it. Only taken a couple hundred years for you Americans to produce decent beer. Another hundred years or so, you might make a decent roadster."
"I beg your pardon," he said. "Chevrolet did that with the Corvette in the 1950s."
"Know about cars, do you?"
"A little."
"Well, it didn't take them long to muck it up, the Corvette, did it? It might have started out okay, but after a few years, it ballooned into a monster, didn't it? Bigger body, bigger engine, electronic this and that, until it was as huge as a town car and cost more than a Cadillac sedan."
He grinned. "Well, yes, that's true."
"Now, you take a classic '50s or '70s MG," she began.
He snorted, cutting her off. "Please. Take it to the dump. They should have offered the thing with a mechanic as standard equipment. Your average vintage MG spent more time in the shop being tuned than it ever did on the road."
"Well, all right, some of them were a bit finicky, but that's a small price to pay for the driving experience."
"Ha! You mean the towing experience. You tell the Automobile Club you own an MG, they won't even take your phone calls."
She smiled at him.
The food arrived, and the smell of the batter-fried halibut and potatoes enveloped them in a wonderful aroma. He wasn't just hungry, he was starving!
After ten minutes of chowing down and a second round of beers, Michaels felt much better. This was nice, having a late dinner and enjoying a conversation not connected to work. They talked about Japanese and Korean roadsters, the new South African Trekker, and he told her about the Prowler and Miata he had restored.
Next thing he knew, it was two A.M.
"We probably should get going," he said. "Work and all."
"How is the muscle tension?" she asked.
"Not as bad as it was."
She put her hand on his neck, slid it lightly down to his shoulder. "You're still tight as a violin string. She paused. Said, softly, "My flat is just up the road and around the corner. Would you like me to give you a massage?"
Maybe it was because he was so tired. Or maybe it was the two pints of beer and the good food. Or maybe it was because she was really a handsome and intelligent woman who obviously enjoyed his company.
Whatever the reason, Michaels nodded at her. "Yes. I'd like that."
Chapter 27
Tuesday, April 12th
Somewhere in the British Raj, India
Jay moved with all the stealth he could manage, which wasn't very much, considering how rattled he was and the terrain through which he moved. Tracking the beast was not a problem; the brush was trampled and smeared with blood, and the trail led Jay in a straight line, a sign of animal panic. The tiger ran straight away, making no attempt at stealth.
Or so it seemed. It had sneaked up behind him once before, and Jay wasn't going to get caught unaware again. He kept a constant watch, head swiveling as if he were watching a tennis match in the round.
At the base of what looked to be a huge boablike tree, the blood trail disappeared.
Jay looked up.
Thirty feet above the ground, the tiger coughed and charged down the tree trunk, ran against gravity as if he was on level terrain!
Jay didn't think. He whipped the shotgun up, spot-welded his cheek to the weapon, and fired. He recovered from the recoil using his whole body and fired again.
The tiger fell off the tree. Jay dodged to his right, swung the gun around at waist level, and pulled the trigger as the thing hit the ground hard, five feet away, hard enough to shake Jay where he crouched, gun blasting.
He lost count of how many times he shot. It seemed like one continuous roar—boomboomboomboomboom—! The coppery smell of tiger's blood rose and joined the stink of burned gunpowder, and when he stopped shooting, the ground was littered with green and red plastic shotgun shells, at least a dozen of them, maybe more.
Now, the tiger wasn't even twitching.
Now, Jay drew a shuddery, deep breath, his first in a while.
The animal that had clawed his brain apart was dead. He had killed it.
Even as he bent to examine it, though, he knew it wasn't the thing he sought. Oh, yeah, it had attacked and damaged him, but now that he had killed it, he knew this was but a security program, not the creature that had ripped open the unbreakable cages of the world's most advanced computer systems with impossible strength. It was the most dangerous thing Jay had ever faced in VR, but this was just a watchbeast, put in the jungle to take care of snoopers, nowhere near the power of what had casually left it behind.
The real monster was still out there. And Jay knew this shotgun wouldn't slow it down if it spotted him.
Jesus.
Tuesday, April 12th
Paris, France
It was three A.M., and Toni couldn't sleep. The big bed in the French hotel was comfortable enough, the room insulated and high enough above the city streets so the traffic noise was but a quiet drone. She'd had a fairly quiet day, gotten a lot of material collected and assembled, and had a delicious, fattening supper. She'd even gotten a workout in the hotel's gym and spent half an hour in the spa, letting the roiling hot water bubble and relax her. She should be conked out like a baby.
Her mind was buzzing, and the sense of disquiet she felt might be due to the work, but it wasn't that. No, it was Alex. Something was wrong between them, and she didn't know what it was. He was upset with her, she could feel it, even though he denied it, and she didn't know what to do about it.
Oh, she had tried to find out: Alex? Is everything okay?
Yep, everything is fine.
You sure? Have I said or done anything to upset you?
No, Toni, everything is okay. I'm just tired, is all.
Then he'd flashed her a tight smile that looked sincere but was hollow.
How could you get past that? How many times could you ask without being a nag? Once you'd asked and been answered, how much could you harp on it? Wasn't it his responsibility? If he said everything was all right, didn't she have to accept that?
Well, with men, no. Not in her experience. They weren't wired the same way as women. They'd say one thing and mean something else entirely.
Who could she talk to about this? She had girlfriends who would listen and offer advice, back in the States. Or maybe she could call her mother. What was the time difference between Paris and the Bronx?
Six hours? It would be nine o'clock at night there, Mama would probably be dozing out in front of the flatscreen TV by now. Besides, this wasn't really the kind of thing you talked about with Mama. She'd been dealing with Papa for so long there was only one way to do such things in her mind, and besides that, Toni doubted if Papa had ever voiced a complex emotional thought to anybody in his whole life: Whaddya, some kinda sissy goes around whining about your feelings? Geddoutta here.
No, she'd just have to deal with this on her own, somehow. When she got back to London, she'd find some time — would make some time — to sit down with Alex and get him to open up. They'd get it worked out. She loved him, he loved her. How hard could it be as long as they had that?
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Angela's flat was one of a row on Denbigh Street, a small place, but very neat and clean: a sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. And she did have a massage table set up in the small sitting room. Michaels remarked on that: Did she do so much massage that she left the table out all the time?
No, she'd said. She'd gotten it out and put it up just today.
A small alarm went off in his head. Uh-oh.
She handed him a bedsheet. "Take off your clothes and lie facedown," she said. "Cover up with this. I'll get out of my work clothes and put on something less constricting."
She moved off into the bedroom, and Michaels found himself standing in the apartment of an attractive women he barely knew, holding a folded sheet, contemplating the removal of his clothes.
This was a bad idea.
Then again, she did have a real massage table, and she did seem to know a lot about bodywork.
He blew out a deep breath. What the hell.
He stripped to his underwear — a pair of black silk bikini briefs Toni had bought for him — stretched out on the table facedown, and pulled the sheet over himself.
When Angela came back into the room, she wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a tank top.
Sweatpants. Sweatpants were good.
"Ready?"
"Sure."
She started by digging her elbow into his upper back, and after a couple of minutes, he relaxed into it. Some tiny part of him was maybe a little bit disappointed — it was going to be a massage — but the larger part of him felt relief. She was bright and beautiful, but his life was already complicated enough. A back rub wasn't something he had to lose any sleep over.
She spent about thirty minutes working on his back. She moved to his legs, and he felt himself tense a little, but Angela was matter-of-fact about it, pummeling his hamstrings hard enough to be slightly painful, uncovering one leg at a time and folding the sheet so that the rest of him was under the thin cloth.
She worked on his feet and calves, then moved to his butt, hands under the sheet. "This won't do," she said, and she peeled his briefs off, slid them quickly over his legs and his feet.
"Uh… Angela…?"
"Relax, Alex. I can't work the muscle properly if it's covered up."
He tried to relax, but with her fingers stroking his ass that was hard.
And, unfortunately, that soon wasn't the only thing hard about him.
But at least he was facedown, so that wasn't embarrassing, just a little uncomfortable.
After five minutes of kneading his buttocks, he was beginning to relax again when she said, "Okay, turn over."
"Excuse me?"
"The back is only half of you. I need to work the front."
Crap. How could he say this? About his, ah, current condition? "Uh, well, I, uh, well, turning over might be kind of, that is—"
"Got a bit excited? Don't worry about that, Alex. I've done this before. It happens all the time."
She lifted up the sheet. "Turn, I'll hold this."
He wasn't thrilled with the idea of rolling onto his back and showing her where his mind had gone. When she let go of the sheet, it was going to look like a tent. But all right, fine. He kept his eyes closed and rolled over.
"My. How lovely," she said.
He opened his eyes as Angela dropped the sheet to the floor and climbed onto the table to straddle him.
Her sweatpants were gone — how had she done that? — and she wasn't wearing anything under them. In another second, he was going to be wearing her, and he knew if that happened, his mind would shut down completely. He would be lost.
"Hey, Angela?"
"Mmm?"
"Look, I really can't do this."
"You obviously can. And certainly you want to. I can tell." She pointed at him.
"Yes. But the thing is, I can't. I'm involved."
"She'll never find out from me. Nobody will ever know."
He shook his head. "I'll know."
She leaned back, looked down at him. "You sure about this?"
He sighed. "Yeah."
Michaels came out of a troubled doze back in his room with the sound of his virgil playing "Bad to the Bone." Man, was that ever true.
Toni!
Oh, man!
He was in deep shit now.
The virgil kept telling him it was b-b-b-bad, and he got up and went to find it. Yeah, okay, he hadn't actually done anything, but he should never have gone to Angela's flat, he knew at the time it was wrong, and he had done it anyway. And if they could hang you for thinking, he'd be swinging by now. The last thing he wanted to do now was talk to anybody, and especially he did not want to talk to Toni.
He left the visual off. "Hello?"
"Hey, boss."
Jay Gridley. Thank God. "Jay. How are you?"
"Doing a lot better. I tracked down the security program that thumped my head and wrecked it."
"Congratulations."
"This is the easy part, boss. I still have to find the guy who created it. But it ought to be easier with this out of the way."
"Good."
"Uh, is, uh, Toni around?"
Michaels felt a cold hand squeeze his guts. "Ah, no. She's in Paris. Be back this afternoon."
"I'll give her a call, there's some stuff in her files here I need to access."
"Fine."
"How's London? You having a good time?"
Was he having a good time? Well, no, not exactly. He was busy becoming the biggest, unfaithful, lying turd in all the world. All right, technically he wasn't unfaithful, but it sure felt as if he had been. He'd been inches away from it.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm having a great time. Talk to you later, Jay. Keep me advised."
He shut off his virgil. Jesus Christ. How could he have been so fucking stupid? A few drinks, some good food, and a massage didn't sound so awful. His neck had been sore, right? Taking off your clothes in front of a doctor or a massage therapist, there wasn't any harm in that. But the thought that it might continue into something had rattled around in his head, he had to admit it. It was only by the slimmest margin that he could claim any kind of victory, and it felt more like a loss.
He was going to have to tell Toni about it, of course.
The question was: How was he going to tell Toni? Oh, by the way, while you were in Paris? I dropped round Angela's place, took off my clothes, let her rub my back, and almost let her rub my front?
When was that going to come up in conversation?
Man.
Chapter 28
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Goswell glanced over the top of his Times at Sir Harold Bellworth, who sat brooding at his cigar, which had gone out from lack of attention. The old boy had called for Paddington to fetch him another match, and Goswell figured this was a good time to broach the subject he had in mind.
"I say, Harry?"
Bellworth looked up from his dead cigar. "What? Eh?"
"You recall that business you had with that… Armenian fellow a few months ago?"
Bellworth snorted. "I could hardly forget that! Blasted damned rogue, the man was, mucking about in my business!"
"I heard he met with an… unfortunat
e accident, the Armenian."
"I should say he did. Fell off of a platform in the tube station and was squashed by a train. Served him right, and no loss to the world at all, damned foreigner!"
Goswell waited as Paddington returned. Paddington struck a match against the box, let it flare, then bent and held it so Bellworth could rekindle his Cuban torpedo. A cloud of fragrant smoke billowed as the old boy puffed the cigar back to life.
"Decent of you, Paddington," Bellworth said.
Paddington moved the ash tray a hair closer — Bellworth was notorious for flicking the cigar residue onto the rug. "Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, no, this will do it."
"Very good, sir."
Paddington ghosted away.
Bellworth looked back to Goswell. "Why on earth are you bringing up such a distasteful subject, Gossie?"
"Well, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I have a somewhat similar problem myself. I do believe I need someone… discreet to handle it for me."
Bellworth took another puff, held the cigar away, peered at the lit end, and nodded through the gray cloud. "You have your own people to attend to such things, surely?"
"I'm afraid one of my own people is the problem. Having one of his underlings take care of him wouldn't do at all, would it?"
"Heavens, no, bad for morale and all that, I understand completely. Well, then, shall I put in a call to my fellow, have him ring you up?"
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Harry."
"Not at all, not at all, consider it done. Now, what do you make of Lord Cleese's proposal about bringing back the poorhouses? I thought it was rather a clever idea myself."
Goswell smiled. Here was a subject on which they could certainly agree. Putting the poor to work instead of carrying them on the dole. Bloody Socialists would be the death of the country, if somebody didn't stop them, and such suggestions were, for Goswell's money, right on the mark. It would never happen, of course. The bloody Socialists would have bloody conniptions if anybody tried, but still and all, it would shake people if Parliament actually considered such a thing. Indeed it would.
It would seem he was going to have to take direct control of his own personal war on the world's foolishness, given as how his primary tools had somehow gotten bent. He sighed. One should expect such things in this day and age, but they still came as rather a surprise. You simply could not get dependable help these days, not of the caliber that once was. Such a pity.