Night Moves nf-3

by Tom Clancy

  He couldn't have sworn to it on a Bible in a court of law, but that little exchange between Michaels and Cooper told Howard something he'd just as soon not know, too: These two had something going on together. And more than that, from how she acted, Toni Fiorella didn't know it.

  Oh, boy. All of a sudden, Howard was very glad he was not Alex Michaels. Very glad.

  Tuesday, April 12th

  London, England

  Ruzhyo saw the shooter the second he opened his car door.

  It was good luck, really; he'd just happened to be right next to the car and looking that way as he walked along twelve or thirteen meters behind Peel. If he hadn't looked at just that instant, it might have been too late, but he had seen the glint of sunlight on stainless steel as the man pulled his jacket shut to hide the handgun tucked into his waistband on his right side. Half a second later, he'd have missed that and not known for sure the shooter was anything other than just another pedestrian hurrying to a late appointment or to pick up something before the shops closed.

  The shooter came out only a meter or so behind Ruzhyo, who just kept walking, drifting to his right slightly, as if window-shopping at a hat store. The shooter, a tallish man with thinning, sandy hair, dressed in a windbreaker over a tan polo shirt, khaki slacks, and running shoes, walked past, intent on his target.

  Ruzhyo glanced around. He didn't see a backup man. He moved away from the window and onto the shooter's tail, hurrying his pace. He reached down to where his mobile phone was clipped to his belt and tapped the "send" button.

  The number was preprogrammed, one of two Peel had given him, and the mobile phone on Peel's belt would now be vibrating with the call. Nobody else had the number, Peel had told him, and if it vibrated, that meant Ruzhyo had spotted a deadly threat too close to use the other number to call and talk about it.

  Peel made an immediate right turn and into the door of the closest shop. A bookstore.

  The shooter angled that way to follow.

  Ruzhyo speeded up so that he reached the bookstore's door half a meter behind the shooter. It would be easy enough to blast the shooter and put him down and out, but they wanted to keep him alive long enough to find out who had sent him. That might be a little trickier on the street, but inside a shop, with fewer witnesses, it should be easier.

  Peel knew what was needed, and he quickly led his would-be assassin down an empty aisle bounded by tall shelves of musty books. Before the shooter could get to his weapon, Ruzhyo got to him. He shoved the little Beretta into the shooter's spine and said, "Move and you die."

  The shooter was a pro. He froze.

  "Clear," Ruzhyo said.

  Peel turned around, his hand under his sport coat at the right hip. He smiled. "Henry? I thought you retired? "

  The sandy-haired man said, "I should have, so it seems."

  "Bit late now," Peel said. "Let's go somewhere and have a little chat, shall we?"

  "That won't do, Terry, you know that."

  "You can't win, Henry. My man there is ex-Spetsnaz. He can make you a paraplegic and we still get to have our talk. Why don't we keep it civilized? We might even be able to work something out so that nobody has to feed the worms."

  "Really, Terry, I hoped you'd think better of me than that—

  With that, Henry leaped to the side, a move unexpected enough so that Ruzhyo's shot missed his spine and punched a small hole over the man's left kidney. The blast was loud, channeled by the books and shelves so that it lapped back over the three men. They had a few seconds left to finish this at most.

  "Alive!" Peel shouted, pulling his own gun.

  Ruzhyo tracked Henry's right hand, knowing that was the one closest to his hidden pistol. He would shoot for the hand, and if he missed, an abdominal shot with a.22 wouldn't be immediately fatal.

  Maybe Henry realized he couldn't get his own pistol out fast enough to outshoot them. He didn't even try. Instead, he shoved his left wrist to his mouth and bit down on his watch band. Ruzhyo knew what the move meant, and apparently, so did Peel, who said, "Bugger all!"

  Ruzhyo put his pistol back into his pocket, turned, and headed for the exit at a fast walk. Peel was right behind him. People, even bookworms, would come to see what the noise was about.

  Whatever poison pill Henry had just bitten into was undoubtedly fast-acting, and there was no way to torture information from a man who would rather kill himself than reveal it. A pro, all right. Henry would probably be dead before any medical help could reach him, and beyond help in any event. Ruzhyo respected a man who died well. If you knew your time was up, it was better go out the way you elected to leave. You lost the war, but if you could cheat your enemy of anything at that point, you could carry some small satisfaction with you to your grave.

  Outside, on the sidewalk again and moving moderately fast but not running, Peel gained past Ruzhyo and headed for his car. He said, "I rather liked old Henry. A shame."

  As he followed him, Ruzhyo considered how he was going to rid himself of the Beretta. He would have to lose it somewhere as soon as possible. A man was dead in a bookstore, and it would be poison that caused his demise, but even a hollowpoint sometimes retained enough of itself to be matched ballistically to the gun that had fired it. And a gun that could be connected to a dead man was a bad talisman to have around.

  Chapter 31

  Tuesday, April 12th

  Washington, D.C.

  Jay brought Saji a glass of water, shook his head, and said, "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

  Seated in the overstuffed chair, she smiled. "More than I should, yes."

  He went to sit on the beat-up gray leather couch he'd bought at a garage sale. There was a faint smell of patchouli in the air. Her perfume? Residue from incense clinging to her hair? God, she was gorgeous. "I should know better after all my years on the net, but I didn't expect this."

  "Does it bother you that much?"

  He thought about it for a second. "No. Not really. It's the mind that matters, not the body."

  "That's to your credit, Jay. You really believe it. If I had known that when we met, I wouldn't have bothered with the disguise."

  "So satisfy my curiosity — why did you?"

  She swirled the ice cubes in her glass. "You want the quick answer or the lecture?"

  "Oh, go for the lecture. Condensed books are usually boring."

  She smiled. "All right. Buddhism is like a lot of traditional religions in that, for a long time, virtually all of the ranking practitioners were men. Oh, there have always been nuns and women laity who walked the path as well as any man, but for a lot of folks even now, there is a gender bias. And in most traditional holy books — the Bible, the Koran, the Upanishads, and most Buddhist literature — when women are referred to at all, it is with a paternalistic and condescending tone, even while supposedly singing their praises: Women are the keepers of life, the bearers of children, the weaker, needs-to-be-protected-from-the-harsh-world sex. Blah, blah, blah. Most old-style religions see women more as property than as people. A man has a farm, goats, cattle, and a wife. Women have had the vote in this country for less than a hundred years. You still with me?"

  "Flow on, I'm here."

  "Okay. So, the philosophies want to keep the girls barefoot and pregnant, tending the home fires while serious business is conducted by the boys. With few exceptions — various kinds of Goddess worship and Wicca and the like — until very recently, women were not really considered major players when it came to doctrine or practice, even in the more "neutral" religions. There still aren't any Catholic priests who are women. In some of the Moslem countries, women still can't show their faces in public. It isn't as bad in Buddhism as some of the other religions, and great strides have been made in the last hundred years, but there is still a kind of unspoken belief among serious students that women aren't quite as good at it as men. Physicality discounted, women don't think the same way as men. Female chess players at the highest levels don't beat the male champions. Mos
t men are better in spatial tests, in pure left-brain thinking, than women. Men — and some women — see this as reason that they should be in charge. Equality has been a long time coming, and in most places it still does not truly exist."

  Jay nodded. He knew this. And he could see where it was going, but he said, "Still here."

  "In a lot of circles, if they think you're an old man, you get a lot more respect than if they think you're a young woman. Truth is truth, but a lot of people look to see who delivers it before they accept it. You know the old Hollywood joke about the producer and the writer? The writer sends in a script to the producer who is in a hurry for it. Weeks pass, the producer doesn't call back. Finally, the writer calls him. Says, 'Well, did you read the script?' 'Yeah, I read it.' 'So, what did you think?' The producer says, 'I dunno what I think. Nobody else has read it yet.' "

  She shook her head. "That's how it works in religion sometimes. If you have a choice between a seventy-year-old man and a twenty-something girl offering nuggets of wisdom, when push comes to shove, you pick the old guy. Old and wise are better than young and stupid."

  "That's dumb," Jay said. "If you can walk the walk as good as an old guy, it shouldn't matter. It's what you say, not who says it that counts."

  She rewarded him with a big smile. "I love you. Marry me," she said.

  He blinked. "Huh?"

  She laughed, a deep and melodious sound. "We'll get back to that part of the Dharma later. How goes the monster hunt?"

  He sighed. "About to get really scary."

  "That's why I'm here. I think I should go with you."

  Wednesday, April 13th

  London, England

  Stephens drove the Bentley along at a proper pace toward the computerworks. Goswell reclined in back, the scent of fresh mink oil hand rubbed into the leather a familiar and pleasing smell. Traffic was, as usual, awful, but Stephens was quite capable of dealing with anything London could throw at him. Goswell leaned back and enjoyed the ride.

  A short while later, Stephens said, "Milord. There is a telephone call for you. Sir Harold."

  "Yes, I'll take it."

  Stephens passed over a mobile phone. "Hallo, Harry."

  "Hallo, Gossie. Out and about, are we?"

  "In the car, yes. Off for a bit of an inspection tour of one of the facilities. Can't let the help get too complacent, can we?"

  "Certainly not. Er… I say, Gossie… that is, hmm."

  "Something bothering you, Harry?"

  "Well, yes. You had a conversation with a man by the name of, er… Pound-Sand recently? Regarding a matter of some delicacy of which we spoke at the club?"

  "I do recall that, yes."

  "Er, well, it seems that Mr. Pound-Sand has… passed away."

  "Oh, dear."

  "Yes. Quite unexpectedly."

  "A sudden illness?"

  "Very sudden, I'm afraid. I am given to understand that it happened even as he was attending to that very matter of delicacy. That, er, it was a more or less direct result of that very thing."

  "How unfortunate."

  "Isn't it just."

  "Well, these things happen."

  "Yes. Would you like for me to give Mr. Pound-Sand's associates a jingle? See if one of them might be interested in continuing the matter?"

  Goswell thought about it for a second. "That's decent of you, Harry, but perhaps we should wait a bit on that."

  "As you feel best, Gossie. I'm awfully sorry about this."

  "Tut, tut, not your fault at all, Harry. It's obvious I underestimated the difficulty of the problem, myself. Think no more about it."

  As Goswell handed the mobile back to Stephens, however, he thought about it. So, Mr. Pound-Sand was now Mr. Pushing-up-the-Daisies. Which meant that Peel was either lucky or good, or perhaps both. On the one hand, that gave Goswell a certain feeling of pride, that his man was adept enough to thwart an assassination by another professional. On the other hand, that also meant Peel would now be on his guard more than ever, and if he had been difficult to remove before, he would be doubly so now.

  Hmm. That was certainly food for thought, wasn't it?

  "We're very nearly there, milord."

  "What? Oh, yes. Quite."

  Well. One thing at a time. First he would be certain that Bascomb-Coombs was out of the loop. Then he would figure out a way to deal with the turncoat Peel.

  Wednesday, April 13th

  MI-6, London, England

  "We got a break, Colonel," Fernandez said.

  Howard looked up from the stack of reports he was reading. They were in Michaels's temporary office, and the commander and his second were down the hall talking to one of the MI-6 higher-ups.

  "How so?"

  "Miz Cooper just came up with this." He passed a hardcopy wax-laser drum photograph over.

  Howard looked at the wazer image. "Ruzhyo!"

  "Yes, sir." There was a long pause.

  "All right, Sergeant, get off the dime. Where and when?"

  "Sir." He grinned. "Yesterday the London police were called to an incident at a small bookstore near Piccadilly Circus. They found a body on the floor, shot. The dead man is one Henry Wyndham, a former MI-5 agent who ran a 'security service.' Cooper says that the local authorities suspect Wyndham was a high-priced and very discreet ice man for rich clients, but nobody has ever been able to pin him down. Turns out the bullet didn't kill him, he apparently croaked from a fast-acting poison. This picture was from the store's occult door cam, one of two men who left about the time patrons heard the shot. Here's the other man."

  Fernandez offered another picture.

  "Anybody we know?"

  "Not us. Cooper is working on an ID."

  Howard nodded. "So, he's still in London. And he just killed somebody. I wonder why."

  "Why he's here? Or why he killed somebody?"

  "Both."

  "Well, it could be a coincidence, he just happened to be browsing for a nice Agatha Christie novel to while away the hours when somebody got capped the next aisle over."

  "Right. Can we backtrack the dead man?"

  "Cooper is working on that, too, sir."

  Howard nodded again. "Good. Would it do us any good to go and talk to the bookstore employees?"

  "Cooper is sending over the police reports, says we can access 'em on the computer in a couple of minutes. But she says nobody saw the two men come in or leave."

  "I bet the late Mr. Wyndham saw them come in."

  "But not leave. The cops haven't seen anything like this before. The dead guy was armed. The guess is, somebody shoved a gun into his back, he tried to get out of the way. He took a small-caliber round at contact range, probably a.22, and it wouldn't have killed him, the examiner said. But he musta figured he was gonna lose, so he erased himself. The poison was one of the new explosive-pellet neurotoxins. Guy had ninety seconds once he bit the capsule and it spewed."

  "Interesting."

  "Yeah, ain't it?"

  "Well, don't just stand there, go see if Ms. Cooper can find some use for you. He's close, Julio. We're going to get him. I can feel it."

  "Yeah."

  Wednesday, April 13th

  Washington, D.C.

  It was sunny, no wind, a perfect day for working the 'rangs, and Tyrone headed for the soccer field, full of himself. Bella had given her smile back to him, she wanted him around, wanted to see him, had invited him to her house this very evening! Life was better than good; life was great.

  When he arrived at the field there, Tyrone saw Nadine. Dee-eff-eff!

  But when he got to where Nadine was, she was already packing up.

  "Hey, Nadine."

  "Hey, Tyrone."

  "Where you going?"

  "My arm's a little sore. I don't want to overtrain."

  "I've got some ibuprofen gel."

  "That's okay. I got some at home. See you."

  Something was wrong, he could feel it, but he couldn't see what it was. "You okay?"

  She looked
him straight in the eyes. "I told you my arm was sore. You forget to turn on your implant?" There was a definite hard edge in her voice.

  "Whoa, dial it down, I wasn't calling you a preva, I was just asking, that's all."

  She went back to loading her backpack. "Why do you care? You don't need to be skulking with people like me. You got Belladonna."

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  She jammed the pack shut, lifted it, swung it over her shoulder. "C'mon, Tyrone, you know what it means. You sweat with the jocks, you don't hunch chair with the gamers. You breakfast with the dressers, you don't eat lunch at the scuzz table."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You gonna make me say it, aren't you? You skulk beautiful, you don't skulk ugly."

  "Who is ugly?"

  She gave him a sad smile, a little one. "You telling me I'm in Bella's league, Ty? You'd rather be seen with me than with her?"

  He was stunned. He couldn't get his mind on-line. Why was Nadine babbling on about this? Of course Bella was prettier. She was prettier than everybody in the school! What was the point?

  He was trying to figure out what Nadine meant, and what he should say, when she shook her head. "Yeah, I hear the dial tone. Copy you later, Ty."

  She slipped her other arm into the backpack and walked away.

  He watched her go, and while he hadn't done anything wrong he could think of, he felt guilty. Somehow, he had just failed some kind of test, and he didn't even know what it was.

  Damn. He wished his father was home. Dad knew about stuff like this. He needed to talk to him.

  Chapter 32

  Wednesday, April 13th

  MI-6, London, England

  Something was wrong, Toni knew. The small cracks in Alex's facade had been plugged up, spackled over, leaving a solid wall in front of his emotions. It wasn't so much what he said or did, but an unseen but somehow detectable shift in his posture. From her years of martial arts training, she had a tendency to view things in terms of physical engagements. What it felt like was, all of a sudden, Alex stood in a defensive stance. When they'd met, his guard had been up, but he had relaxed it when they'd gotten together, begun to allow her to get closer. Now he was hunched over, face covered, backing away.