Night Moves nf-3

by Tom Clancy

  Good bloody reason for that, Peel thought. Then another thought popped up. " 'Apparent external lines,' you said?"

  Bascomb-Coombs had his visual mode off, but Peel could almost see him smile. "Very good, Terrance. Naturally, I have a few digital and microwave transceiver links carefully hidden around the hardware. Even a landline wired into the power supply, if anybody thinks to use jammers. They'd have to take it down to the floor-boards to cut off my connection, and since they don't know it's there, they won't. If they shut it off, they know they might not ever be able to get it up and running again."

  "I see. And what does this mean?"

  "I believe we shall have to deal with the old boy. Using your area of expertise."

  "You think so?"

  "I'm afraid I do. I must ring off now, but I'll call you back shortly. Give it some thought, would you?"

  The scientist broke the connection. Peel stared at the wall of his office.

  God, the man had brass balls. Here he was, trying to have Peel himself iced and pretending as if nothing had happened as he ordered him to kill their mutual employer. Bloody nerve, all right.

  He would, Peel realized, be better off with both of them gone. Bascomb-Coombs had to depart this mortal coil, of course; a man who tried to have you assassinated could hardly be allowed to live. And Goswell might be in his dotage, but he wasn't completely senile. Sooner or later, he might tumble to the fact that his security chief had sold him out to the mad scientist, and that would be extremely bad. He doubted the old man would reach for his black powder shotgun to blast him, but certainly he would be able to see to it that Peel never worked in the U.K. again. With a million in the bank, such a thing hadn't worried him, but if the money was no more than a ruse by Bascomb-Coombs, then Peel would be, in a word, screwed.

  If Bascomb-Coombs went missing and his lordship fell over with a stroke or heart attack, then Peel would be in the clear, nobody to tell tales. He might not be rich, but he would still be marketable. With a spotless record under his lordship, some other rich fool would find him worthy.

  Victory was better than defeat, but there were times when you had to cut your losses and retreat, to survive long enough to try another tack. He had pulled in Ruzhyo because he needed a goat for taking out the old man; but now, given the change of situation, it was better that Goswell die of natural causes, so his security chief wouldn't look bad.

  Bascomb-Coombs would simply disappear in such a way that nobody would ever find him.

  Peel smiled. Yes, this was all unfortunate but not beyond repair. Time to fix things and get on with it. Kill them all — God will know his own. One of the early Popes had said that, hadn't he? Better them than me.

  Chapter 34

  Wednesday, April 13th

  London, England

  During a lull in the increasingly frantic activity at MI- 6, Toni got on the com to call Carl Stewart.

  "Hello?"

  "Carl?"

  "Ah, Toni. How are you?"

  "Fine. Look, I'm up to my eyebrows in work, and I can't see any way to get out of it for class tonight. Sorry."

  "Not a problem. We'll miss you, but I understand."

  "Thanks."

  After a short pause, he said, "Well, you do have to eat, though, don't you? Perhaps we can have lunch or dinner later this week?"

  Toni's stomach did a small lurch. It wasn't the words but the tone of them that raised the alarm. Was he asking her out on a date? That would have been her most direct question, but Toni wasn't quite ready to ask it. Should she follow that up? Or brush it off? It was moot if she said she was too busy. But, no. She had been doing more waffling lately than she liked. It was time to start facing these things head-on.

  "Are we talking about two silat students getting together for a bite, Carl? Or are we talking about something else?"

  "Well, I was thinking along the lines of two people who found each other's company interesting and who had a deep interest—pentjak silat—in common."

  A date.

  Toni's knee-jerk response was to tell him she was involved with somebody and decline politely. The window for her comment opened… and stayed open. He was a vital man, attractive, and he had a skill she much admired. If she and Stewart went to the gelanggang—the fighting floor — for a serious match, he would win; she did not doubt it. She couldn't say that about many people she knew. She was sure that even her own guru, now in her eighties, was no longer up to her level, and she was pretty confident she could keep up with most martial artists, men or women, when it came to one-on-one, however egotistical that might be. But she knew she couldn't defeat Carl. And that was, in its way, a large part of the attraction. She had a momentary vision of what it might be like to lie naked on a bed with this powerful and skilled man, and it was not an unattractive daydream. Not at all unattractive.

  She felt a shard of guilt stab her. "I'm pretty much involved with Alex, Carl, and I appreciate it, but I think maybe we ought to keep things strictly professional."

  "Ah, too bad. But certainly I understand. I appreciate your candor. Do let me know when you can come back to class."

  "I will. Thanks."

  After she hung up, Toni had a sick feeling, a cold stirring in her gut. It had, for a moment, been tempting. More so than she wanted to admit. She could have gone down that path, and it bothered her that she had even considered it. She admired Carl, maybe even had a bit of lust for him, but she loved Alex, and there was a world of difference between those two things. For just a moment there, however, she had wondered, had felt indecision, had considered it.

  "Can't hang you for thinking" was an old saying that was true because nobody could know what was in your mind, but you couldn't fool yourself for very long. How could it have even crossed her mind? This was bad. Bad.

  Wednesday, April 13th

  The Yews, Sussex, England

  Ruzhyo adjusted the 9mm Firestar pistol in the clip-on holster on his hip under his windbreaker, canting the butt forward slightly to make it more comfortable. The previous handgun Peel had furnished him, the American-made Italian.22, was at the bottom of the Thames, wiped clean and broken into pieces, the frame and the barrel of which were separated by more than two miles. If anybody happened to dredge the parts up before they rusted out, assembled them, and if they ran ballistic tests and determined that the bullet in the dead man in the bookstore had come from the pistol, it wouldn't matter, since there was nothing to connect Ruzhyo to it. But if you left nothing to chance, then chance would not be so likely to sneak up behind you and fasten its teeth in your back.

  He did not much care for the new weapon, but he could use it. It was solid, well-made, a single-action, chrome-plated steel semiautomatic that operated much like the old Colt.45 military models, a reliable, small, if somewhat heavy, piece. The gun carried seven jacketed hollowpoints in the magazine and one more in the chamber with special, scored noses that would expand in a human, causing much damage. The thing had not been designed to punch paper at a range or to plink old cans in the woods but to shoot soft targets and seriously damage or kill them.

  Ruzhyo smiled. For the last several years, especially in the U.S., gun makers had been under legal attacks by antigun forces. The more recent tactic had been to sue the manufacturers for not providing adequate safety devices or warnings of danger. He could not believe how foolish this was. Carried to its extreme, there would be similar warnings necessary for automobiles, knives, even matches: Caution! You might be killed if you collide with a big truck while driving this small car! Warning! This knife has a sharp edge. Do not press it against your throat! Danger! Matches can create fire that can burn you!

  This gun labeling scheme seemed to him monumentally stupid to anyone with half a working brain. It was one thing to require a lock that children could not easily open, another thing to stamp on the barrel of a gun: Caution! Do not point at someone and pull the trigger! Anybody who did not understand what a gun was and what it did would not be able to read such a warning anyhow
. It reminded him of the old advertisement that used to be on the electric buses in Chetsnya when he'd been young: "Are you illiterate? If so, please contact…"

  The 9mm would do the job for Ruzhyo, and there was the umbrella to back it up. In addition, he had bought a Benchmade tactical folder, a knife that could be flicked open with a thumb, to lock its four-inch tanto-point blade rigidly into place. Given the local laws, with two guns and a knife, he was probably armed better than almost anybody walking around in this country, including most police officers. As he had in the Nevada desert, Ruzhyo felt the need to have the weapons. Things were about to go bad here; he could feel it.

  He considered leaving. Simply catching a boat or train or plane for a short hop out of the country, then heading home, staying on the round to avoid directional tracking. He could do it, and Peel wouldn't miss him in time to stop him, even if he wanted to.

  Ruzhyo, however, was tired. And looking over his shoulder made him more tired. He had the Americans back there somewhere, and eventually they might figure out how to track him. He did not need another enemy dogging his trail. No, he would finish this business with Peel first, and when he left, it would be on his own terms. One way or another, he would resolve things. Once he was home, then what came, came, and he would deal with it.

  Peel came out of the converted church and nodded in his direction before setting off for his own car. Ruzhyo nodded in return and started his car's engine. They were going back to see the computer scientist where Ruzhyo had spotted the surveillance that had ended with a dead man in a bookstore. Apparently, Major Peel had plans for the man in that building that Mr. Bascomb-Coombs would not in the least enjoy.

  Ruzhyo didn't care about the scientist. He would stay with Peel until the right opportunity came up, and then he would take his leave. And it would be soon, he reflected as they pulled out of the estate. Soon.

  Wednesday, April 13th

  Washington, D.C.

  There had been an all-hours assembly at school, and when it was done, Tyrone drifted down the hall, waving at Jimmy Joe in passing. The hall-monster, Essay, had indeed been expelled, for at least two weeks, and while there were other denizens to be avoided in the corridors, they weren't in the big idiot's league.

  As he headed for the bus queue, he saw Bella, book reader in hand, walking and laughing with three girlfriends. She spotted him and smiled. "Ty, hey, over here."

  He felt that rush of belly-clenching cold energy that radiated excitement all the way to his groin. He started toward her, holding his steps slow so as not to seem in a hurry. He tried to look sparse, matter-of-fact, and AF — almost frozen, he was so cool. Bella wanted to see him? That was DFF and all, but no huge kluge, hey? Amble. That was the look he wanted; he wanted to amble her way. But he moved maybe a little too fast to pull it off. Kind of a twelve-frames-per-second amble that would look a lot better at twenty-four.

  "Hey, Bella."

  "We're going to the mall. You want to come along?"

  He smiled. And at that second, just when he was about to deliver a liquid-oxy AF "Sure, why not?" he glanced past Bella and saw Nadine walking down the hall.

  Nadine saw him, then looked away.

  Bella caught his look and flicked her own gaze in that direction. It was quick, her peek, and she pretended not to notice, but Tyrone got it. Nadine had been inspected, stamped failed, and dismissed, all in a half-second glance, and thank you very much.

  And all of a sudden, Tyrone Howard, pushing fourteen, found himself at the crossroads of the rest of his life. Looming here were two paths at right angles to each other, and not likely he would be able to switch from one to the other once he made his choice.

  You got the com in your hand, Tyrone. Who are you gonna call?

  Maybe he could still do both. He said, "Why don't I meet you at the bus? I got something I have to take care of first."

  Bella might not be the brightest diode on the board, but she wasn't so dim she couldn't see immediately what he was doing. She let him know she knew, too: "We're going to the mall now, Ty." What was left unsaid, was Now or never, Tyrone. Your call.

  Well… shit. It would be great to be able to have his cake and eat it, too, but that wasn't gonna happen, no way, no how, DSS — data scrambled, stupid.

  The moment stretched for a couple million years. He felt like he was going to explode. Damn, damn, damn!

  You could skulk one or you could skulk the other, but you didn't get both.

  Hell with it. He made his decision. "Nadine! Hey, Nadine! Hold up a second!"

  Nadine turned, surprised, he could see. He didn't dare look back at Bella, though he wanted to see her face. He'd been given a second chance to get into paradise, and he'd just put it in the trash and emptied that sucker. He wanted to run and hide.

  Nadine smiled, and her face didn't seem so plain. When he got there, she said, "Your girlfriend just left without you. Didn't look real happy, either."

  He shrugged. "So what?" He felt bad, but he also felt good at the same time. "How's the arm? You want to go throw some?"

  "You sure about this?"

  "I'm sure."

  The smile got bigger. "My arm is a lot better now. Yeah. Let's go throw."

  As he walked along next to her, Tyrone felt his own smile begin. Something his dad had told him. When you do the right thing, it almost always feels better than when you don't.

  Score another one for the old man.

  Chapter 35

  Thursday, April 14th Upper Cretaceous

  What will be Western France

  "Looks as if it can swim," Saji said.

  Jay pulled the Humvee to a halt and shut the engine off. The monster's tracks led to the edge of a sea and disappeared into the water. Small, silky waves with pristine whitecaps rolled machinelike tubes onto the shore. "Looks like," he said.

  "What now?"

  "We change vehicles. Boat or helicopter. I'm favoring the copter."

  "I can understand that. Better to be a few hundred feet above it than sailing along and having it come up under us like Moby-Dick."

  Jay nodded. "The disadvantage is that we can arm the boat better than we can the helicopter. We're limited to weapons we can physically carry, so if we see it from the air, one of us has to lean out and shoot at it. You don't want a rocket launcher going off inside a copter. The exhaust gases would cook us as dead as if we got hit by the rocket itself."

  "There's a pleasant image. Why the limits on weaponry?"

  "Well. Even in sim, you have to think about what the real situation is like. This thing is bigger and stronger and faster than we are, and we can't just lob a nuke at it, 'cause we don't have one vis a vis the hardware and software we are up against." He stepped out of the car and looked at the shore. He pulled a GPS handheld from his jacket and consulted it. "This is a cheat in this scenario," he said. "I should be looking at a paper map, since there are no global positioning satellites in this time. But we can get away with this. Not with a Seawolf-class sub, though. Too bad. And I'm not really sure this body of water would be here, either. My knowledge of geological history is not that great."

  Saji climbed out of the car, stretched, and said, "Where is here?"

  "Coast of France. What will be Great Britain is over the horizon thataway."

  "So in RW, that's where the trail leads?"

  "That's what it looks like, yeah."

  "Is that any help to your theory?"

  Jay nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

  "Are we going after it?"

  "Oh, yeah. I want to drop out of VR for a while to check some stuff and give the boss a call, first. I think it would be a good idea to run my theory past him. Just in case."

  Thursday, April 14th

  MI-6, London, England

  In the MI-6 conference room, Michaels sat waiting for Jay's visual to appear on the call-waiting holoproj that floated bluely over the table. With him were Toni, Howard, Fernandez, and Angela Cooper.

  Michaels said, "I wanted you all to hear this, s
o I had them route Jay's com in here. We'll get to him in a minute. Any other business in the meanwhile?"

  Howard said, "We've got an appointment to see the retired major out at his employer's estate in…" he looked down at his flatscreen."… in Sussex this afternoon."

  "A lovely drive," Angela said. "Beautiful country, if somewhat narrow roads."

  "No more attacks on major webs or military systems to note," Toni said. "Looks as if our hacker has backed off, at least for the time being."

  "I'll take any good news I can get," Michaels said. "Let's get Jay off hold."

  The holoproj flickered, and Jay Gridley's face appeared in the air. "Hey, boss." His voice sounded almost normal, just a trace of a slur. He was recovering fast.

  "Jay. This is Angela Cooper, of MI-6. You know everybody else."

  Jay murmured greetings.

  "Okay, tell us what you've got."

  Jay sighed. "Well, it's not much. We — I have been on the program's track, and it looks as if it's leading in your direction. Could be passing through, could be it lives there, I dunno. I'll get back after it as soon as we discom.

  "I've been thinking about the problem. No working computers we know about could brute force prime number encoding the way this thing has, even working in multiple-series-parallel, so it's got to be something else. The first thing that comes to mind when you ask yourself what kind of computer could do it is, of course, a QC — a quantum computer. We talked about that before. The thing is, none of those are past the small experimental stages, so none of them would have the power needed to pull off what has happened."

  "I'm dense," Fernandez said. "What is a quantum computer?"

  Jay gave them a short lecture, explaining about Qubits and multiple quantum states. Michaels was familiar with the concept, but, as Jay had pointed out, nobody had come up with a full-size working QC, so it wasn't something they had seriously considered.

  "But what if somebody had one?" Jay continued. "A fully operational model? Something with a hundred or two hundred Qubits? It would blow through prime-number encryptions like a tornado through a straw house."