by Tom Clancy
The captain shook his head. "Overall, it's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? Aside from the blood, we found no other evidence. There weren't any shell casings."
"Ruzhyo would have picked his up, and I'm assuming Peel is smart enough to have done the same. By the time we catch up to them, the guns used will be long gone, anyway. I don't know much about your Major Peel, but Ruzhyo is very much a professional. He doesn't leave you much to work with."
Ward nodded, as if confirming that he wasn't as concerned with her explanation as that he wanted to hear her reasoning for it. "The scenario you postulate is not impossible. As soon as he figured out with whom he was dealing, Peel would have known about the transponder in their car and disabled it. We've set up road blocks, but we may be behind the curve here."
We're behind the curve, all right. Toni gathered herself and gave Cooper the sweetest smile she could form. "Anything else you need to know, Ms. Cooper?"
"Not at the moment, Ms. Fiorella." Cooper gave Alex a quick look, and in it Toni saw a measure of what she thought might be concern. Pity, even.
So, Cooper had figured out that Toni knew, too. And the British tart was feeling sympathy for Alex because of it. Great. Now we're all just one big, unhappy fucking family.
Michaels pulled his virgil and put in a priority call to Jay Gridley.
"Yeah, boss, what's up?"
"If I gave you an address, a physical address for where this QC hardware might be, would that help you search?"
"Couldn't hurt. Might be able to spot a trail if I'm close enough to it, though there's no guarantee."
"Stand by, I'm uploading it now. We found Bascomb-Coombs and where he works. We can't lay our hands on him just at the moment, but maybe you can figure out something from your end."
"Thanks, boss."
"Be careful, Jay."
"I copy that, decibel and crystal. Discom."
Michaels walked to where Cooper stood. "Does this change things? Can we go to Goswell's and grab Peel?"
"I can check with the DG, but I'm afraid it won't matter. We have missing agents, but not much to tie them to his lordship or even to Peel. For all we know, Peel drove off before they could speak to him, and our men were coincidentally attacked by sheep rustlers."
"Yeah, right."
"Sorry, Alex, but that's how it is. Our hands are tied."
On their way back to the helicopter, Michaels lagged behind. "Hold up a second, Colonel."
Howard slowed.
"Cooper says MI-6's hands are tied. They can't go traipsing into Lord Goswell's estate without an engraved invitation."
"Wonderful," Howard said. His voice dripped sarcasm.
"Colonel, I don't know how good your grapevine is, but I've put you up for a promotion."
Howard hesitated a second, then said, "I had heard the rumor, Commander. Thank you, I appreciate it."
"I mention this only because an international diplomatic incident might squash your chances. Probably would."
Howard grinned. "If that would let me catch Ruzhyo and this mad hacker, I could live with it."
Michaels smiled back at him. "Somehow I knew you'd feel that way. When we get back to MI-6, I think our crew needs to take a break. Go for a ride in the country or something."
"Yes, sir."
Michaels looked at the copter, squinting against the dust blown up by the prop wash. Most of the time, he colored between the lines. Now and then, he had to go outside the boundaries. There was a difference between justice and the law, and sometimes the end did justify the means. Generally, in his line of work, if you took a risk out in territory where your ass was bare and you pulled it off, you could rationalize it afterward. If you failed, you got skewered. They were hunting terrorists, killers both by remote means and with their own hands. The worst that could happen to Michaels if he screwed this up was that they'd fire him in disgrace and put him in jail for twenty or thirty years.
As he watched Toni climb into the helicopter, pointedly not looking at him, he knew there were heavier prices to pay for screwing up — or, in this case, almost screwing somebody.
Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get killed in this clandestine operation.
Thursday, April 14th
Upper Cretaceous
What will be London
On foot, the rocket launcher slung over his shoulder, Jay sniffed the air. The usual jungle odors were there, and there was another smell that washed over the others, insistent in its demand to be noticed. Impossible to ignore, actually.
Next to him, Saji wrinkled her nose and said, "Lord, what is that stench?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it, it's monster shit."
He pointed.
Ahead of them was another thicket of prehistoric jungle, representing reams of coded packets, an electronic locus, a nexus that, in RW, corresponded to a computer company in London. Upon the path that led to that jungle, forming a rough triangle with two huge footprints, was a mound of scat, a pile of reeking excrement, brown, the size of a dumpster, and beset by a flock of busy flies.
Off to the sides of the path were a dozen or so other mounds, dried and hardened into the beginnings of giant coprolites. Welcome to Feek City.
The two of them circled around the fresh deposit. This close, they could see undigested bits of bone stuck in the pile, could feel the heat coming off it. The stink was so thick you could almost lean against it.
Jay said, "Not to pretend I'm any better at cutting sign or anything, but I'm pretty sure it went this way. And I'd bet it came out here to do its business because it lives in there."
Saji stared at the mound. She shook her head. "I don't much like the idea of going in there after it," she said.
Jay unshipped the rocket launcher. "Me, neither. Stand to the side there," he said. He shouldered the weapon, aimed it at the jungle, and squeezed the trigger. The rocket whooshed away on a flaming tail, arced into the woods, and blew apart in a fiery kaboom that spewed leaves and other bits of trees every which way.
"Couple more of those ought to get its attention," Jay said.
Thursday, April 14th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Peel alighted from his car and slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary. He got a grip on his irritation, nodded at Huard, who was standing watch at the rear of the main house, then turned to watch as Ruzhyo got out of the passenger side. The car with the two dead agents in it, along with the gun that killed them, was at the bottom of a thirty-foot-deep sinkhole in a stock pond on one of his lordship's farms in East Sussex, not far from where they'd shot the pair. Well, where Ruzhyo had shot them. The SIS or local police would likely get around to finding the car and its cargo eventually, but probably not immediately. He should have plenty of time to clean up the loose ends and get the hell out of the country. A pity, that, but it was going to be too hot to stay, that was for certain. And while he wouldn't be getting that phantom fortune from the Indonesian bank, Goswell had a safe in his house that would surely yield running-away money. His plan was to ice Goswell, that bastard Bascomb-Coombs, and Ruzhyo — this last with great care, from behind, when he wasn't expecting it. Some artful arranging of the bodies so that it would seem as if the ex-Spetsnaz agent had killed the other two, then been shot by one of his men — Huard, say, who'd have to be iced as well — and Peel would be off. His situation was bad but not fatal, and while he would have preferred that things turned out differently, he could survive it. He was a trained soldier, an officer with command experience in the field. There was always a market for his services somewhere in the third world. He could train an army in one of the CIS countries, or command a battalion in central Africa, or work security for an Arab prince. War dogs were never completely out of fashion, no matter how peaceful things might be. You never knew but that your neighbor was eyeing your territory, and you had to be prepared to protect it, regardless of how wide his smile was or how open his hand seemed.
Not his first choice, but better than the options.
&n
bsp; "Stay here and keep your eyes open," Peel told Ruzhyo.
Ruzhyo saluted with his rolled-up umbrella. He'd likely need that soon: The sky threatened rain, dark clouds rolling in from the North Atlantic in a cool front. Perfect, a storm to make things even gloomier.
Peel walked over to Huard. "Tell the boys to move out to the perimeter," he said. "We might have company. You watch the back door."
"Yes, sir."
Peel headed into the house. He would get it all done. And he'd wait until well after dark, so that he could take off on foot across the fields, just in case anybody was watching the estate. He had to figure that if they knew who he was, at least enough to have an SIS team on him, they knew who he worked for. They wouldn't storm the bloody gates at the Yews, oh, no, but they might be waiting for him to leave. If he hiked out on foot far enough, he could boost a car from one of the neighbors, drive to the south coast, and take one of Goswell's boats across the channel. There was no shame in retreating from a superior force. You could always regroup and come back later. A lost battle was not necessarily a lost war.
Goswell was having a drink in the sitting room. "Hello, Major."
"Your Lordship. Where is Mr. Bascomb-Coombs?"
"Down the hall, in the study, I believe. Playing with his portable computer. I had his access shut off to the special unit, but he has his way around that, I am sure. His portable computer peeped at him, he got quite agitated, and excused himself to go deal with whatever it was. A drink?"
"Splendid idea," he said. Applewhite materialized — too bad he would have to die as well, he liked old Applewhite — and Peel held up two fingers, to indicate the depth of his scotch. Oh, what the hell — he added a third finger. He had to last until dark, didn't he? And it had been a long and trying day. Nobody could blame him for needing a stiff drink.
A sudden breeze rattled the window casement, and the first drops of rain spattered on the glass. Well, it was going to be a stormy evening, to be sure, in more ways than one.
Chapter 39
Thursday, April 14th
En route to the Yews
The Net Force team rode in what Howard called his Mobile On-Scene Command Center — essentially a large RV he had hurriedly rented — with Julio Fernandez driving, and cursing as he did so: "Why don't you stupid bastards drive on the right side of the road!"
The rest of the Strike Team had already piled into cars and trucks at the military base and were on their way to the meeting place — in this case, a fire station in Sussex.
Howard had a computer set up on a small table, and Michaels and Toni sat next to it, watching. Howard brought up an image, an augmented aerial view of a big house and some smaller structures. "This is Goswell's place," he said.
"You get this from MI-6?" Michaels asked.
"No, sir. I had Big Squint — USAT — footprint it this morning."
"Before we knew we were going to do this?" Toni asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Never hurts to keep the six-P principle in mind."
Michaels nodded to himself. Everybody here knew what that meant: Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. Howard was just doing his job.
Howard continued, "We'd be a lot better off if we had a couple of days to study things, to run tactical scenarios, and to play with alternative plans, but since we don't, we KISS it and hope for the best."
Another acronym: Keep it simple, stupid.
"Here's how I see it," Howard said. "We wait until after dark before we hit the place. My men do the tango with the estate's guards while Sergeant Fernandez and I and a couple of others hop the fence and head for the house. We set off some flash-bangs and some puke lights and take out any guards there, go in and round up everybody, haul the ones we want out, and hightail it for the border. Ruzhyo, Peel, and Bascomb-Coombs will do, and we can feed any incriminating information about Goswell back to our hosts later and let them deal with him if he's involved. With any luck, by the time the locals figure it out, we're on our plane and halfway across the ocean."
"One small addition," Michaels said. "I'll be going in with you. And yes, I know, it isn't the wisest course of action, but we've had this discussion before, and since I get the heat, I get to make that choice." He glanced at Toni, about to say that she'd be staying at the command center.
The look in Toni's eyes was reptilian. She knew what he was going to say. And he suddenly knew if he said it, whatever chance he might have of patching things up between them was going to die right here and now. So instead, he said, "And Toni will be going in, too."
She gave him a short nod. "Thank you." Her words were cool and crisp — you could use them to frost beer steins — but at least she was still talking to him. Better than nothing.
When they got to the fire station, near a little town called Cuckfield, the Net Force Strike Team was already there. But when Toni stepped out into the rainy evening, there was a surprise waiting under the overhang of a carport next to the main building: Angela Cooper was there, too. She wore combat camo, pants, shirt, and boots.
"Oh, shit," Fernandez said quietly. "Looks like the game is about to be canceled."
They moved to the carport, out of the weather. Alex stepped forward, but before he could speak, Cooper raised one hand to his objections. "If I wanted to stop you, Alex, I wouldn't be here alone."
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Officially, His Majesty's government cannot condone any action against Lord Goswell without much more evidence than we currently have. However, the DG and our MP know what we've found out and, unofficially, they believe what we all do — that Bascomb-Coombs is very likely responsible for the computer terrorism, and that Major Peel and Goswell are privy and part of it as well."
"So you've decided to look the other way?" Alex said.
"Yes. Provided we have an unofficial observer to make certain our unofficial position is kept, well, unofficial."
Toni said, "So we get to do the dirty work, take care of your problem, and if it all blows up in our faces, you get to keep your hands clean."
"Can't put anything past you, can we, Ms. Fiorella? Well, that's probably not strictly true, is it, Alex?"
Years of martial arts practice gave you a certain amount of physical self-control. If you knew you could seriously injure or kill somebody with your hands, elbows, knees, or feet, it tended to make you think before you made any sudden moves. You had to be able to move almost reflexively fast once the action started, but you also had to know when it was appropriate. Once, in college, a dorm mate had sneaked up behind Toni and grabbed her in the hallway, intending to tickle her. His practical joke had cost him a visit to the campus clinic and a concussion. It had taken her a few more years to get past the reactive stage, so she could usually assess the situation before decking somebody who didn't really mean her any harm.
That hard-won self-control was all that kept Toni from stepping forward and destroying Angela Cooper. She really wanted to do it, bad. Instead, she managed a smile. She said, "Oh, I'm a bit slow sometimes, but I eventually catch on."
"All right," Alex said. "Colonel Howard will run it down again. We've got a couple of hours until we go." He looked at Toni, shook his head a little, then gave her an open-handed "Sorry" shrug. He looked pale, almost gray, and she hoped he felt bad. He should.
Thursday, April 14th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Ruzhyo leaned against the stone wall of the big house under the substantial roof overhang. The wind had died pretty much as the rain began, and the gutters piped the water away to drain chains at the house's corners, so he was dry enough even in the damp evening. And he had his umbrella, of course, and a feeling he would be needing its hidden functions before the night was over. Intelligence services of every country he knew of took a dim view of anybody who killed any of their operatives. It was bad for business. Spetsnaz had always been notorious for its vengeance. Once, in one of the ever-troubled mideastern countries, one of their ops had been caught by a group of zealots, and slain.
A week later, sixteen of those zealots were found lined up neatly in a ditch, their severed penises stuffed into their dead mouths, their eyes plucked out.
Kill one of ours, and we destroy a village of yours. It made even zealots think.
The British were more polite and less savage, but they would by now assume their men were dead, and they would know who was responsible. At least they would know of Peel, and if they knew enough to find and follow him, they doubtless knew for whom he worked and where his employer lived. Peel would realize this, and he would have a plan in place by now, a way to escape being captured.
Huard, dressed in rain gear, walked a circuit around the back of the house, looking at Ruzhyo but not speaking as he moved from sight. Huard didn't like him, but Huard was a child.
So, in Peel's shoes, what would he do? Flight was the only real option; even Goswell could not protect him if he stayed here. And timing was critical. Peel would have to disappear before things grew too warm. Were he Peel, he would already be gone. Certainly before morning light offered his pursuers too much help in spotting him. And he would wish to depart without any telltales left behind. Peel had sent his men to the property's borders, leaving only Huard and Ruzhyo here. They, along with everybody inside the house, were expendable. That's how Ruzhyo would see it in Peel's place.
So, sometime during the night, Peel would call him inside. Or perhaps use the com to tell Huard to do it, to kill him? No. He wouldn't trust Huard. And if the boy failed, his master would know that Ruzhyo would have to come for him.
Ruzhyo could simply disappear into the rainy darkness in a few more minutes. None of Peel's men would find him or stop him if they did find him. He could trek away, catch a ride, steal a car, and be in France tomorrow. This game was nearly over, and what was the point in waiting around for the expected end?
He mentally shrugged. No point at all, actually. And perhaps that was the reason. There was nowhere he had to be. One place was as good as another. Did it matter where the sands of one's hourglass ran out? In the end, did anything matter at all?