by Tom Clancy
Jay made a mental note of the sound. He could use it in a scenario. This whole place was great research; he could get all kinds of material from it.
Patch picked the bayonet up. It was rusty, the wood handle cracked and worn. “Don’t see a lot of these around much anymore.”
“I know what it is, sonny. I just need to know how much it costs.”
“I could let it go for… eighteen.”
“What, cents?”
“Dollars.”
“Sheeit, sonny, you cain’t get ten for it. Look at it. It’ll take me a week to scrape the rust offen it. And lookit the handle.”
“I can sell you some naval jelly that’ll eat the rust right off. I might take fifteen.”
“Eleven.”
“Twelve.”
“Now you’re talking.”
The old man pulled a clump of greasy-looking bills from his voluminous pants and peeled a dozen ones off a wad that would choke a rhino.
Patch rang the sale up. “You want a bag for it?”
“No, I’m gonna walk down the streets of D.C. carrying it where the cops kin see me and shoot me fulla holes. Yes, I want a bag for it. I’mona track me down a couple of cats been diggin’ in my garbage and give um a new haircut.”
Patch pulled a purple plastic bag from under the counter, with the store’s logo printed on the side: “Fiscus Military Supply,” it said under a pair of crossed rifles and stylized lighting bolts.
When the customer shuffled out, Jay watched to see if he was going to trip on the untied bootlaces and break his neck, but the old man achieved the door without incident.
“Old fart couldn’t track an elephant herd across a football field covered with fresh snow. What can I do for you?” Patch said.
“You Vince Fiscus?”
“That would be me, yeah. And who wants to know?”
“I’m Jay Gridley. I called earlier.” Jay pulled out his Net Force ID card.
Fiscus took the card and looked at it carefully, turned it over and examined the back. The hologram flashed a rainbow reflection under the overhead lights. “You want to sell this? Tell ’em you lost it, they’ll give you another, but I don’t have any Net Force ID.” He waved one flaccid arm to take in the store.
“I don’t think so.” He took his ID back. He wanted to wipe it off, but thought that might not look too good.
“All right. What it’s about, Mr. Net Force Agent?”
Jay kind of liked the sound of that. He tendered the picture of the mystery man. He said, “You know this guy?”
Fiscus looked at the picture. He grinned, showing a gap where a front eyetooth had once been.
“That’s ole K.S., sure I know him.”
Jay felt a sudden surge of excitement. Aha! Gotcha! “K.S.?”
“Yeah, stands for ‘Killer Spook.’ Ain’t seen him in a while. He never give me a real name, so I just called him K.S.”
“How is it that you know him?”
“Oh, he’s been coming around for — must be five, six years now. We first did a little business back in, what? ought-four or ought-five. Sold him some fourth-gen spookeyes — starlight scope image intensifiers, Army Ranger surplus, off an old SIPEsuit. He’s bought a few things since then, some of it in person, some of it over the wire. What are you looking for him for? He’s not into computer stuff.”
“I am not at liberty to say,” Jay said. “It concerns an ongoing investigation.”
Fiscus shrugged.
“Why ‘Killer Spook’?”
Fiscus showed the tooth-gap again. “I asked around, some people I know. Rumor was, this guy made a living doing odd jobs for various folks, including a few guvamint ones. Black bag ops, wetwork, stuff you don’t want to show up on the books, you know what I mean?”
This was getting better by the minute. Colorful ole Vince here was giving him all kinds of information. This exterior investigation stuff was a walk in the park — why did the field ops make it sound so tough? Must be worried about job security.
“What kind of weapons you guys carrying now?” Fiscus asked. “I heard that issue was some kinda pansy stun-gun.”
“Kick-tasers,” Jay said. That was true. Jay did have a compressed-gas electric dart gun. His was in a drawer somewhere at home. Or maybe at the office — he hadn’t seen it in a while. Since he wasn’t a field agent, he didn’t have to qualify with the weapon, and he had only fired the thing once, a long time ago. He did all his shooting in VR.
“Now about this K.S. guy,” Jay said. “Where might I find him?”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you why you need him again,” Fiscus said.
“Like I said, I can’t tell you that.”
“You wanna bet?” Fiscus raised his whiskey-soaked voice a couple of notches. “Vic, Rudy! C’mere!”
Two fairly young men in green-on-green camouflage shirts and pants tucked into gleaming combat boots seemed to materialize from nowhere behind Jay. The pair of them were huge, five, maybe six hundred pounds combined.
Uh-oh.
Jay had seen enough vids to know he was maybe in a little trouble here. He was alone, unarmed, and it looked as if he was about to make the unwilling acquaintance of Vic and Rudy. Maybe it was time to see if discretion was indeed the better part of valor. He smiled nervously and started to head for the door.
“Whoa, hold up there, Mr. Net Force Agent.”
Jay looked at Fiscus and saw that the man held a big, dark metal pistol. “You aren’t supposed to have that in the District. It’s illegal.”
“Do tell. Take your hands away from your belt and put them where I can see them.” He waved the pistol.
Jay had another sudden flash. The only reason Fiscus had told him any of this stuff about the man he’d come looking for was because he didn’t expect Jay to be able to act on it — or tell anybody else.
He had seen a lot of vids.
Jay suddenly had a vacuum in his belly that must rival deepest space. This was not VR. He couldn’t just ax a command and drop back into his office. That gun was real.
He was turned slightly so Fiscus couldn’t see his right hip. He double-triple-pressed the panic button on his virgil — one-two-three, one-two-three — then slowly moved his hands away from his body.
“Take it easy,” Jay said. “Let’s be reasonable here.”
“That’s real good, Mr. Agent. Now, let’s mosey on into the back room, and have ourselves a little talk, hey?”
Woodland Hills, California
Morrison leaned against the counter in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. His face had a psychedelic cast to it — it was as if he was seeing a stranger.
He washed his hands, bent, and rinsed out his mouth. He had the little gun in his sport coat pocket, but the small weight of it bumping against his right hip was not comforting. He was scared, frightened to the point where all he wanted to do was to take off at full speed and run until he couldn’t keep going. He wanted to find a place to hide when he got there and sleep until all this somehow went away.
He looked at the frightened man in the mirror again. Running and hiding wouldn’t do any good now. It was too late. In a few minutes, an agent for the Chinese would arrive — already some of his people were probably lined up outside the theater waiting to get in — and Morrison was going to have to sit and negotiate a deal with the man who called himself Chilly Wu.
Morrison stood there for what seemed like a long time, staring into the mirror, but not really seeing himself any longer.
Ventura came around the comer behind him, and Morrison jumped.
“Wu just pulled up. You ready?”
“I — Yes, as ready as I can be.”
“Don’t worry. My man in the projection booth has an Anschutz Biathlon rifle that will be lined up on the back of Wu’s head the second he takes his seat. The shooter can hit a quarter ten for ten at that distance. Every one of Wu’s people will have somebody watching him. We have this covered.”
Despite
just washing out his mouth, it was dry again. “Listen,” he said, “there’s something I want you to know. I have a hidden copy of the data. If something happens to me, I want you to have it. Sell it, give it away, whatever you want, I don’t care, but — sell it to anybody but the Chinese.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.”
“I believe you. But just in case. This is the only original research I’ve ever done that amounted to anything. It’s important work. I don’t want to see it lost.”
“If it makes you feel better, fine. I’ll see that it gets to a good home.”
“It’s not here,” he said. “The copy.”
“All right. Where is it?”
Morrison told him. When he was done, Ventura smiled. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Maybe the Pakistanis, they hate the Chinese. They’d find a use for it.”
“This is all moot. I can guarantee you, the Chinese will not be walking out of this theater with you as their hostage. At the first sign of trouble they will all become past tense. This is what I do, Patrick.”
The use of his first name rattled him even more. Morrison
took a ragged breath, let it out, then took a larger one and held it for a moment. Deep breaths. Calm down. “All right.”
The movie wasn’t scheduled to start for another thirty minutes — but it was definitely show time.
32
Wednesday, June 15th
Quantico, Virginia
Toni had planned to sit down and tell Alex what she felt, to apologize for losing her temper, and to try to get him to see her side of things.
It seemed like it would work out, because the first thing he said was “Listen, I’m sorry about losing my temper.”
That was a great start. She said, “Me, too.”
But that was as far as it got. Alex’s secretary opened the conference room’s door and said, “Commander, we just got a distress call from Jay Gridley’s virgil.”
“What?”
“District police are on the way. Here is the location.”
Alex came to his feet.
Toni said, “I saw Jay earlier, he was here—”
“He went into town,” Alex said. He headed for the door in a hurry. To his secretary, he said, “Get the helicopter warmed up and get the GPS location to the pilot. I want to be in the air in three minutes.”
“Alex?”
“This place is falling apart,” he said. “Nothing is going right!” He looked at her. “You coming?”
She nodded.
Washington, D.C.
“Hit him again,” Fiscus said.
Rudy nodded. He threw a short uppercut that slammed into Jay’s belly like a steel brick.
Jay doubled over, the pain overwhelming. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see for the tears clouding his vision, couldn’t believe how much it hurt! He would have fallen if Vic hadn’t been standing behind him, holding him up, his huge paws meaty clamps on Jay’s upper arms.
Nothing in VR had ever come close to this, nothing.
“Catch your breath, Mr. Net Force Agent, and think about it a second.”
Jay managed to breathe again after a few seconds. He felt like puking, the urge was almost impossible to resist.
“You feel better? Good. Now tell me — why are you looking for K.S.?”
How long had he been here? It felt like years, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. He’d tried to stall them, but Fiscus wasn’t buying it, and after the second punch, Jay didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. One more, maybe.
“Fuck you.”
“You’re not my type, but maybe Rudy will take you up on that later, hey? Boys, girls, sheep, cows — doesn’t matter to him. One more, Rudy.”
Jay went out with the third punch, at least partially. The intense flash of pain went from red to gray, and time seemed to ooze lazily, like tar on a hot summer street.
“—got all day,” Fiscus was saying. “And Rudy ain’t even broke a sweat. I seen him work the heavy bag for ten, fifteen minutes, four, five hundred punches. You ain’t a bag full of batting, son. How long you figure you’ll last?”
Jay’s blurry vision was enough to let him see that gap-toothed smile, and he knew that Fiscus and his two apes could and might beat him to death. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”
“Sheeit,” Rudy said.
“See, I told you he was just getting warmed up. Don’t worry, Rudy, you can throw a couple more if Mr. Net Force Agent gets too sluggish. Okay, let me hear it.”
Jay took a raspy breath. The guy didn’t know, so it didn’t matter what he said. Jay could create scenario, and writing the description and background and dialog was part of that. He could spin it, and how would this guy know different?
“Okay. We came across a computer break-in, in New York. A stock trading company, and—”
“Rudy.”
The punch took Jay under the armpit on the right side, a left, hooking move, and he felt, and thought he heard, one of his ribs crack under the impact.
“Uuuhhh! Ow, ow, what did you do that for?! I’m telling you!”
“Nah, you ain’t. You’re lying. I might look stupid, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, kid. Every lie buys you another slam. Try again. ”
Jay felt a great wave of despair wash over him. He was going to die. He knew it. No matter what he told them, in the end, they were going to kill him.
Washington, D.C.
“That’s it, that surplus store,” the cop said.
In the big tactical van, Michaels nodded. According to the protocols for Net Force distress calls established with the police, the local cops had arrived Code 2—fast, but without sirens. They set up a perimeter and the local version of SWAT or SERT or whatever was ready to go in, but Michaels had gotten there before they hit the building, and he wanted to go along.
The police lieutenant in charge of the scene looked at Michaels’s taser and shook his head. “Not a good idea, Commander. We know who this guy is that runs the store. We’re pretty sure he’s got enough illegal hardware in there to equip a third-world army, and he’s usually not alone. Your little zapper won’t cut it.”
“I’ll stay behind the team. That’s my man in there.”
“I’m going, too,” Toni said. She held her own taser.
“What is this, a goddamn parade? Where’s the marching band and the baton twirlers?”
“I can make some calls, Lieutenant, and get the heavy hitters into it if I have to. My boss can call yours. You want me to do that?”
“Shit. No. Put masks and vests on and stay in the back and the hell out of the way, you understand? If you get killed, don’t bitch about it to me.”
“All right.”
He looked at Toni. This was not the time to tell her to stay behind, he could see that, but it was the first thing he wanted to say. Maybe she was right. Maybe she couldn’t work for him. Maybe he was too protective. He did not want her in there.
“Heads up, people,” the lieutenant said into his com. “We’re going in thirty seconds. And we got two feebs riding the caboose. Don’t nobody shoot them by accident.”
The lieutenant pulled a pair of spidersilk vests with ceramic interlock armor and the initials D.C.P.D. stenciled in reflective yellow on the backs. “Put these on. They’ll stop handgun rounds and a lot of rifle bullets. Grab a gas mask and helmet. We’re going in with flash-bangs and puke gas.”
Michaels nodded.
“Fifteen seconds,” the lieutenant said into the com. “Go get into position. Behind Sergeant Thomas over there. And stay behind him.”
Michaels glanced at Toni, and they jumped from the back of the mobile command post and ran.
Woodland Hills, California
Morrison and Ventura were in their seats in the theater when an “usher” walked Wu down the aisle. The section they were in had been roped off, so that they sat in the middle of a block of four rows alone; the other seats in the b
lock were all empty. There were maybe forty people already in their seats, with a few others trickling in.
Wu carried a fold-out laptop computer slung over one shoulder — and a big tub of popcorn.
Ventura smiled at that. Had to give the man credit for style.
Ventura and Morrison both stood, and Wu moved to join them. He slipped under the velvet rope to sit between Ventura and Morrison. While he was talking and concentrating on the scientist, Ventura would be behind him.
Wu held up the tub of popcorn. “Want some? I think it’s got real butter on it. It should be real, it cost four bucks.”
Ventura was tempted to dig around and see if there was a pistol hidden there — he’d have a small one under the popcorn — but both he and Morrison declined the offer.
Ahead of them, the huge screen was still dark. There wouldn’t be any coming attractions or ads run today.
“What time does the movie start?”
“We have a few minutes,” Ventura said.
“Good, good, we can get this business taken care of and enjoy the picture. Same people did this who did Quin-ton’s Revenge, and it’s gotten good reviews.”
He sounded relaxed enough, and that was a good sign. He’d brought in ten people, who were scattered around the theater with their own tubs of popcorn or boxes of candy, so he ought to feel as if he was in control of the situation, or at least be on a par with Ventura. He either couldn’t sense the sights lined up on his skull from the projection booth, or he really was a chilly character not afraid to die.
“Now you know we Chinese like to dawdle and make polite small talk before we discuss business, but this is America and I like to fit in, so what say we get down to it?” He slipped the computer off his shoulder and unrolled the flexible pop-up LCD screen, locked it into place, and then unfolded the keyboard. The computer came on with a small chimed chord, and the screen lit up.
Morrison’s computer was already up and running, on the seat on the other side of him. He picked it up.
“Ah, here we are,” Wu said. “Your bank account number?”