by Tom Clancy
“You trace the bug?”
“FBI knows where it came from—it’s a commercial unit, nothing real esoteric, sold retail in New York three months ago—but no record of who bought it. A cash sale, and no security cam in the store—which, of course, is a selling point with their customers. Could be anybody.”
“So what now?”
“We’re running through Jay’s files, as best we can. Haven’t found anything worth shooting him for yet.”
She shook her head, glanced down at her watch. “Well, I was just in the neighborhood, and I’ve taken more of your time than I should. I ought to run.”
He paused. He was intrigued by her, he had to admit, and maybe more than intrigued. A part of him wanted to ask her to stay, ask her to dinner, ask her home for the evening, but there was already too much happening too fast.
So, “All right,” was all he said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Net Force Obstacle Course Quantico, Virginia
Kent was not a fanatic about exercise, and he didn’t expect that a man his age was going to be able to run with twenty-year-old jocks; still, he believed that sitting behind a desk didn’t mean you should turn into a slug, either. He made it a point to hit the obstacle course a couple-three times a week, and to do enough physical training so that if he had to run up a flight of stairs, he wouldn’t keel over from exhaustion. He wasn’t in the shape he’d been in thirty years ago, but he could keep up with any man his age, and some a lot younger.
This particular evening was drizzly and cold, and the steel chin-up bar was wet and rough under his hands. There were the usual die-hards out, even in the gathering darkness, but a lot of the fair-weather athletes were foregoing the pleasure.
His arms burned as he finished his set of chins, and his breath came and went faster than he would have liked. If he lived to be as old as his father, he had another twenty-five years, thirty if he made it to Grampa Jonathan’s age. He was on the downhill slope, no way around that, but staying fit as long as he could was important. His grandfather had been spry until he died of a heart attack in his sleep, and his old man had gone bowling the day before he passed. You worked with what you had.
He gathered himself for his second set of chins. This new job wasn’t the same as those he’d done in the Corps, but there were some good troops on hand, and the chance of getting to a hot zone leading them—that had been part of the deal. His option, Howard had told him. You can sit at HQ and direct things long-distance, or you can suit up and lead in the field. No question but that getting his boots muddy was the choice he’d make, and staying fit was part of that. You didn’t want to be the guy the men were having to carry when they went into harm’s way.
The second set came hard. He would have done ten more, but at eight, the burn was too much. He gutted that one out, but he was done. He let go, dropped back to the ground, and shook his head. There was a time when he would have done three, four sets, run the course, come back and finished off with another set.
He shook his head. That had been a while. Then again, a man his age who could do eighteen chins? That wasn’t so bad. It was all relative, wasn’t it? At least he could still hear—John Howard was sporting a hearing aid, from too many guns having gone off too close to his head. And he didn’t need glasses, except to read. Best to be thankful for what you have than to complain about what you didn’t.
He took a moment to slow his breathing, then made ready to start the course. It was the usual kind of thing—logs and ropes and barricades to clamber over, tire hopping, crawling under razor wire. More than you were apt to run into on any field of combat, urban or country, but that was the point.
The rain began to come down a little harder, not a deluge, but enough to soak everything. Fine. It did rain on the battlefield now and then—he’d even been caught in a frog-drowner of a thunderstorm in a Middle Eastern desert once, a freak thing in which four men had been swept away when a flash flood had caught them in a low spot. You never knew what God was going to throw at you, and like the Boy Scout he had been, “Be prepared” was still his motto.
He headed for the first obstacle.
Cox Estates Long Island, New York
The rain was coming down in buckets as the limo pulled up to his front door. Hans, the butler, alerted by the chauffeur’s call, stood on the porch with a huge golf umbrella, and was at the car’s door before Cox opened it.
Cox alighted and allowed Hans to keep most of the rain off as they splashed through a puddle and onto the porch.
“Nasty weather,” Cox said.
“Yes, sir.”
Inside, Cox let Hans take his raincoat. As he headed for the study, he saw Laura on the phone in the hallway. She looked up, smiled and waved, and went back to her conversation.
In his study, Cox pulled a cigar from his walk-in humidor, one of the smaller Cubans, clipped the end with a platinum cutter given to him by the Prince of Wales, wet the tip, and used a wooden match to light it—after letting the match’s odor burn off. He puffed on the cigar. Blue smoke wreathed his head. Ah.
“Knock, knock?”
He looked up to see Laura standing in the doorway. She still had her figure after all these years, a handsome woman. “I thought you had a thing this evening?”
“Aid to Rwanda Medical committee meeting,” she said. “It’s been cancelled, due to the weather. The storm moving in could drop two or three inches of rain. Nobody wants to be out driving around in that. Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Not really. I thought I’d have Martina cook a chicken or something.”
“I’ll join you, if that’s all right?”
“That would be nice.” It had been perhaps three weeks since they’d had dinner together.
“I’ll speak to Martina. We can catch up—I talked to Sarah today, I have the latest on little Joseph and William. About an hour?”
He puffed on the cigar and nodded. “Sounds good.”
Once Laura was gone, he knocked the ash off the cigar. He’d only smoke half of it, if that. Too much tobacco and alcohol were killers, he knew that, and he only indulged himself in either infrequently. Half a stogie, twice a week, no more than one or two drinks a day. Coupled with the exercise, he felt as if that was about right.
At dinner, Laura was chatty. He heard all about the grandchildren, their latest adventures, and what his son and daughter-in-law were up to. He mentioned some of his business dealings, but as always, Laura’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and her smile became fixed. She had no ears for industry, never had, even in the early days. If he was happy and enjoying his work, that was enough for her. He could have done a lot worse for a spouse, and, of course, it had been her family’s company that had been his launching pad; he would always owe her for that.
He smiled as she talked about schools and science projects, nodding at the appropriate times. He had not been a particularly attentive father, and while he enjoyed seeing the grandchildren, he didn’t think about them much. His passion had been the job, and through that, he had managed to provide the best of everything for his children and their children. When he was gone, they would have to work at spending it all before they died, and with even cursory management, the fortune he had amassed would last for as long as there were heirs to inherit it.
The one flaw in the perfect tapestry that was his life was this spy business. And he had decided that he was going to deal with that the way he had dealt with every other problem. Whatever it took to resolve it, he would do. He had been taking steps in that direction for some time, without tangible results, but it was only a matter of time before he had what he needed. Once that happened, Eduard would be put into play. And the Net Force people would not be outing him, either. He had a hammer that could squash dinosaurs, and if he had to use it, then that’s what he would do.
He had to remind himself from time to time in this situation that he was one of the most powerful men on the planet. That he was very nearly bulletproof.
He nodded at Laura.
“Good to hear they are doing so well,” he said.
She smiled in return. “More wine?”
“Perhaps just a bit more.”
Hans appeared as if by magic, bottle in hand, to pour. Life was almost perfect. Almost.
17
Washington, D.C.
Natadze went home. He had a nice condo in New York, but he preferred to live in the District when possible, and he considered that his primary residence. The house he used was legally owned by a series of concentric paper-corporations, with no trail to him, set up by the courtesy of Mr. Cox so there was no way anybody could know it was his.
Natadze stayed off the books as much as he could. Those few elements of his persona that had to be public were mostly false—licenses, credit cards, even magazine subscriptions. It was hard to track prey if you couldn’t even identify it, and Eduard worked hard to be as untrackable as possible.
He arrived home at the same time as the FastAir Express carrier’s truck. He had made an arrangement with the delivery man, claiming that evening rounds were more convenient for him, and had made it worth the man’s time to provide the extra service. It was amazing how many problems would just disappear if you threw enough money at them. Another lesson that Mr. Cox had taught him.
Despite the situation with Jay Gridley, he felt his spirits lift immediately when he saw the truck: The new Bogdanovich had come!
The delivery man exited the blocky truck, carrying a large box that Natadze immediately knew to be the guitar for which he had been waiting. He met the man at the front gate, signed the acceptance form, gave him a sizeable tip, and hurried inside.
It was but the work of a moment to open the box, dump the biodegradable packing peanuts onto the floor, and get to the cased instrument. The case itself was one of Cedar Creek’s custom models, a kind of hound’s-tooth pattern against a dull yellow background. They made good ones, Cedar Creek, and were priced remarkably cheap. Not something you would trust to the airlines to manhandle, but then you wouldn’t trust a steel vault to the airlines.
He hurriedly opened the six latches and looked at the guitar.
Bogdanovich was, as were some of the other underrated American luthiers, such as Schramm and Spross, doing outstanding work at very reasonable prices. He was, Natadze believed, a New Yorker who now lived in northern California. Natadze already owned one of his guitars, a spruce-front, maple-back model he had found in a San Francisco shop some years ago. That one had a tone as good as instruments costing five times as much, and he had been impressed enough that he ordered a new one custom-made for him. Fortunately for him, Bogdanovich hadn’t been discovered yet, and the waiting time was still relatively short. If you wanted a Smallman, for instance, the Australian maker’s list was several years deep, and Natadze was still waiting on one of those. Bogdanovich’s list, fortunately, was only a few months, and to judge from the tone of the one Natadze already had, he was able to run with the best.
He picked up the guitar, turned it slowly. Built on the standard Torres/Hauser pattern, this one was western red cedar-topped, with Indian rosewood back and sides. It had a Spanish cedar neck, ebony fretboard, and Sloane tuners. It was French polished only on the front, with a harder lacquer on the sides and back. Beautiful just to look at, but the test, of course, was the sound.
He pulled up a chair, closed the case for a foot prop, tuned the guitar, and ran through several scales, going up the neck.
Ah. No dead notes, no buzzes.
He plucked an E-chord in first position. The notes were sharp, clear, warm—cedar was more mellow than spruce—and they rang with a long sustain. He plucked the E again, high up the board. Perfect. He belled the harmonics at the twelfth. Excellent!
He retuned the trebles, and played “Blackbird,” one of his warm-up pieces. The guitar filled the kitchen with beautiful music.
Yes! It sounded almost as good as his Friedrich!
Well, all right, not quite that good, but still. How bad could things be, when such guitars existed?
He would have to send a note to Bogdanovich, but not for a while. First, he needed to play this beauty for a couple of hours.
Perhaps he could play the sonata by Nikolai Narimanidze, a countryman. People did not realize how many excellent composers and musicians came from Georgia. If they knew much about the country at all, it was usually that it was Stalin’s birthplace, and that the semisweet wines were decent.
Well. That was not important now. Now, he could forget his worries for a few hours and do what he liked to do best.
University Park, Maryland
John Howard stood in his kitchen, watching the coffee drip through the gold mesh filter. Nadine was working on breakfast, still in her bathrobe. Toni Michaels came into the kitchen, also in a robe. Howard nodded at her. “Alex still asleep?”
“In the shower,” Toni said.
“I hope there’s some hot water left,” Nadine said. “I think my son is part fish, as long as he stays in there.”
“Alex won’t die if the water gets cold. How is Tyrone?”
“Doing better,” Nadine said.
Toni nodded and didn’t push it.
Howard looked at the coffee pot. They had a bond, the Michaels family and his. Tyrone had saved their son’s life—and his own—and that would never go away. He’d had to kill a very bad man to do it, and there had been some trauma connected to that, even though the boy had dealt with it better than a lot of men did.
The coffee was done and poured when Alex Michaels came into the room. He nodded at the others, and accepted a cup of the fragrant brew from Toni. He sipped at it. “Morning.”
“Nearly afternoon,” Toni said. “Slug.”
“Eight-fifteen is not anywhere close to noon,” Michaels said. “Just because you like to do crosswords at five A.M.—”
“First batch of pancakes is about ready. How is little Alex?” Nadine asked.
“Great,” Michaels and Toni said as one.
Howard smiled.
“Guru is teaching him Javanese,” Toni said. “And already showing him how to stand for djurus.”
Howard shook his head. He had met the old woman they called “Guru” several times. She was in her eighties, squat, and a master of the martial art that Toni and Michaels studied, Pentjak Silat.
Toni, who could toss black-belt fighters around like toys, said the old lady was a lot better than she was, and Howard believed her. He had seen her move, and had seen Michaels move, and he wouldn’t have wanted to face either of them without a weapon in hand. Preferably a gun.
“Anything new?” Michaels asked.
“No.”
A silence settled upon the kitchen, broken by Nadine. “Who wants the first stack? Toni?”
“Sure,” Toni said. “I haven’t had homemade pancakes in ages.”
“You ever think about learning how to cook? You could have them more often,” Michaels said. But he was smiling.
“This from a man who burns water?”
He smiled.
Howard turned the conversation to what they were all thinking about: Jay Gridley. “The FBI is trying to run down the shooter,” he said. “They are interviewing people who were still at the scene when the state troopers got there. Some who came forward, some who didn’t but whose license plates were caught on the troopers’ car cams. It doesn’t look real promising so far. The AIC, Peterson, says if it was a pro hitter, he won’t have left any big clues. So far he’s been right. The only thing people noticed—those who noticed anything at all about the guy—was that he had a Band-Aid on his face.”
Toni and Michaels nodded, but didn’t speak.
“What about you two?” Howard asked.
“We flipped a coin,” Michaels said. “If Jay doesn’t come around in the next day or two, I’m going to Colorado, Toni will stay here for a while.”
“It could be months, or even years,” Howard said carefully. What he didn’t say was, Or he might not come out of it at all.
“Yes,” Alex
said simply.
“We’ll see how it goes,” Toni added. “If Jay is still in there and it’s at all possible for him to wake up, he will. He’s a fighter.”
Howard nodded and sipped at his coffee. She was right.
He hoped.
18
In the Dream Time
Jay lay on his back on the bench and laughed as the stack of weights on the Universal Gym tried to come down and crush him. An errant shaft of sunlight from a high window played on the chrome, the glint of light harsh.
Gonna crush you, Gridley!
Not gonna happen, Iron.
Jay knew he looked like a demigod, hugely muscled, thews and sinews grotesquely rippling, power radiating from him.
Conan the Gridley. Hah!
He heaved, hard, and felt something give in the machine. The stack of weights hit the top of their range, something broke, and part of a shattered plate flew free. It arced across the room and hit the wall, clang! and fell to the floor with a clunk.
Pumped, he stood and shoved the old Universal aside, enjoying the sound of it screeching across the concrete floor, a primal testosterone buzz rolling through his body.
“Who was that you were gonna crush?” he said aloud.
He was strong. This was the power of comic-book heroes, of mythological characters.
Would it be enough?
He had managed to gain more control over his environment, at least. The gym and his other exercises were a testament to that.
But it was still weird. He couldn’t program things like he could in VR. There were no objects to code, no places to do input. The illusions he created were simultaneously more real and unreal than anything he’d ever done in VR. Things acted on their own with patterns he would never be able to create with software, fractal shades of reality that came from within, unlike anything he could achieve through a program.