by Tom Clancy
“Stopping that car going in gave us away, and you know it. It was my call, General, and I blew it.”
“You don’t have a working crystal ball, Colonel. I called it the same. You had to check.”
“If he went over the fence and is on foot, we won’t find him with the troops we have.”
“We could call the local police in. Cover the roads.”
“He’ll steal a car, get to a ferry or airport pretty quick.”
Howard nodded. “It would be best if we could get some indication he’s out before we get the law rolling.”
“I will catch this guy,” Kent said. “No matter how long it takes.”
“I believe you, Abe.”
It was half an hour later when one of the teams covering the north side of the estate reported that there was a fresh cut in the ten-foot-high chain link fence there, big enough to let a man pass through. The team also reported what appeared to be bicycle tracks in the soft dirt next to the fence.
“He’s gone,” Abe said. “Again.”
Howard nodded. “For the moment, Abe. For the moment.”
32
New York City
Thorn sat at his table and sipped his drink—club soda over ice—watched the movers and shakers, and remembered what he had said to Michaels, when they’d met, in what was to be his office.
He smiled at the memory.
Here, the men wore tailored tuxedos—Armani, Sprach, Saville Row, or Hong Kong’s best, with tasteful gold cuff links and custom-made Swiss watches. The women wore evening gowns that probably averaged eight or ten thousand dollars each. Some of the women were players, some showpieces—trophy wives or mistresses, movie starlets or models. There were a couple of boy toys escorting older women, too. There were enough diamonds, rubies, and emerald necklaces, earrings, and bracelets to fill a large bath tub, a king’s ransom in cool ice. A typical high-end charity dinner and dance, wherein many, if not most, of the attendees could write checks for the cause in six figures and not miss it.
Thorn’s own clothing was understated. He wore his grandfather’s opal ring and a basic Rolex stainless steel watch. His tux was well-cut, but didn’t scream its maker’s name out loud, and his shoes were soft Italian leather, spendy, but not ostentatious. He was new money, but knew that wearing it so that it showed was gauche.
He recalled how he had felt smug about Alex Michaels’s cowboy hotdogging, going into the field himself. And how he—Thorn—would never do such a thing.
And yet, here he was. At a charity ball in New York, ostensibly to help orphans in the Middle East, but really here as a spy, plain and simple. Net Force’s first efforts to catch Natadze and Cox together had been less than fruitful—but had only confirmed what they already knew.
He could understand the attraction of field work now, despite his good intentions when he’d taken this job. There was a bad guy out there, though not one who was apt to pull out a machinegun and start blasting. No, the quarry was rich and old, a man who had gotten a little head start by marrying well, but who had taken that advantage and used it to claw his way to the apex of a multibillion-dollar empire.
You had to have a little luck along the way, but you also had to be smart, ruthless, and willing to do whatever it took to get to the top of that hill, and then to stay there. If Thorn’s modest fortune fell from Cox’s pocket, he might not be bothered to stoop and pick it up.
Cox had been there for a lot of years. He’d been wheeling and dealing and making major fortunes when Thorn had been in high school. Cox was powerful, canny, and not above having his enemies squashed. A man like that was a worthy opponent, somebody who wasn’t going to just roll over if you went “Boo!” at him, and something in Thorn wanted to beat the guy just to prove he could.
And part of that was getting a close look at the man, trying to get a feel for him, something you couldn’t really do at a distance, or in VR. Good as it was, even the best virtual scenario wouldn’t allow you to nail it all down.
So here he was.
“He’s by the hearth,” Marissa said. She had returned from the powder room and was pointing with her nose. “Talking to that BoTox’d blonde in black trying to look twenty-five but only managing thirty-something.”
Thorn looked at Marissa. She wore a red dress, a deep, dark red sheath held up with thin spaghetti straps that set off her bare arms and shoulders. She had on a ruby necklace—borrowed and fake, she’d told him, but a good fake—four-inch pumps that matched the dress, and a small clutch handbag, and it all looked terrific on her. And she knew it, too.
She was one of three black women in the room, and one of them was a server.
“By the way,” he said. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for accompanying me tonight. It may be socially acceptable to go to one alone, but it looks odd, to say the least.”
“All in the line of work,” she said, but she smiled as she said it.
He saw that smile and found himself thinking that maybe someday soon they’d have to do this again, when they weren’t working.
She turned and nodded toward Cox. “You going to go over and say hello?”
“Nope,” he said. “The hostess is circulating. I made a polite request to her when I answered the invitation. She’ll collect us eventually and introduce us to him.”
Marissa raised an eyebrow. “That’s how the rich folk do it? They wait for an audience?”
He smiled. “Yep. I’m a lightweight compared to a lot of these people, and nouveau riche, too, but I’m also a man who doesn’t have to work, but who is dutifully serving his government. That’s just enough to make me socially acceptable for a meeting with Cox at this kind of soiree. And having you as a date makes it easier—at this level, appearances count for a lot.”
“You mean Cox might be a stone racist who calls his hired help names in private, but he has to be courteous to us in public?”
Thorn smiled. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?”
She didn’t smile back. “How long before the hostess comes looking for you?”
Thorn glanced at his watch. “I’m fairly low on the food chain. Maybe half an hour or so.”
“Want to dance?”
“Sure.”
They set their drinks on the table and moved to the dance floor.
It was not a young crowd at the charity dinner and ball—only a handful of people his age or younger—but old money learned the social graces early, and dancing was among them. Nobody was bumping into anybody else.
Strauss was not his favorite composer, but the music was being done well by the chamber orchestra, and he let it take him as he led Marissa into the number.
It was no surprise to him that she was a good dancer. He looked forward to moving a little closer to her when the orchestra played a slower number.
“I’m guessing they’re probably not going to play any down and dirty blues, huh?” she said.
“They will if you want,” he said. “Gigs like this, the band makes as much on tips as they do from the fee. The champagne is flowing—pay attention, you’ll see waiters stopping by to whisper into the conductor’s ear. There are people here who will drop a five hundred dollar tip to hear ‘Stardust,’ or ‘Mood Indigo,’ or even some old Beatles numbers. My guess is that somebody in that chamber orchestra knows just about anything you might want to hear, and the rest of them can fake it. I once heard the Seattle Chamber Orchestra at a charity ball play Otis Spann’s ‘My Home is in the Delta’ and the first violinist made his fiddle howl like a train whistle.”
“You are making that up.”
He raised his hand. “I swear. If you have a favorite, I bet I can get them to play it for you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Five hundred gets you a vocal to go with the music.”
“No way.”
“You want to see?”
“Why don’t you just give me the money instead and I’ll buy the CD? And a new deck to play it on.”
He laughed.
The waltz ended, there was polite applause, and the dancers either headed back for their tables or waited for another tune to begin.
“I need to visit the men’s room,” he said.
He left her at the table, and found a waiter, out of her sight. He shook the man’s hand, transferred the folded bills from his palm to the waiter’s, and made his request.
He got back to the table. Marissa was sitting down, sipping at her iced tea.
The orchestra wound down another waltz.
“You’re right,” she said. “I saw a waiter go up and talk to the band leader a minute ago. You figure we’re about to hear something from the big band swing era?”
He shrugged.
The conductor raised his baton. One of the cello players set his instrument down and stood. He was maybe thirty, with red hair and pale skin.
The violins cranked up. It took the crowd a few seconds to realize they weren’t getting another waltz.
The cellist started singing “Big Car Blues,” a pretty fair imitation of Lightnin’ Hopkins’s version of it, too. Never would have guessed he had it in him, to look at him.
When he started going on about that big black Cadillac with white-sidewall tires, some of the attendees laughed.
Marissa just grinned real big and shook her head. “Oh, Tommy. What am I going to do with you?” But she was tapping her foot to the music—as were at least a few others.
As the song wound down, Thorn looked up and saw Beatrice Theiron working her way through the crowd in their direction. She was seventy, but with enough knife-work and makeup that she looked to be in her late fifties. She caught his gaze and smiled.
Marissa looked to see what Thorn was staring at.
“Show time,” he said.
He looks good for a man his age, Thorn thought. Fit, skin still mostly clear, lots of smile wrinkles. Very expensive caps on his teeth. His hair was gray and going white, the haircut probably a hundred bucks, and the tuxedo was immaculate, perfectly fitted. Italian leather shoes, too.
Beatrice Theiron spoke to Cox as an equal—her family’s wealth, counted in the billions, came from munitions, and ran back to before the Revolutionary War. American money didn’t get much older. The Theirons had been so rich for so long they didn’t even think about it as anything but a force of nature, like the sun or the rain.
“Samuel, this is Tom Thorn, the young man about whom I spoke earlier. Tom, Samuel Cox.”
“Ah, Tom, so nice to finally meet you.”
He turned his full attention upon Thorn like a spotlight as they shook hands. A firm grip, enough to show he was a man, not enough to be a challenge.
Her duty done, Beatrice said, “Pardon me, if you would, I just saw Madame LeDoux, and I must run and ask her about her dress!”
She flitted away, spry for a woman well past retirement age.
Thorn watched her for a moment, then said, “Mr. Cox. This is Marissa Lowe.”
“Please, call me Sam.” Cox took Marissa’s hand, flashed his high-wattage smile at her. “My deep pleasure, Ms. Lowe.”
Marissa gave him a half smile and nod.
Cox released her hand and looked around. A waiter appeared as if by magic, bearing a tray with champagne flutes, still cold enough that the glasses were frosted. Cox took two stems, gave one each to Thorn and Marissa, took a third for himself. The waiter vanished.
“Nice trick,” Marissa said, nodding at the glass.
He smiled at her. “One of the small perks.”
He raised his glass slightly, and offered a toast: “To success,” he said.
They clinked glasses. “Success,” Thorn and Marissa echoed.
They sipped the wine. Thorn didn’t think this was the same vintage everybody else was drinking—it was crisper, cleaner, with a hint of apple. Private stock? Probably.
“So, you are the Commander of Net Force,” Cox said.
“Afraid so.”
“Must be interesting, working for the government, after being in the private sector. It is just amazing what they can do with computers these days. I have no head for such things myself. Never quite trust them to give me what I need.”
“It is a challenge at times.”
“And you, Ms. Lowe, you are a federal employee, as well?”
“I am.”
Cox grinned, and it was a sly look. “But not with Net Force. Let me guess: I’d say . . . the CIA?”
Her smile didn’t falter a bit. “A good guess, Mr. Cox.”
And Thorn thought, “Guess”—yeah, right.
“Please, Sam. We’re past the formal stage, wouldn’t you say? I feel as if I have known you two for a long time. Almost as if we have been doing business with one another.”
It wasn’t so much the words, but the look that attended them that struck Thorn. The comment about the CIA, coupled with a glint in the eyes and just a hint of a grin.
No question in Thorn’s mind that the man knew he was being stalked, and exactly who it was on his tail.
Not that it would be hard to guess—after Natadze had snuck out of the estate, it would have been easy enough to put two and two together. Somebody stops his limo at the gate, and a couple days later, here is Thomas Thorn, Commander of Net Force, asking for an introduction?
No, it wouldn’t take a bright bulb to illuminate that one, and Cox was certainly not dim. Thorn had known that going in. He was here to size up his opponent, see his moves, and it didn’t matter if the man knew who he was and why he’d come.
Cox glanced at his watch. It was a plain-looking instrument, nothing the least bit ostentatious, but Thorn knew it was one of those handmade Swiss things that cost as much as a new Mercedes. Probably sat in a motorized box at home that would rotate every now and then to keep it wound when Cox wasn’t wearing it.
“Oh, my, look at the time. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I have to run—we have another of these things on tonight’s schedule. Noblesse oblige and all that. A great pleasure to finally meet you both. I wish you good fortune in your endeavors, Tom and Marissa. And a parting piece of wisdom I learned from my track coach when I was in high school: Some days you get the bear and some days, the bear gets you.” He gave them a slow, military bow, and left.
After he was gone, Marissa looked up at Thorn and said, “He’s playing with us, Tommy.”
He nodded. “Yeah. That last bit about the bear pretty much nailed it shut. He was gloating. He knows we know, but doesn’t think we can touch him.”
“I guess that much money and power buys a lot of confidence,” she said.
“Even Achilles had his heel,” he said.
“And if he’d worn a metal boot, he would have been invulnerable,” she said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Why, yours, Tommy. Your left side, as I make it.” She batted her eyelids at him theatrically.
He grinned, despite his irritation at Cox. The die was cast. The man knew who they were, knew they were after him, and had the gall to stand there and spar with them about it.
We’ll see who gets whom, Mr. Bear.
33
New York City
In the back of the limo on the way home from the charity dinner, Cox fixed himself a drink, bourbon over ice. He was not pleased. As soon as the Theiron woman had approached him, asking to introduce Thomas Thorn and his dark-skinned date, Cox had known. Net Force must have broken the coded file, despite what Eduard had done to prevent it. They knew he was a spy. They had come to take his measure for the coffin they hoped to build.
A quick phone call had given him some background information on Thorn, and on his paramour, who worked for the CIA. He had been armed a little better when finally they had spoken.
Cox sipped his drink. He had tweaked Thorn and the woman a bit, knowing a good offense was the best defense. Let them know he knew what they were about to keep them off balance, that was how he had fought his way to the top. Give back more than you receive, that was how you won.
Even so,
he had to resist the urge to panic. Them knowing was not the same as them proving. He knew that. Unless they had ironclad evidence, something absolutely certain and incontrovertible, the feds would not move against him. The Russian was dead, the other copies of the file were either gone or about to be, and his name written in an old Soviet document? Any lawyer worth his salt could argue that such a listing could be nothing more than disinformation, designed to impeach a man’s character, to sow distrust. It proved nothing in itself. Anybody could put a name into a file. For that matter, how do we know that the file in question wasn’t simply fabricated altogether?
Yes, if they knew how much he did not wish such information to become public, they could hold that over him, but they did not know that. And any threats to smear him would result in legal and political troubles that would give a strong man pause. A politician would have to be very brave indeed to venture onto such a tricky path where a misstep could result in the end of a career. The most fiery federal prosecutor had bosses to whom he must answer, and his bosses had their bosses. The higher you went, the more political things got. Attorneys-General and Presidents did not blindly sail into uncharted waters.
A crafty politician knew that when you fought a giant, you had best be careful with your sling. If your first shot was wide, you might be crushed before you had a chance to reload.
And if you had but one stone? Then the risk was extreme indeed, and the payoff had better be worth it—and guaranteed.
Cox did not wish to come to blows with the feds, but at this juncture he felt certain that they would not be eager to start that war, either. They didn’t have a walkover victory lined up. They couldn’t.
He should have thought of this much sooner, of course, long before tonight, even. His first reaction to the threat of being unearthed after all these years, sending Eduard after Jay Gridley, had been . . . less considered than it should have been. He had, in retrospect, acted in more haste than was wise. Then, even the hint of scandal about such things had seemed insupportable. And there had been several additional factors other than the Net Force file.