by Tom Clancy
The scientist flashed another of his high-voltage smiles. “Ah, you are smarter than I imagined. You don’t even know what my action is.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. He said, “That hardly matters, does it? Goswell pays me a good salary, but my kind of work has a limited time span. I can’t say I look forward to a small retirement cottage in Farnham or Dorking in twenty years, to spend the rest of my days puttering in the garden and pruning the roses. That’s what Goswell will provide me. I expect you can do better, if I work for you?”
“Oh, yes, Major Peel. I can do much, much better than that. I can give you enough money to build a city of cottages, a different one for every day of your life. And an army of servants to prune the roses for you.”
“You have my interest,” Peel said. “Please, go on.”
Tuesday, April 5th
Jackson, Mississippi
Ruzhyó sat on a bed in a Holiday Inn, watching the news on the television. There was nothing on it about him nor about the deaths of the two soldiers in the Nevada desert. This was as he expected. The organization responsible for the attack on his trailer would take pains to keep the failure covered up, at least from the public. In this way, the Americans were much like the Russians. What the public did not know could not cause a problem. There would be a search, of course, and they would want him alive so that he could suffer for his deeds. They had come for him because they had known who he was. Perhaps it would have been better had he shot the Net Force commander when he’d had the chance?
No, that would have been unprofessional by the time it came up. Plekhanov was caught, and eliminating the man who caught him would have served no purpose. The dead man would have been replaced quickly in any event, and his organization would have had more reason to hunt for a killer of one of their own than for one of the Russian’s henchmen—who might not have even stayed in the United States.
So, once again, he was on the move, one step ahead of his enemies, who were surely on his trail. He felt tired.
But he also felt a grim kind of satisfaction. The old skills had not atrophied completely. When called upon, he still had some of his abilities. He was not as good as he had been five or even two years ago, but at his best, there were few who could stay with him. Even diminished, he was better than most. This was not egotistical but plain fact.
He sighed. He had several identities left to him, and money hidden in various places, both real and electronic. What was he to do now?
Maybe he should go home. To Chetsnya. To see the old villa once more before he died.
He had thought about doing that but never acted upon it. The American desert seemed to suit him more. But the end was growing near, he could feel that. While one place was as good as another when Death came, maybe there was something appropriate about meeting it where Anna had been claimed. And if it didn’t matter, then the farm was as good a place as any, yes?
Home. He would go home. And if they found him there, then that would be the end of it.
Tuesday, April 5th
The Surface of Luna
“The moon?” Jay said. “You brought me to the moon?”
Saji laughed, something of a feat, given that there wasn’t any atmosphere to breathe or to carry the sound here. Or there wouldn’t be in RW. He said, “It doesn’t get much quieter than here. I need you to be undistracted by sensory input. Would you rather a dark cave? Or an isolation tank?”
Jay shook his head. “No. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Precisely. Find a comfortable spot and sit, and we’ll begin.”
Jay shook his head. A comfortable spot on the surface of the moon? Sure.
But he walked through the gray dust, bounding into the air—well, no, he couldn’t say air, could he?—with each step, until he came to a rocky outcrop that seemed remarkably chair-shaped. He sat.
Saji had vanished, but he left behind a Cheshire-cat smile that faded as he said, “Just remember what I told you.”
Jay found himself alone, on the moon, and it was very, very quiet. The idea was for him to sit and let his thoughts run, then use the meditation technique Saji had taught him to control them. The technique sounded easy enough. All he had to do was to count his breaths. Easier than that, he had only to count the out breaths. One you got to ten, you started over again. How hard could it be?
Jay closed his eyes. One . . . two . . . three . . .
This felt really stupid. Couldn’t Saji have come up with a better scenario than the fucking moon? It was so . . . oops. He was drifting. Saji had warned him about that. When a thought intruded, he was supposed to take a deep, cleansing breath, gently push it aside, then go back to the count. Okay. Okay. He could do that. Move, pal.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
How could this do anything? Just sitting and counting? What was the point? It didn’t do anything that—aw, hell, there he went again.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
He saw the tiger, just a flash, and Jay stopped counting because the next out breath didn’t happen. Jesus, the tiger!
He opened his eyes. Nothing to see but the dead, dry moonscape, nothing to hear except his own heartbeat. Which, he noticed, was speeding up. Damn. This was a lot harder than it sounded.
Ping! A single, crisp note played.
He had an incoming call, and it wouldn’t have been put through unless it was one of three people: his mother, his father, or his boss.
The moonscape vanished. Jay sat on the couch in the hospital room. He reached for the com.
Tuesday, April 5
London, England
“How are you, Jay?” Michaels said.
“I’ve felt better, boss,” came the reply. But it was slurred and almost unintelligible. The effects of the stroke.
Michaels had his visual mode on, and the hotel room’s com gave him a decent-sized picture of Jay. He didn’t look much different, maybe a little slackness on one side of his face was all.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. Toni and I have been drafted by MI-6 to help out with this thing. You know about the other ops who were injured like you were?”
“I heard.”
“You remember anything about your line of inquiry that might help?”
“Sorry, boss, no. I don’t remember anything but a tiger.” He shook his head. “Don’t even remember for sure if it’s connected to this.”
“Okay, don’t worry about it.”
“I want to work on this, boss, but . . .”
“When you get better, if we haven’t caught this guy yet. We’ve got everybody in the civilized world chasing him. We’ll get him.”
“I don’t think so, boss. I’ve never . . . seen . . . anything . . . like it.”
Just the strain of this short conversation was wearing him out, Michaels could see that. “Get some rest, Jay. We’ll keep you posted.”
He clicked off. Jesus, what a mess.
His virgil announced an incoming call. He looked at the ID. Cooper.
“Yes, hello?”
“Commander. Ah, Alex. A quick call to bring you up to speed. Our technical people have come up with a scenario that might explain how a VR headset could cause brain damage.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Apparently, it is theoretically possible. I don’t have the electronics or the mathematics to understand it, but the simple explanation is that certain solid-state components in the hardware might be programmed to act as capacitors. They could store the microelectric current like a camera’s flash attachment does, then release it all at once. If, somehow, this discharge was focused and directed, it could indeed short out neural pathways. Theoretically, they say, because they can’t do it.”
“Is somebody that far ahead of the rest of the computer world?”
“Apparently so.”
“I don’t much like the sound of that.”
“Nor do we. And we haven’t a clue so far on how to trace whoever it is. We’re hoping your expert
ise will help.”
Michaels sighed. Yeah, right. His best expert had his brain fried by whoever it was they were hunting. That sure as hell didn’t make things easier.
“Discom, then,” Cooper said. “I’ll see you at HQ later?”
“Yeah, I’ll stop in.”
After she had broken the connection, the virgil rang again. Lord, it was a parade. This time, it was Melissa Allison. Just what he needed.
“Commander.”
“Director.”
“Anything to report?”
Well, yes, we don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground, as far as all this goes. But he said, “No, ma’am, nothing substantial yet. MI-5 and -6 have made their systems available, and we are getting up to speed.”
“Keep me informed of your progress.”
“Of course.”
He put the virgil back into its charger as the bathroom door opened and Toni, wrapped in a towel, came out in a cloud of vapor from her shower. “Did I hear the phone ring?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. He looked at her, smiled. “But let’s talk about that after.”
She smiled back at him. Undid the towel and dropped it. “After what?”
“Come here.”
“What is the magic word?”
“Come here, quick!”
She laughed.
Once she was close enough to grab, he did, and whatever thoughts he might have had for the next few minutes were short-circuited well shy of his brain.
13
Tuesday, April 5th
Quantico, Virginia
The obstacle course wasn’t busy, and after a hundred crunches, fifty push-ups, and a dozen chins at the beginning, John Howard wasn’t even close to burning off his frustration, but he didn’t really feel like running the course. He was too tight, too pissed off, too . . . something. He wanted to hit somebody, hit them hard enough to knock their teeth out, spray blood in all directions, and watch them fall, preferably onto something sharp. It didn’t help that who he was the maddest at was himself. He had screwed up, big time, and that promotion he had allowed himself to dream about was likely to be rescinded before he ever officially saw it.
Too bad, but when it got right down to it, that didn’t matter as much as the two dead soldiers. Losing men in battle, in a firefight, that was one thing. Losing them in a supposedly secure area to a single man who made you look stupid, that galled. Losing them at all . . .
So he stood there, watching the odd FBI trainee or Marine pass him for the obstacle course, feeling impotent.
So far, there hadn’t been squat on Ruzhyó since he’d disappeared. Oh, yeah, they found the truck, in front of a supermarket in Vegas, windows rolled down, keys in the ignition. He could be anywhere in the country by now, hell, anywhere on the planet. Net Force had the best computers crunching all flight information, train and bus schedules, rental cars, automobile and motorcycle sales, even car thefts in and around Las Vegas, but so far they hadn’t come up with anything to match the fugitive’s profile.
He wanted this guy, wanted him as bad as anything he had wanted in a long time. If he found out where he was, Howard was going to hop on a plane, officially or unofficially, whatever it took, and go get the sucker.
“Colonel?”
He shook himself from the red fog he’d allowed to envelop him and turned. Julio.
“Got something you might find interesting.”
He was grinning.
Damn. Good news, at last.
Tuesday, April 5th
The Yews, Sussex, England
The news on the telly was, as it always seemed to be these days, disgusting. The American President was going on about “moral fiber,” a subject about which he certainly knew little, if anything. Presidents in the U.S. were notorious for their lack of self-control, from Warren G. Harding to Kennedy to Clinton. The idea that the leader of a country with such slipshod spiritual and moral values could hold forth on how anybody should behave was patently ridiculous. Especially when the leader himself was known to have the sexual ethics of a mink. The current U.S. President was as bad as any—he just hadn’t been found out yet.
Goswell nodded at the telly. Well, yes, he would have to do something about that, now wouldn’t he? He would put in a call to his man, see if there wasn’t some way to use the new toy to find out what the President had been up to. If records existed in a computer anywhere—and surely they must—the scientist could get them. Give the Americans another scandal to drool over, and get the bastard so busy defending his so-called honor that he wouldn’t have time to meddle elsewhere.
Meanwhile, he had another call to make. “Applewhite?”
The butler appeared next to him. “Milord?”
“A telephone, please. And one with a dial, if you would.”
“Yes, milord.”
The butler went to fetch the telephone. Goswell hated to do such business, but it was the nature of reality that a man was sometimes forced to do things he would rather not if he was to stay afloat in stormy seas.
Applewhite returned with the phone. It looked like one of the old Bakelite rotary dial models he had used as a boy, but it was just a replica. Inside, it was full of electronics as modern as any, and there was no thick black cord connecting it to anything. It was a wireless model.
As he took the phone, he said, “Any sign of that rabbit?”
“Cook said she saw him when she went to the garden this morning, milord.”
“Ah, well. Fetch me my shotgun, then. We’ll just go and see if we can’t give the little bugger something to think about.”
“Yes, milord.”
As the man trundled off to the lockbox where the guns were kept, Goswell dialed the number for the man he wished to reach. It rang once on the other end, and the voice that answered was gruff. The words came out as an uneducated-sounding, “Whot’s it, then?”
“Goswell here. You have some information for me?”
“Roight, Guv, I ’ave.”
“The usual place, then. Say . . . seven?”
“Gawt it.”
Goswell cradled the phone’s receiver, sighed, and shook his head. A pity to have to deal with such men, but this wasn’t something that could be delegated.
Applewhite returned, the open shotgun cradled in one arm, with a pair of the custom-made brass and waxed green cardboard shells in hand. Two shots was all Goswell allowed himself per adventure. If he missed, then the rabbit would live to raid the garden another day. It was only fair.
The gun was a handmade Rigby Bros. fowling piece, but certainly suitable for bunnies, a sixteen-gauge sideby-side double with Damascus-twist barrels. The waterpatterned steel was beautiful, but not up to modern ammunition, so he had his gunsmith make loads that the weapon could digest without blowing apart. They produced quite the smelly smoke, the shells did, when touched off. The smith, George Walker, said he could substitute Pyrodex for the black powder he used, and the smoke would be lessened, but Goswell didn’t care all that much. A couple of blasts of #8 birdshot would take Mr. Rabbit right out of the game—if he could but draw a bead on him. That was the trick, for the rabbit seemed to know when Goswell was armed and when he was not.
Applewhite held out a pair of earmuffs. Goswell glared at the butler.
“The doctor insists, milord.”
Goswell nodded. “All right, give me the blasted things.” But secretly, he approved of the earmuffs. These were electronic hearing protectors, produced by one of Goswell’s own companies in France—devil take the Frogs—and he had to admit they were useful devices. A circuit in the headset sensed incoming noise and immediately shut it out, reducing the loud blast to a small pop. However, when they were not picking up explosions, the muffs actually amplified regular sounds, so that one could hear better than normal. Truth be known, Goswell’s hearing was not what it had been, and he was seriously considering the implants that would bring back his ability to pick up normal conversation, which had faded appreciably. The implants were apparently go
od for five or six years, using microbatteries that were somehow recharged by the vibrations of sound upon them. He knew a few chaps and one old lady who had undergone the surgical procedure, and all of them had been most satisfied with the results. Perhaps he would have it done. He had already had the laser surgery on his eyes, didn’t even need his reading glasses unless he was very tired. It was a mixed blessing, technology, but now and again it did offer something worthwhile.
“After I pot this rabbit, have Stephens bring the car round. I’ll be going to the club.”
“Yes, milord. Good hunting.”
Goswell smiled. “Thank, you, Applewhite. I will get the rascal, indeed I will!”
Tuesday, April 5th
London, England
Peel drove toward the meeting place where Bascomb-Coombs had directed him, still somewhat unsettled by this new twist in his fortunes. And fortune was certainly smiling upon him. Bascomb-Coombs had caused this morning a new account to be opened at an Indonesian bank, a numbered account upon which Peel could draw, and therein was the sum in Indonesian rupias equivalent to one million euros.
Just like that, Peel had become a millionaire, and the promise was for much more if he performed his new duties adequately.
The small office suite was off Old Kent Road, not far from the old South Eastern Gas Works. Not a place Peel would have picked, but perhaps that was just as well, for none of Peel’s investigations had spotted the building.
He turned into the car park, shut the engine off, and walked to the two-story, squarish gray block. The windows were barred, and a guard sat behind a desk just inside the lobby. The guard checked a computer screen, matched the name and face on it to Peel’s, and buzzed him through a locked door to a stair.
Peel climbed quickly, reached the second floor, and turned down the hall toward the office at the end. As he passed other offices, some with windows in their doors, he observed that they all appeared to be quite empty.
