by Tom Clancy
She sighed. Put one hand on his forearm. Her touch was warm. “We do fear something has gone awry.”
He stared at her hand. After a beat, she broke the contact. “No chance for us, is there?”
“I—it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m sorry.”
“But you did enjoy yourself? As far as it went?”
“Ah . . . yes. I did.”
She smiled, but it was hollow. “The good ones always get away. A pity. Your Ms. Fiorella is lucky, you know.”
“I think I’m the lucky one.”
She stepped back, out of his space, and glanced at her watch. “Should be hearing from the strike team shortly.”
“Can we still stop Peel? If he is on his way to Goswell’s estate?”
“Given the current situation, I doubt that DG Hamilton would want to risk another team. It would be safer to bottle him up at The Yews, if that’s where he’s going, and deal with him later.
In the MI-6 cafeteria, Fernandez swallowed a bite of what looked like Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes drenched by a half gallon of brown gravy and said, “What’s with the sub-commander?”
Fiorella had come to the cafeteria with Howard and Fernandez, but had quickly excused herself and left, looking pale.
Howard glanced down at his Thai chicken salad. He wasn’t a gossip, but he had known Julio all of his adult life; the two of them didn’t have many secrets from each other. And from Toni’s face, the nickel had dropped. She had figured out about Michaels’ extracurricular activities. Howard didn’t need to get that specific, though, so he said, “I think she and the commander might be having some personal problems.”
Julio washed another bite down with a glass of water and nodded. “Cooper,” he said. “Boss got biblical with her?”
Howard raised an eyebrow.
“She’s gorgeous, smart, and she’s been giving him looks,” Julio went on. “And the boss stares at his shoes every time Cooper gets too close. She looks possessive and he looks guilty. And that looks like a done deal to me. Not that I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. You picked it up.”
Howard nodded. “Yes.”
Julio took another mouthful of the brown and steaming goop. “I don’t understand what all the fuss about how bad British cooking is about. Nothing wrong with it far as I can tell,” he said.
“Spoken like a true meat and potatoes man.”
“Yeah, well, Br’er Rabbit, why don’t you have some more of that grass and twigs you got.”
A young man approached the table. “Colonel Howard? Commander Michaels would like to see you, sir, as soon as possible.”
Julio shoveled another mouthful in, hurrying, as Howard nodded once and got to his feet. Now what?
38
Thursday, April 14th
Near Balcombe, England
MI-6 had sprung for a second copter, and it landed with Alex, Howard, Fernandez, Cooper, and Toni. The strike force copter was still on the ground, and a dozen soldiers in Brit camo and berets, weapons at the ready, moved around the big old barn as the Net Force team piled out of the second bird into the dusty prop wash.
Toni had tucked her personal pain away into the box of professionalism and locked it tight. Even so, she hadn’t been able to look directly at Alex during the short flight.
A British captain approached and spoke with Cooper. Toni walked around, bent to examine the ground in a couple of spots, then drifted toward the barn. There was a new car parked inside, and it hadn’t been there long enough to get dusty. The floor was earth, under a light layer of dry hay. She walked back out and circled the area again. The ground was soft and chalky enough in places to take footprints, but the military force had obliterated a lot of them, their combat boots leaving a distinctive tread. She thought about what might have happened here, given what she knew and what she had seen.
Alex said, “Toni?” He stood next to Cooper and the British captain.
She could do this. She could keep her feelings at bay and do her job.
“This is Captain Ward,” Alex said.
Cooper said, “Why don’t you bring Sub-Commander Fiorella up to speed on what you think might have happened here, Captain?”
A flash of anger enveloped Toni. Bring her up to fucking speed? Yeah, right. She wanted to smash Cooper’s smug face. Instead, she tamped it down and said, “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Cooper blinked. Did she hear the challenge in Toni’s voice? “Oh, really? Why don’t you tell us, then?” Yeah, she heard it.
“Sure. Peel had a backup man. That’s his car in the barn. It will be a rental and won’t have a backtrail. Probably some dummy corporation post office box and phony ID used to get it.
“Your agents must have missed the backup. Odds are it was Mikhayl Ruzhyó, who must have some kind of link to Peel. Maybe they were old college buddies or they met in some police action in Africa or SA somewhere. They have history. Otherwise, it’s too coincidental.
“Peel led your men here, right into a trap. Ruzhyó sneaked up on them—no, strike that, you couldn’t really sneak up on this barn from the road in a car, and it’s too far from anywhere to walk, so probably he was already hiding when Peel arrived. How am I doing so far?” She looked at Alex and his face was frozen into a half-grin. He felt her anger, she knew. She nodded at him. I know, you bastard. And now you know I know.
Cooper didn’t speak, nor did Alex or the captain, so Toni continued: “There are two small spots of blood on the ground, still visible, though somebody kicked dirt over them, there and over there.” She pointed. “Were your men armed? And wearing body armor?”
Cooper just glared at her, and it was the captain who said, “They carried sidearms, and as for the vests, yes, they should have worn them. It’s standard for this kind of operation.”
“Right. So Peel or Ruzhyó shot them, most likely in the heads. That’s where they fell. Then they shoved the bodies into their own car and left here driving that and Peel’s. I imagine if your troops haven’t stomped all over them, you’ll find his tire tracks and those of your men’s car leaving. By now, I’d guess they’ve driven the car with the bodies in it somewhere it won’t be found for a while. Two missing agents are a concern, but not as high-profile as two dead ones. If I were in charge, I’d have the local constables drag any big ponds or lakes within a few miles of here. Deep water is a good place to hide a car.”
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.”
“Ruzhyó 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 Ruzhyó 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 e
nough 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 Ruzhyó 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 Ruzhyó 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 Ruzhyó 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 Ruzhyó—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.
“Stay here and keep your eyes open,” Peel told Ruzhyó.
Ruzhyó 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.
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.”
