by Tom Clancy
Howard paused, thinking about his words. “This guy Natadze is sharp,” he said after a moment, “and from what little we know about him, he’s skilled. His boss has more money than ten banks, and lawyers out the wazoo, so you have to be careful. If he shows up and gets spooked, he might be able to wade through the local police like an NBA star in a kiddie pool, so you don’t want to take that chance.”
“I understand the theory,” Kent said.
“We’re like Special Forces, SEALs, Gray Fox, Rangers — but our mission statement and defined responsibilities are, in practice, just general guidelines. There are times when we have to cross the border and thump the bad guys, and justify it afterward. It might not stick to the letter of the law, but it achieves justice, and that’s what you have to keep in mind.”
“I’m more comfortable following the rules,” he said.
“Yeah, I hear you. Then again, I also remember hearing from a Ranger I knew about a certain major who, against the rules of engagement, took a volunteer squad and went deep into enemy sand to bring back one of his Marines who had been captured by a band of cutthroat fanatics. And when the bad guys resisted, they got handed a short cut to Paradise.”
Kent shook his head. “Stupid, that major. Lucky, too.”
Howard chuckled. “Davy Crockett’s motto: ‘Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.’ This guy we’re after shot one of our people, killed at least one other person we know about, and has probably done worse. If we get him, the lawyers can sort it out.”
“Yes, sir.”
The com clicked on: “Big Bird, this is Baker Leader.”
That was Julio, who was sitting on the estate’s side entrance, using the command-only opchan.
Kent picked up the com mike. “Go ahead, Baker Leader.”
“My people on the back gate tell me we have company. Cadillac limousine with New York vanity plate O-I–L-Y- 2, approaching the gate. About a block away.”
“Copy that, Baker. Can Baker Team give us a passenger status?”
“Negative, Big Bird. There is a driver reported in front, but the rear windows are opaqued. BT can’t tell if there are passengers.”
“Copy that.”
Kent turned to Howard, raised an eyebrow. Howard nodded.
“Baker Leader, tell BT to detain the limo and ascertain if there are any passengers who might be federal fugitives inside.”
“Roger that, Big Bird. Baker Team, you heard the man, stop ’em. I’m heading over there now. Sitrep as soon as we can. Discom.”
“It’s a risk,” Kent said to Howard. “If he’s not in the car, we’re screwed. If the Georgian is elsewhere, Cox will warn him off.”
“True. But if he is in it, we have him. That’s one of Cox’s cars, and according to what we know, he and his wife and their company usually come and go via the front gate.”
The next few minutes seemed to crawl by as slowly as a year.
Then: “Big Bird, this is Baker Leader. We have a negative on our target here. No passenger. Driver says he is here for a pick-up. We checked the trunk, too.”
Kent frowned and keyed the mike. “Copy, Baker Leader. Cut him loose and back off — if he comes back out your gate, have your team stop him again.”
“Copy.”
“Return to your station, Baker Team Leader, in case somebody tries to leave that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Howard and Kent looked at each other. “Maybe he’s already inside,” Kent said. “And this is his ride.”
“It doesn’t stand to reason that he’s just going to get into the car and leave with a bunch of armed troops pulling limos over.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. If he’s even in there.”
Cox cradled the phone’s receiver and said, “The limo driver just pulled through the back gate. He was stopped and searched by men in military uniforms.”
Seated on the couch, Natadze nodded. “Net Force troops. They put it together. I am sorry.”
“It was not your fault,” Cox said. “Somehow, they figured out that you work for me.”
Natadze said, “My presence here is a risk for you. I must leave.”
“Won’t they be watching all the exits?”
“I will wait until dark. I will create a diversion, and leave while they deal with it.”
“A diversion,” Cox said.
“Something bright and noisy,” Natadze said. “It will draw their attention. I will take the cook’s son’s dirt bike and walk it across the fields to the north until I am well away from here.”
“What will you do?”
“Go home. They don’t know about my New York condo — it has not been under surveillance, I have made certain of that. I will release an electronic evidence packet I have to show that I have left for one of the Middle East countries with whom the United States does not have an extradition treaty. It will not be obvious, they will have to look for it, but they will come across the false trail soon enough. I will sit tight for a few days until they are gulled, then I will use a disguise and get back to dealing with the problem.”
Cox shrugged. “I leave it to you, Eduard. This is your area of expertise.”
“Yes.”
The diversion was easy. Well after dark, the rear gate opened and a car rolled slowly out. A security cam at the gate was reset to watch this.
The military watchers moved in to halt it. The car did not stop, however, and it became apparent shortly there was nobody driving it as it coasted to a stop.
Thirty seconds later, the car burst into flames.
A simple timer and a small charge attached to the gasoline tank had been enough for that.
By this time, Natadze was gone from the house, at the fence on the north side of the estate, well away from any of the gates, crouching in a stand of tall, evergreen arbor vitae.
There would be much radio traffic concerning the fire, and while the confusion roiled, Natadze cut a hole in the chain-link fence, pushed the motorbike through the gap, and quickly crossed the road and into a field whose borders were also blurred by trees. They could have watchers on all the gates, but it was highly unlikely they would have had enough men to completely surround the huge estate, and they would not have worried about somebody leaving on foot — the estate was some distance from transportation.
Thermal vision he could do nothing about. He didn’t have the equipment with him to deal with that. But even with night vision gear, it would have been difficult at best to see Natadze, who was dressed all in black, keeping a low profile, and moving as slowly as he could to avoid drawing attention.
Once he was well away from the road, he climbed onto the bike and started pedaling it, riding farther north until he came to a neighborhood street behind a water tower. There weren’t that many roads here in this part of Suffolk, but there were a couple of small airports, and MTA stations to the south on the Ronkonkoma Branch Line, and it would be easy enough to loop around and leave that way. If he hurried before they cast a net to cover those.
He knew they would cast that net, and soon. The problem with his diversion was that it had pretty much told them for sure that he had been in there. A car blowing up like that was just too convenient for them to believe it was a coincidence.
They would know he had been there, and they would realize quickly that he was gone. Whatever he did would have to be soon.
Life was not always easy, but nobody had ever told him it would be. As long as you could stay a step ahead of the Reaper? That was as much as you needed, just one step.
Howard and Kent figured it out pretty quick. Kent got on the horn and called it in. “I want a full reconnoiter on the estate’s perimeter, put spook-eyes on the scouts and tell them to look real hard.”
Julio said, “Yes, sir.”
“Discom.”
Kent turned to Howard. “He’s flown the coop.”
“I expect so.”
“He was there, John. We were right all along. And he got away.”
“For
now,” Howard said. “Look, Abe, there was nothing you could have done about this. Even if we’d known — and I mean known absolutely for sure that he was in there — we would never have been able to get a warrant.”
“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 musi
c.”
“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.
