The Archimedes Effect

by Tom Clancy

  He smiled.

  On the strip, Sorenson had dropped into a crouch, trying to buy an extra moment or two before Jamal’s counter could hit his mask. So the feint toward Jamal’s toe hadn’t been a feint after all. Sorenson was trying to score a touch, or to drive Jamal off the end of the strip.

  But Jamal wasn’t reacting as anyone had expected. As soon as Sorenson’s point started its dip—later, Thorn even heard some of the audience say it looked like he started moving a bare instant before Sorenson’s attack, which made Thorn smile—Jamal had leaped, but he hadn’t gone backward. He had jumped up, tucking his right foot under him and dropping his own point directly on top of Sorenson’s mask.

  Touché.

  And match point.

  The director called halt and awarded the touch, but it was all a formality. Jamal had won.

  “How’d he do that, Tommy?” Marissa asked.

  Thorn smiled again. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “His eyes, you mean? Well, it’s hard to see through that mesh, but they looked different. Unfocused, I guess, but more so than usual, if you know what I mean.”

  Thorn nodded. “What else?”

  She paused, thinking, then said, “The oddest thing was his face. I mean, I’ve seen Jamal fence a few times, and it always seems that he’s grinning, or gritting his teeth, or biting his lip, or something, you know? But this time, there at the end of the bout, it was like his face lost all expression.” She looked at him. “Why, Tommy? Does that mean something?”

  Thorn smiled. “It means he’s getting there.”

  They went over to join the small crowd gathered around Jamal.

  “Great bout, Jamal,” Thorn said, shaking his hand.

  Jamal grinned. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Yeah, amazing.” Marissa shook his hand, too.

  They started walking away, away from the others and toward where Jamal had his gear.

  “Tell me, though,” Marissa said when they had gained some space. “What happened with that last touch? It looked almost as though you knew what he was going to do before he did it, but that can’t be right, can it? Tommy always says—”

  “Anticipation will get you killed,” Jamal finished, grinning again. Then his smile faded. “Honestly, Marissa, I don’t really know what happened. I could feel him pressing, and I knew he was setting me up for something, and of course I knew I was out of room, and then, I don’t know. It’s like I found myself three feet up in the air, my point coming down on his mask, without really knowing how I got there.” He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed, and darted a glance at Thorn.

  Thorn nodded. “It’s like your counter just happened.”

  Jamal’s eyes grew bigger. He nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Like it wasn’t me doing it.”

  “Excellent,” Thorn said. “And congratulations.”

  They were already calling people over for the medal ceremony. “Go get ’em,” Thorn said.

  Jamal grinned again and darted off.

  “Tommy?” Marissa said. There was an edge to her voice, a tell-me-now-or-you’ll-be-sorry note.

  Thorn chuckled. “It’s called ‘no-mind,’ and it’s not a Western thing at all. But it’s a very good thing. Being one with the moment, so that the blade itself seems to react, not the fencer, and the parries and attacks throw themselves. It extends further, to where the touch happens before the move, and the bout is over before it begins, but I think we’ll save that conversation for another time.”

  She looked at him, frowning. “Why?”

  He grinned. “ ’Cuz I want to see Jamal get his medal.”

  The Great Desert Waste

  North Africa

  One of the things Lewis had learned about men over the years was that the surest way to catch them was to use multiple baits. Some men liked to be thought physically attractive; some preferred to be admired for their minds, or personalities, or their senses of humor. Some wanted you to be impressed with their ability to make money—or to wield power. A man who might laugh out loud if you called him a “hunk” or a “stud” might also preen like a peacock if you flattered his intelligence or his compassion.

  With a man like Jay, you wanted to hit him on at least two fronts. The first and most important bait, Lewis figured, was to be a fan of smokin’ Jay, the computer whiz. That was easy enough to do—he was good, as good as any, and better than most, so it didn’t take much acting on her part to admire his moves and knowledge.

  But computer geeks tended to be insecure about things on the physical plane, and letting it be known that he was attractive on a male-female basis was the second prong of the attack. She knew he was a normal heterosexual man—he had a wife and child—and she was making it apparent that she would like to roll around with him and break furniture, doing some things he probably wouldn’t be able to do at home with the baby sleeping in the next room.

  He had to be at least curious and flattered.

  Given her choice, she would be running a custom-made-to-attract-Jay-Gridley scenario, full of subconscious prods to get Jay’s hormones stirred so she could take advantage of them, like that club in WWII Chicago. But Jay had been fairly adamant that she join his VR creation this time, which meant that he was nervous about hers, which was good. Keeping him off balance was where she wanted to be.

  She smiled as she walked along behind Jay. He had them walking in a classic desert, dressed in Bedouin-style white robes and sandals, with high-tech snake sticks, moving along a trail passing tall sand dunes dotted with bits of scraggly grasses. She had a cowl over her head and a scarf over most of her face. In fact, save for her eyes and forehead and hands, she was completely covered, and that was worth another smile.

  Her staff was not the crook’d wood of a sheepherder, though, but aluminum or titanium, expandable, with a wrist loop and a spongy, padded grip. The bottom end was sharp and pointed, with a round concave metal disk “basket” a few inches up, to offer more support in snow or, in this case, sand. There was a button under a flip-up cap on the staff’s butt, and if you pressed it and grounded the tip, it would charge the basket with enough low-amp voltage to send a serpent on his slithery way if it was anywhere close to the critter. If that didn’t work, you could stab the crawler with the point itself, or just bash him with the staff like a club.

  And if need be, the point was sharp and heavy enough to seriously deter a human who might want your wallet or virtue.

  She wondered how Jay would react if she goosed him in the rear end with the sharp point.

  She laughed at the thought.

  Jay turned to look at her, all Lawrence of Arabia in his robe and that Arab headgear—what did they call those scarves? Kaffiyeh? Yeah, that was it. Held in place by a piece of goat hair or some such, called . . . an . . . agal? Something like that.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just remembered an old joke.”

  Jay looked at her with the question in his eyes, but she didn’t follow up on it.

  Finally, he said, “The URL and page ought to be around that next big dune.”

  This was the piece she had gone back into her old game to plant for Jay to find, and it was a red herring; there wasn’t anything there that was going to help Jay locate anything useful. But there were a couple of things that would, on the face of it, look as if they might be worth chasing down. If Jay was chasing a false trail, that would be good. Eventually, he’d figure out it went nowhere, but “eventually” could be more than long enough.

  They rounded the sloping dune. A warm little sirocco wind dusted them with fine-grained sand from the twenty-meter-tall hill.

  An oasis lay three or four hundred meters ahead—a splotch of green, with desert grasses and palm and olive trees bordering a water hole. Of course. What else would there be out here?

  A horned viper crossed the path ten meters ahead, sidewinding in a pattern like a letter S. Looking, she didn’t doubt, for shade, and good luck with that, snake.

  It was hot out here, and while she knew
the pale robes she wore were ideal for such a climate, keeping the sun off and her body’s moisture in, if were it up to her she’d be slathered in #30 sunblock and naked. Of course, if Jay turned around and saw that, he’d probably have a heart attack.

  Between the shade and the water, the oasis was twenty degrees cooler, probably eighty F. instead of a hundred. Even though it was Jay’s metaphor, she knew what he was looking for, and she could easily spot the “clues” that were hidden here.

  Jay said, “I saw something up in that palm tree,” he said. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

  “I’m going to splash some water on my feet,” she said. “I’ll scope the water hole.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  Lewis slipped her sandals off at the sandy edge of the water hole, which was actually a fair-size pond, fed, no doubt, by an underground spring. The water was cool and fairly clear. In RW, it would probably be scummy and full of bacteria that would make it pea-green, but here it was like it had just come from the tap.

  She padded down the shallow slope of wet sand, raising the hem of her robe with her hands. She waded into the water until it was halfway up her thighs, with the robe bunched around her hips.

  Jay hadn’t bothered with underwear, which was good.

  She stood there for a few moments until she heard Jay coming through the dark bushes toward the water. She turned around and gave him a quick glimpse beneath her robe. As he already knew from her beach scenario, she was a natural blonde, and a reminder would be good. . . .

  She waded to the shore, lowering her robe slowly as she ascended the gentle slope.

  He watched her most attentively.

  “See anything?” she asked. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth, her voice was so cool and sweet. Other than the doorway to sensual bliss, I mean?

  It was as if he was afraid his voice would crack. He wordlessly held out his hand. Upon it was a small electronic device, about the size of a book of matches. She knew what it was, of course, since she had put it here.

  “Looks like some kind of signal generator,” she said.

  Jay finally found his tongue. “Narrowcaster,” he said. “Probably set to send a slimbeam radio or LOS pulse. We need to see if we can figure out where it was sending its signal.”

  She needed to give him another victory. She said, “It seems awfully small.”

  “You’re right. Probably there’s a camouflaged parabolic dish here somewhere,” he said. “This thing is too weak to have much push. The dish will boost and relay the sig. Find that, and we can figure out which direction to head in.”

  She nodded. “You’re really good at this, Jay. A lot better than I am.”

  “You found this page,” he said.

  “You would have when you got around to looking.”

  He nodded. That was true enough, she knew. Of course, he wouldn’t have known he was supposed to find it because she had put it here for him to find.

  Lewis knew she didn’t need to be entirely stupid here. Really bright men were often attracted to smart women, especially if the men were confident in their fields of expertise. That she was also competent at what Jay did was a plus—by being so, she could understand how really impressive he was, and he’d know that. Just as a good amateur basketball player could appreciate a real expert’s skill better than somebody who couldn’t play at all, her being able to run with him at least part of the way was good. Everybody liked an appreciative audience. Impressing the rubes was one thing; impressing other experts in your field was something better. And everything Jay Gridley did from here on out was going to impress the hell out of her. Oh, Jay. You’re so smart. And so good-looking, too . . .

  “Let’s see if we can find the dish,” he said.

  “Where do you want me to look?” she asked. Let him be the director. Anything you want me to do, Jay, just say the word. Anything at all . . .

  “Check the bushes on the left, over that way. I’ll go to the right.”

  “You’re the man,” she said.

  She knew the dish Jay was looking for was to the left, but she also knew she was going to miss it on her search, leaving it to Jay to come and find and point it out to her. Another victory for which she could admire him. You’re so smart, Jay. So adept. I bet you’re good in bed, too, huh? Wanna show me how good?

  She grinned to herself. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

  It was just a matter of time. A small push, and he would fall, and she would be under him when he came down. She was going to enjoy it, and on more than one level, too.

  22

  Washington, D.C.

  Somebody was following Carruth.

  He hadn’t gotten a good look at the guy, only the car he was driving, and while it might be paranoia, Carruth didn’t think it was. There was a late-model American something-or-other back there, one of those boxy little sedans that looked like everything else produced in the U.S. in the last ten years, with some stupid, made-up name—a Springa or Freemele, something like that. Chevy, Ford, Dodge? It didn’t matter.

  Carruth was on his way back from the Safeway, where he’d picked up staples. He wasn’t much of a cook, but there were times when he didn’t feel like going out to eat, so he kept the freezer stocked with stuff he could microwave—burritos and pocket sandwiches and chicken strips, like that. Low-fat, most of it. Plus cereal and milk and coffee and beer. And fruit, lots of apples and bananas and oranges and pears and grapes. Too much junk food, you got fat, and you needed fresh produce to oil the works. Fruit was good.

  So, every couple of weeks he’d make a run, fill a basket up with stuff, and he’d be good for a while.

  As he’d left his home and walked out to his car, heading to the supermarket, he’d seen the little gray nothingmobile, one of four or five cars that went by as he cheeped his car’s locks. He hadn’t paid any real attention to it, no reason to do so. It was on the radar, but low priority.

  The market was six blocks away from his house, and halfway there, he caught a glimpse of the same car in his rearview mirror.

  Still no alarms—there were a million automobiles like it on the road. But when you were in a business where what you were doing was either iffy or outright illegal, you had to pay more attention to things. He couldn’t ever forget those two cops, what a screwup that had been.

  He’d hit the grocery store, loaded his purchases into the car, and cranked it up. And as he left the lot, he saw the gray car pull out behind him. Couldn’t read the plates, but they were local, he could see that much.

  Third time was the charm.

  Could be it was just his imagination, but he couldn’t take that chance. He turned at the first intersection he came to. Not going home just yet . . .

  After he had gotten out of the Navy, Carruth had figured he would be a merc, a soldier of fortune, working for whoever had the money to pay him. He’d done a little of that, in a couple places—North Africa, South America. He’d drifted into civilian security for a company in Iraq and Iran—that paid real well—which is where he’d hooked up with some of the team he was running now. On one of the civilian gigs, he’d worked with an ex-spook by the name of Dormer. Or maybe he wasn’t ex. You never could tell with those guys, they’d climb a tree to tell a lie rather than stand on the ground and tell the truth. But Dormer was an old guy who knew his stuff, and when things were slack, which was most of the time, he’d teach Carruth little bits and pieces of spycraft.

  Dormer was about sixty, and as average-looking as you could get—medium height and weight, and in-country he wore a moustache and dyed it and his hair black so that with his tan he could pretty much pass for a local. He spoke the language, dressed like most men on the street, and Carruth had once watched him walk into a crowd and just vanish, as if he had turned invisible.

  Dormer showed him the ropes, including drops, how to tail somebody without being seen—and how to spot a tail without letting him know you’d made him.

  “Thing abou
t being followed,” Dormer had said, “is that it’s easy to check if all you want to do is know if you’re being tailed. The trick is to do it so the guy on your ass doesn’t know you’ve spotted him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, my large ex-SEAL friend, if the guy thinks he’s burned, he’ll drop off and they will replace him with somebody else. Better the tail you know than the tail you don’t.”

  Carruth had nodded. Yeah, he could see that.

  “So you think the guy half a block back is on you, doesn’t matter if he’s on foot or in a car, you don’t turn around and stare at him. You’re driving, you don’t slam on your brakes and pull over, making him pass. You don’t run a red light and wait to see if he runs it after you. You don’t do anything that makes it look as if you have a clue. You want him to think you are blind, deaf, and stupid.”

  “What do you do?”

  The older man had grinned. “Listen and learn, son. . . .”

  Dormer had disappeared for real a couple months after that conversation. Gone into the desert in a van with some guys heading south to haul something illegal to an Iraqi port city, and far as Carruth could tell, nobody had ever seen any of them again. Probably he was bleached bones in the desert sands, though Carruth kinda liked to think the old spook was still out there somewhere, wheeling and dealing.

  Driving through the streets of the District, Carruth remembered the lesson. He wasn’t going to go directly home. He had a little stop to make first, and it had to be in the right location.

  He drove for a few blocks, turned left, went another half mile, then turned right. He didn’t hurry, and while he made enough turns so that it would have to be an unbelievably big coincidence for anybody to accidentally stay with him, he was heading for a particular place and making reasonable efforts to get there via a reasonable route.

  There was a cutlery shop Carruth went to sometimes to check out the knives, those being basic tools of his trade. He usually carried a tactical folder, and sometimes a little push-dagger disguised as a belt buckle, or even a neck-knife that hung on a thong around his neck and was hidden under his shirt. In the field, he always had a good-sized sheath knife—he was partial to the tanto design, though he also liked a basic Finnish pukka.