Net Force (1998) Read online

  "Your loss," Jimmy Joe said. "Who is gonna know?"

  "Only takes two words in Bonebreaker's ear and you're pretzel-boy."

  Jimmy Joe shrugged. "Better to burn it than bank it." He turned to watch the ersatz Bella shuck her costume.

  "Me, I'm ridin'," Tyrone said. But he sneaked a quick look as he headed for the door.

  Maybe he'd take a pass at CyberNation, see what was up there.

  Thursday, September 30th, 8:20 a.m. Quantico

  Parked in the Viper across the street, Jay Gridley watched Tyrone Howard leave the strip joint. The boy didn't see him. He smiled. The colonel had asked him to check up on his son from time to time, and Gridley didn't mind doing so, but he wouldn't mention this. Teenage boys were curious, and a VR stripper was a lot less dangerous than some of the stuff a kid could get himself involved with, on- or off-line. If a teenage boy wasn't interested in looking at a naked woman, that would be the time for his father to get worried.

  No harm, no foul.

  Tyrone mounted his Harley and roared away.

  Gridley watched him leave before he started the Viper's motor. He had plenty of other stuff to worry about.

  Thursday, September 30th, 11:55 a.m. Quantico

  Toni Fiorella stretched in the gym, warming up her knees. She looked up and saw Rusty enter. He waved at her. He was already dressed to work out.

  He was a pretty good student. Very flexible, if a bit too much addicted to speed and power, neither of which were necessary in bukti negara. If he got to the serak, he could use that, but that was years away, if he stuck to it. So far, at least, he had shown up for every practice, and his moves indicated he'd been practicing on his own. He was still a little leery of working close, he kept wanting to distance himself too much for the proper working of the techniques, but that would level out with time.

  "Hey, Guru."

  "Rusty. Let's get started."

  He nodded. He stood with his feet apart, his hands by his side, palms forward, fingers pointed at the ground.

  Unlike some of the traditional Japanese styles, there were only a handful of Indonesian terms you had to know to practice her version of silat; one was the word for "on guard." "Jagah," she said.

  She mirrored Rusty's pose. Her guru was right. Teaching helped sharpen your own skills. You had to think about things, get them right in your own head, before you passed them along. The ceremonial bow, something she had been doing for years, was a good example. For her, it was automatic, one long and smooth piece, but for a beginner, it was a series of small moves, and each move had a meaning:

  I present myself before the Creator in the beginning--

  The left foot came in, next to and slightly in front of the right foot, knees bent, hands moved to the left side, by the hip, palms down, left over right.

  I present myself to the best of my ability in the knowledge of the Art--

  The hands came up and out together as in supplication, palms up, almost as if holding a book. The right hand folded into a fist, the left hand wrapped around the right, both came back toward the chest.

  I ask to receive from the Creator all those things which I do not see--

  Another book-reading move, open hands coming back to cover the eyes.

  --to engrave upon my heart--

  The hands pressed together in namaste, the classic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart.

  --until the end.

  And the final move, a repeat of the second, the palm-down block by the left hip.

  "Do your djuru, please," she said.

  Rusty nodded, and began Djuru One.

  It was the simplest of the dances, but from it, everything more complex arose. A metaphor for life, she had come to realize.

  Thursday, September 30th, 12:30 p.m. Quantico

  The Selkie bought a Coke, sweet-and-sour chicken, and sticky rice from the Chinese place the target sometimes rode his trike to for lunch. It was a warm day, a little breeze keeping the humidity bearable, and she sat at one of the small white wrought-iron tables just outside the restaurant. She wore a baggy gray T-shirt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. The wig she affected was brunette, and even with most of it stuffed under the cap, was enough to add to her changed appearance so that she didn't look much like anybody the target had ever seen.

  There he came on the raked three-wheeler, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck reflecting the hazy sunshine.

  She opened the cardboard containers and dumped the chicken and rice together onto a paper plate. She stirred the combination with the split-apart-throw-away chopsticks, allowed the sauce to soak into the rice. There were a dozen other diners outside enjoying their lunches and the day, and she did not make eye contact with any of them, or the target.

  The target parked the trike, pulled his gloves and helmet off and hung them on the handlebar, then walked into the restaurant. His legs were tight, pumped from the ride. The spandex shorts hid little an interested viewer might want to look at. And it was interesting. She was not a nun, though she put sex aside when she was working. Mora Sullivan could roll and break beds if she felt like it; the Selkie could not afford the risk.

  It had not always been that way. Once, early in her career, she had picked up a target in a bar. He'd been a good-looking man, and she'd gone with him to his hotel and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter.

  When he fell into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she had taken a silenced .22 pistol from her purse and shot him twice in the back of the head.

  He'd never known what hit him, and at the time, she'd felt pleased with herself. She had made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to do so than making love to a passionate woman, falling asleep, and never waking up.

  It had been foolish, what she had done. She had left hair and fluids at the murder scene, had been seen by hotel staff, even though she had been in disguise. Nothing had come of it--it was years past, the file long since buried--but it had been stupid. Another time, another place, and the target here might be fun to romp around with, but she was not willing to risk capture to be sentimental.

  She ate the chicken. She'd had better. Had worse, too.

  Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.

  The Selkie smiled.

  Friday, October 1st, 7 a.m. Kiev

  Kiev had several decent restaurants, but the breakfast was catered in a private suite at the new Hilton hotel, not far from the banks of the beautiful Dnieper, in a site formerly occupied by a theater and row of shops. Unlike a public restaurant, such a suite could be--and had been--swept for electronic listening devices. The sixth-floor windows could be--and were--rigged with simple vibrators that would defeat a hidden laser reader aimed at them from half a block away. The food servers had been dismissed, the doors locked, the secrets thus kept among the players. Not that anybody would likely be spying upon them. Nobody outside this room had a real clue as to what was going on inside it. But one erred on the side of caution, always.

  Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quantities, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.

  They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldn't have expected coffee this good in such a place.

  "You all have your new transfer numbers?" Plekhanov asked.

  There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.

  "Yes," they said simultaneously.

  Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inco
nsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.

  Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.

  Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once they'd been. . . .

  "Comrade Plekhanov?" the woman said.

  "Yes?" This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called "comrade" in a long time--not in the way she meant the word.

  "There has been some . . . difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are passed."

  "Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool." That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. He'd retired as a major before going into politics.

  "You are also a Cossack, Yemelyan." Khomyakov said.

  "That is how I know," Razin said. "Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged."

  Plekhanov looked at the woman. "Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an . . . accident, Ludmilla?"

  She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. "He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary."

  "Death is final," Razin said.

  "Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful."

  "And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him."

  The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.

  "Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet?" Khomyakov said.

  Razin snorted.

  Plekhanov raised an eyebrow at her.

  "Bulavin is fond of both liquor and women," Khomyakov said. "He has been discreet, careful to keep his activities in these areas confined to those which would not irritate his union members if they found out. Not too much drinking in public, the occasional fling with a secretary. Men are men, and not bothered by such things. Perhaps we could supply him a woman willing to . . . doctor his liquor and engage in activities his members--and his wife--would find less than . . . tasteful? There are many possibilities along these lines. And our woman would, of course, have an excellent holographic camera."

  Razin said, "Pah! You would put him in bed with a boy? A sheep? This is a woman's answer to everything! If it moves, screw it!"

  "Better, perhaps, than a man's answer--if it moves, kill it," she said. She smiled.

  Plekhanov liked both her response and her solution. Brutes could be found anywhere; subtlety was more of a prize. A live enemy in your pocket was sometimes better than a dead one in the ground. Sometimes.

  Well, at least he knew who the new President of Ukraine was going to be.

  Thursday, September 30th, 11 p.m. Washington, D.C.

  "I bet you've never seen anybody get killed, have you, Scout?"

  The little dog wagged his tail, momentarily diverted from his sniffing and peeing. When it didn't seem as if the comment would lead to a command, he resumed his work.

  In her old-woman disguise, the Selkie moved toward the target's condo. She had decided to do it tonight. The target was still awake, a bit late for him, but his reading light was on, and it was going to be simple, clean, in and out. By the time anybody knew he was dead, she would be home and Phyllis Markham would have vanished forever.

  The Selkie bent down to pet the dog. As she did so, she unsnapped his leash, but said, "Scout, heel."

  She adjusted her thin white cotton gloves, took a grip on the cane and came slowly and painfully to her feet. When she continued on her gimpy way, the dog stayed with her. Anybody from more than a few feet away would likely think the toy poodle was still on the lead, especially if they'd seen them together before. People saw what you gave them to see.

  When she got to the target's condo, she forced herself to take several deep breaths. No matter how many times she did a job, the adrenaline rush always came. Her heart raced, her breathing speeded up, she felt tight, itchy, anxious to move. It was something she could use, the rush, and part of the allure. If it ever got to the point where she didn't feel the touch of stage fright, the roiling butterflies in her belly, she'd quit, no matter how much money she was shy of her goal. If she got that blase, it would be too dangerous.

  The darkness was alive with fall smells: foliage, grass, the perfume of a softener-sheet in somebody's clothes dryer's exhaust. The air was sensually cool on her skin where she was not covered with makeup. The stars glittered through the city glow, hard gems in a mostly clear sky. A moth fluttered by, and his flight left ghostly trails in the night air. Sensations always turned psychedelically sharp when the life-and-death game came to its final moves. This was another part of the attraction.

  One was never so alive as when dancing with Death.

  She looked around, and saw she was alone. She urged Scout into the bushes to the left of the front door, where he couldn't be seen. "Scout, down, stay," she said.

  Obediently, the little dog sat, then stretched out. She'd tested him, and he'd held that position for at least an hour. She wouldn't need but five minutes at the outside.

  The Selkie moved to the door and rang the bell.

  In bed, Alex Michaels dozed, the technical report balanced on his knees. The sound of his front doorbell jarred him awake. He looked at the bedside time display. Who'd be here this hour of the night?

  He got up, slipped a robe on over his naked self and belted it shut.

  The doorbell rang again.

  He frowned, still half asleep. It was probably somebody from work.

  Yeah? How come they didn't call? They have your numbers.

  He opened the drawer in his bedside table, took his issue taser from the drawer and dropped it into the robe's pocket. Not that he was really worried, but there had been some robberies in D.C. where a couple of strong-arm types had knocked on doors and then forced their way inside. Better prepared than not.

  When he looked through the peephole, he saw the old lady who had the poodle. He relaxed as he opened the door.

  She looked upset. "I'm so sorry to bother you," she said, "but Scout got off his leash." She waved the little plastic roll-up case with the dangling clip. "I think he wiggled through your gate into the back. If you could open it for me? I didn't want to be yelling for him in the middle of the night, waking people up and all."

  "Sure," Michaels said. "Why don't you just come on through the house to the back."

  "Oh, I don't want to trouble you. I can go around."

  "No problem." He smiled, had her come inside, then closed the door. "Follow me." He led her through the living room.

  Behind him, the old lady said, "I don't know what got into him. He never does this. I think he heard something in the bushes."

  "My neighbors all have cats," he said. "Though most of them are bigger than your dog. He might get in trouble if he catches one."

  They were in the small kitchen, almost to the sliding glass door, when Michaels heard the little dog bark. It sounded
like he was out front. Probably had lost the cat and gone back looking for his momma.

  "Oh, there he is," he said. He turned--

  --and saw the old lady with her cane held over one shoulder like a baseball bat.

  The expression on her face was cold but determined.

  She swung the stick at him as if she were trying to belt one out of the park--

  Shit!

  Michaels tried to do two things at once. He dug for the taser in his robe's pocket and jumped backward. He didn't do either of them well. He hit the edge of the breakfast table, tangled his robe around one of the chairs and pulled it over. The chair fell between him and the old lady--and that was what saved his ass.