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Susan had stared into Bloodaxe's blue eyes as the judge pronounced the unexpected twist to the sentence. His face, quite composed during the delivery of the life sentence, had gone ashen. The hacker would have collapsed had it not been for the officers flanking him. The knowledge that she had inflicted so much pain on her family's murderer had finally quenched her desire for retribution. Now Reid was considering making a deal for information.

“Sue? You okay?”

“You know what's he's going to ask for, right?” Susan snapped, a finger cocked at ther superior. “The bastard could care less about the jail time. He's spent most of his life inside some dark room hacking anyway. He was already a hermit. Being in jail doesn't bother him. What's
punishing
him is the fact that he's a high-tech junkie, and now he's not getting his fix.
That's
the real punishment that Hans Bloodaxe received for killing my family. You ask him to help us out and he'll demand access to hardware and software in return. Are you seriously considering giving him that?”

Troy Reid removed his glasses, breathed on them, and kept them on his lap while pushing out his lips, obviously pondering his response. After a moment he said, “If he can help us prevent this virus from doing whatever it is that it might do, I'll consider allowing him some access under close supervision, to make certain that he's not concocting a high-tech reprisal. Personal issues aside, in my own judgment I consider that a fair business deal for vital information on this case. It's no different than previous deals the FBI has made with convicted criminals.”

“Well,” Susan said, crossing her arms, “have you considered the possibility that Bloodaxe's the one who set this whole thing up as an insurance policy in case he ever got caught? It's quite a coincidence that a few months after his conviction this virus suddenly comes out of nowhere, and now here we are, considering lessening his sentence in return for help in cracking another one of his viruses.”

Reid made a face while contemplating that scenario, and then almost laughed. “I've got to hand it to you, Sue. You sure know how to put doubt in a man's head. You think he could have done this?”

“He's brilliant—no, he's
beyond
brilliance. Bloodaxe's in a class of his own. I can see how he could have worked secretly for months—maybe years—slowly creating his ultimate masterpiece, a virus that would be released in the event of his capture and conviction, a virus that no one else could break except himself, forcing the authorities to go back to him and offer him a deal for his assistance.”

“Damn. I'm beginning to think that you just might have something there.”

“For all I know, this could be one of a number of contingency viruses he's stashed away at secret Internet locations. Perhaps he's planning on releasing them one at a time to give him negotiating leverage. In a year or less he may have negotiated his way out of jail.”

“An interesting, and somewhat scary, theory. But … can you
prove
it?”

“There's only one way to find out,” she said, finishing her coffee. “Only one way.”

Chapter Five

000101

1

December 13, 1999

The large millennium clock atop the National Gallery, overlooking Trafalgar Square, in the heart of London, England, washed the dawn skies with its crimson hues, its pulsating glow mixing with the city's gleaming holiday decorations.

Antonio Strokk stepped out of a black cab where Northumberland Avenue met Trafalgar Square, by the Charles I monument, blending with a mob of early-bird tourists already snapping pictures of the old king's equestrian statue and the impressive Nelson monument across the street. Its large stone lions flanked a granite column and bronze capital rising 185 feet high, with the statue of Nelson, England's greatest naval hero, at the top.

Strokk glanced up at the millennium clock, its nearly hypnotic rhythm momentarily distracting him. Christmas music flowed out of unseen outdoor speakers, attempting to brighten an otherwise cold and gloomy December morning in the English capital.

He zipped up his leather jacket before producing a city guide from his back pocket, pretending to study it while surveying the crowd. An Asian woman dressed in a business suit and holding a small colorful umbrella milled aimlessly about the square, pointing at the large lion statues while speaking Japanese. Two dozen tourists, mostly elderly couples, aimed their Sony camcorders at the sculptures, chattering among themselves and following her.

Strokk frowned, then walked across the street to inspect Nelson's statue, absently staring at the bronze reliefs on the podium, which illustrated Nelson's major battles in the Napoleonic wars.

The request had arrived three hours ago—reaching him only after being relayed through the normal channels—in the form of an address jotted on a napkin at a café on the other side of town. Obeying professional habits, Strokk had memorized the number before pocketing the napkin, which he had later torn up and dumped in a sewage drain. He had taken one underground trip and three taxicabs before emerging here, feeling confident that he had not been followed. Still, you could never be certain. The last cab had dropped him off four blocks from his destination, but Strokk would take a much longer route to get there. In his business it paid to be paranoid.

He leaned against the pedestal supporting one of the lions and continued to inspect the river of humanity crossing the famous square. Gloved businessmen in dark trench coats walked briskly by, holding briefcases, visibly annoyed at the slower tourists, particularly those stopping abruptly to snap photos destined to fill forgotten shoe boxes in attics or basements. A red double-decker bus cruised up Northumberland Avenue turning right on Strand.

Strokk clutched the small guide while walking down Strand, past Charing Cross Station, turning right two blocks later on Carting Lane, going across the Victoria Embankment Gardens, reaching the crowded embankment itself. Tourists and locals filled this area, many sitting on the benches facing the Thames.

According to the instructions, the pay phone was located by Cleopatra's Needle, London's oldest monument. First erected near Cairo by Pharaoh Thotmes III around 1475
B.C.
, the obelisk was relocated, along with its twin, to Alexandria in 14
B.C.
One of the obelisks eventually made its way to London. The second stood today in Central Park, New York.

He reached his destination exactly fifteen minutes before nine o'clock, giving himself a buffer in case the phone was being used.

The phone was indeed being used. Two young American women were trying to make a collect call to the United States. For a moment Strokk shared the businessmen's irritation at the tourists.

Briefly considering his options, narrowed down to one when he spotted a pair of policemen patrolling the embankment, Strokk chose to stand a short distance from the Americans, far enough away to give them privacy, yet close enough to let them and others know that he was next in line. Shoving the guide in a back pocket of his jeans, Strokk rested against a lamppost, feeling the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol pressed against his spine, beneath his jacket.

He became anxious after a couple of minutes went by and the women didn't appear to make any progress. He felt exposed standing here, at a location known by at least a dozen people, half of them his own, the other half business associates who contracted his services on a regular basis. Still, Strokk didn't trust them. He barely trusted his
own
people, much less voices on the phone who made requests and transferred funds to Strokk's Swiss accounts upon delivery of services.

The anxiety made him shift his weight from one leg to the other, rubbing the Sig against the post, subconsciously trying to get reassurance from the weapon secured in a holster clipped to the inside of his jeans by the small of his back. Failing to do so, he checked his watch as the girls toyed with the phone for another minute before one of them turned to him.

“Sir?”

Strokk regarded her briefly. A college girl. Medium height, slim, blond with blue eyes, and dressed in a pair of denim jeans and a matching jacket, which she wore over a turtleneck sweater. He gave the two policemen another glance and decided to be polite. He didn't want to draw unwanted attention to himself. Although his face had been altered by the finest surgeons in Germany and his credentials described him as a Venezuelan businessman on holiday, Antonio Strokk could not take chances.

“May I be of assistance?”

“Yes. My girlfriend and I are trying to—”

“Call home collect?”

She smiled. “Do you mind showing us how? We can't figure out the instructions.”

Strokk hid his amazement. The instruction plate on the booth had been designed for a five-year-old. That observation, however, triggered his answer. “The problem is that this phone is only for local calls. The international phones are located on the other side of the embankment.”

The girl exchanged a glance with her friend before turning back to him and slapping the side of her thigh. “Well! That explains that!”

The other girl brought a hand to her face. “I feel, like, sooo stupid. I told you we should have called from the hotel.”

Strokk smiled, hiding his growing annoyance. “Actually, that's the best place to make international calls. Pay phones are too unreliable.”

The college kids thanked him and walked away.

Strokk checked his watch. Four minutes before nine. Keeping an index finger pressing down the phone's hook, he lifted the receiver and held it against the side of his face, pretending to be listening while surveying the embankment. An old lady was selling flowers from a white bucket. The two policemen chatted with a tourist pointing to a map. A couple held hands while watching the vessels on the Thames. He remained tense, having much to fear from this particular customer, who was just as demanding as his Libyan, Colombian, or Irish clients, but equally generous. His clients often commissioned him for tasks needing a lot of casualties, like the mission he'd completed three months ago in Colombia, which had required him to kill over fifty people, some of them American tourists, at a crowded nightclub in Bogota, just a month before the country's presidential elections. He had done this to convince voters that the current president could not guarantee their safety. Four weeks later the president lost the election to a younger candidate owned by the political party who'd hired Strokk as an insurance policy during the elections. Unlike the old days, when a government faction would openly cheat to get in power—or to remain in power—nowadays the Colombians had learned the art of manipulation and deception to achieve their political goals—a lesson learned from more developed nations.

The phone rang at exactly nine o'clock. Strokk released the metal hook.

“Is it raining in London?” asked a voice tinged with a French accent.

“No, but it is storming in Paris,” Strokk replied, completing the code.

“The National Gallery,” continued the voice, “behind the wastebasket between Monet's
Water Lilies
and Van Gogh's
Sunflowers.
”

The connection was broken. Strokk calmly hung up and made a brief phone call before returning to Trafalgar Square, stopping on the way at a sidewalk café for a cup of espresso and a toasted bagel, which he ate while watching the traffic thickening on Strand, as well as on Northumberland.

Having operated out of London for the past ten years, Strokk knew that the National Gallery didn't open until ten. At nine forty-five, he left the café and continued down Strand, taking a left on Ducannon, walking past St. Martin's church, and stopping amid a dozen tourists admiring the equestrian statue of George IV, the first monument erected in Trafalgar Square. Children played beyond the monument, one of them, a girl not older than five, clung on to her father's leg while glancing oddly at the gentleman atop the horse wearing a Roman toga.

Strokk regarded them with the stoic indifference of someone who could kill without remorse, of someone who had laughed at men, women, and children bellowing in agony, of someone who had never needed friendship, of someone who trusted not loyalty but
fear.
His small army
feared
him. He paid them handsomely for their services, but they obeyed and never betrayed because of
fear.
They all had seen firsthand what happened to those who dared break faith with Antonio Strokk, often provoking the most inhumane of punishments.

Ten o'clock.

Strokk turned away from the soft tourists and ascended the steps leading to the National Gallery's main entrance, for a moment glancing at the huge millennium clock atop the ornate structure. The massive numbers, almost ten feet tall, had been flickering for over a year.

He looked about him. A small crowd had already gathered there. A woman wearing black jeans and a dark brown jacket approached him from the side, brushing against him, her left hand moving too fast for anyone but Strokk to see, before briskly walking away. Strokk verified that his operative had removed the Sig Sauer clipped to his back before stepping into the gallery's lobby and going through the metal detectors installed years ago to protect the priceless works of art from the bullets of a madman. He would retrieve his weapon after obtaining his instructions. In the event that he needed to defend himself while inside the building, Strokk's hands and feet qualified as deadly weapons, as well as the fiberglass blade strapped to his left ankle, or the garrote he could strip off his belt in seconds.

He reached Gallery One a few minutes later, walking down a wide hallway flanked by some of the world's finest paintings. Rembrandt's
Self-Portrait.
Da Vinci's
The Virgin of the Rocks.
Rubens's
Le Chapeau de Paille.
He finally found Monet's and Van Gogh's works, his dark eyes zeroing in on the trash receptacle against the far wall. This early in the morning only three other people were visiting this section of the gallery, a couple engaged in low-level conversation while pointing at someone's artwork, and a security guard standing by one end of the hallway.