Net Force (11 page)

    Fine. They want to play cloak-and-dagger? No problem. He had a knife sharp enough to shave with just sitting around doing nothing. All he had to do was reach out and grab it.
We’ll just see about this crap
.

    He picked up his phone. “Scramble, code two-four-three-five, Sunshine,” he said.

    The phone said, “Scrambled.”

    He punched in a number.

    
We’ll just see about this crap
.

    

    “I understand,” Mora Sullivan said, knowing her voice would not give her away.

    She waved the phone off, stood and began a measured pacing.

    Three steps this way, turn, three steps back, turn, then repeat, as she began to assimilate the assignment. The Selkie did not sit and meditate. Yes, she could be still when necessary, when the stalk required it, but at this stage the Selkie thought best when she moved, when she was on her feet, exploring avenues, watching for side roads, scheming.

    She could become anything, anybody, and the world was her chew toy, but this would be a dangerous one. There could be no room for error. Nearly always on her assignments there was wiggle room, space for small mistakes. Though she never left anything undone if she knew about it, there had been occasions when she had made errors. Tiny things, those errors, not wide pathways upon which a pursuer could have traveled to catch her. But now and then, she
had
missed something. She was the best, but even the best could overlook some bit of business, realizing it only afterward, when it was beyond her control to repair.

    Step, step, step,
turn
-

    People had not noticed the little clues she had accidentally dropped, because most people never thought to look for them. And eventually the links had rusted away under time and weather, become no more than stains on her trail, small, dark blotches that offered nothing to normal vision.

    But this time? This time there would be a microscope turned upon her actions. Police officers, no matter what their organization, were special cases. First and foremost, the police protected their own. The message was simple: You may do many heinous acts and escape, but killing a cop is not one of these acts. Do so, and you rise to the top of the list, never to be removed until you are caught or killed-preferably killed. Sullivan knew this. Her father had been one of those who had gunned down a policeman, and paid for that with his own life. The policemen who had caught him had executed him, and it had been no chore for the killers to justify their revenge, no chore at all.

    Step, step, step,
turn
-

    Killing her target would not be the problem. That was the easy part. An assassin who was willing to be caught or to die herself could pretty much take out anybody in the public eye, from the President on down.

    Getting away with such an assassination was another thing. Especially when the best and brightest lights of the top anticrime organization in the world would be shined into your escape tunnel. There would be no wiggle room on this one, no errors permitted. The smallest clue would be found, magnified, analyzed, tested, followed.

    The thought was both scary and attractive. The Selkie thrived on the risk. She enjoyed epinephrine as if it were a fine wine, savoring the jolt it gave. The truth was, she could walk away tomorrow and live a long and well-supplied life. Once you had more than a few million working for you, you didn’t really
need
more. She had a goal and she would reach it because she always reached her goals, but she was self-aware enough to realize that for her, the game was as important as the get. And this would be a challenge. She’d never deleted an FBI agent before, especially one who was head of a sub-agency.

    Step, step, step, turn.

    
So
, the plan would require a meticulous surveillance, an undivided attention to every possible problem and enough time to make certain everything was covered.
Everything
.

    Before she left, she would take on a new identity. She would become a woman who belonged in Washington, D.C., who had reason to be near her target, who would pass any inspection if necessary.

    Sullivan stopped pacing, and grinned to herself. Already, the adrenaline bubbled in her, made her skin and muscles tight, gave her breathtaking rushes.

    She was a creature of the
were
. She could change her look as easily as some people changed their clothes, could become anything she wished.

    Already the Selkie’s metamorphosis had begun.

    

    
Saturday, September 18th, 4:19 p.m. Los Angeles

    Ruzhyo stood on the moving walkway at the Los Angeles Airport, heading for the car-rental pickup. According to the pilot, the temperature outside was nearly body heat. It might be fall, but summer was not done with this country-it had been almost that warm on the East Coast when he’d boarded his flight.

    The business in New York had gone well. Less than twenty-four hours after they had kidnapped him, Luigi Sampson was no more.

    Well, Ruzhyo thought, that was not strictly true. The chopped-up pieces of the criminal were by this point a semiliquid goo inside a large, glass-lined holding tank filled with a very strong acid. It had been necessary for the Snake to carve the dead man into sections small enough to fit through a pressure-valve opening atop the containment vessel, a chore that affected Grigory not in the least. He had an uncle who was a butcher, and had worked in his uncle’s shop summers before entering the military. The tank was for storage of a corrosive used in etching steel at a metal-finishing plant in New Jersey. The solution, of which the criminal was fast becoming a part, was generally used in small amounts; by the time the workers got around to tapping the tank for their work-the second of two such storage vessels-the late Luigi Sampson would be merely organic contaminants, and unlikely to be noticed save as perhaps a slight discoloration as he was sprayed with the acid over masked sections of steel plate.

    The acid was very strong. But to be certain, the Snake had hammered out all of the dead man’s teeth, and the American Winters had sprinkled these teeth one by one over the side of a ferry to Staten Island, interspersed with handfuls of popcorn he had thrown to the seagulls that followed the ferry.

    The FBI disguises were likewise no more. The IDs and clothes had been burned and the ashes flushed away; the badges had been pounded to flat scrap and put into a metal-recycler station. The car’s plates had been switched back, the automobile itself returned to the agency from which it had been rented with more fake identification. The guns had been wiped clean, packaged, marked “Rock Samples,” then mailed to a large post office box rented to a nonexistent person in Tucson, Arizona, where they would sit until the rental expired or the post office tried to find the box holder, whichever occurred first, and months away in any case. Disposable items, all.

    Such a ruse would not work again-the Genaloni organization would now be alerted. But it was not necessary.

    It was remotely possible that the bodyguards might be offered pictures of the real agents Ruzhyo and Zmeya had impersonated, but it was most unlikely. Genaloni’s suspicion and natural distrust of the authorities would be enhanced, and he would not turn to them for aid in finding his man even if he did believe them, which he would not. The crime boss would not pursue the matter with the federal authorities, and they, in turn, having other things to do, would quickly forget about it.

    The FBI would think Genaloni had killed one of his own. And Genaloni would think the FBI was out to get him. The former was incorrect, but the latter was now true. Genaloni, according to the research Plekhanov had supplied, was not a patient man. He would likely do something rash. And if he did not, then Ruzhyo would do it
for
him-or at least it would seem so.

    Giving one’s enemy something else about which to worry was an old but still useful device. Plekhanov knew history well, and he was a master manipulator. A good man to have on one’s side in a conflict. A bad man to have as an opponent.

    There were other small things Ruzhyo and his crew could do to further harass both Net Force and the criminal family they had set upon each other, small things, but each adding a bit more to the load.

    Sooner or later, even the strongest camel will collapse under one more additional straw added to its load.

    It was Ruzhyo’s job to supply the straws.

    

    
Sunday, September 19th, 2:30 a.m. Kiev

    John Howard was just a little peeved at the CIA station chief. Morgan Hunter was maybe forty-five, hair gone gray, but still in pretty good shape, to judge from the fit of his suit and the way he moved. And he’d been a Company man for twenty-odd years, had worked in Chile, done a stint in Beirut, then in Moscow after the breakup, before landing here. So he ought to know his business.

    “I’m sorry, Colonel, but what can I say? None of our contacts among the local radicals have squat on this, outside of the original reports. We haven’t been able to run it down.”

    “The clock is ticking, Mr. Hunter.”

    They were in the small conference room in the sub-basement, a room Howard had been given for his operation. There were landline phones, computers, printers, television monitors and other such impedimenta on the tables and walls.

    The CIA man gave him a superior smile. “I am aware of that, Colonel. We
wound
the clock, so we know. As you might recall, we brought it to your agency’s attention in the first place. An agency that is here more or less by our invitation, sir.”

    Howard was making ready to reply when Julio Fernandez entered the room. He gave the colonel an uncalled-for snappy salute and said, “Sir, we might have something.”

    “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

    Fernandez glanced at Hunter, then back at his commanding officer. Howard had to work to keep his own grin in check. The look said much, not the least of which was:
Is it okay to talk in front of this jerk, sir
?

    Hunter caught it, and his jaw muscles flexed.

    “Sir, Lucy-that’s Lucy Jansen, Third Team-made, uh,
friends
with one of the guys on the short list.” He handed Howard the list with a name circled in red. As Howard looked at the name, Fernandez continued. “Guy speaks German, so does she, so that gave them something in common. They, ah, connected in a local bar and after five or six glasses of vodka, the guy let it slip about having an old wire-guided missile launcher he was gonna have a chance to use real soon.”

    Howard felt himself ratchet into alertness. “Go on.”

    “Lucy is working the guy. She’s gonna get back to me in a couple of hours.”

    Howard looked at Hunter.

    The other man shrugged. “Could be something. Could be a drunk trying to impress a woman.”

    Howard nodded. “True. But the guy is on your list.” He turned to look at Fernandez again. “Keep me posted on this.”

    “Yes, sir.” Another crisp salute, then Fernandez turned and marched away.

    “I’ll see if I can get some more background on this man,” Hunter said. He pointed at the list.

    “Good idea.” Howard hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no point in losing the cooperation of the CIA man. “Sorry about before. I’m still a little jet-lagged.”

    “No problem, Colonel. We’ve all been there. I want these guys as much as anybody does. If we do our jobs right, we’ll get them.”

    “Amen.”

    The two men smiled again, and this time the expressions were real.

    Maybe it was nothing, but Howard didn’t think so. All of a sudden, he had a fluttery sensation in his belly. This was it. This would lead them into the radicals’ den.

    

    
Sunday, September 19th, 11:05 a.m. Washington, D.C
.

    When the phone rang, Alex Michaels was in his garage, working on the Prowler. He was fairly certain he knew who was calling. He wiped his hands on the greasy rag and reached for the receiver.

    “Hello?”

    “Dadster!”

    “Hey, Little Bit, how you doin’?”

    “Great. Well, except for I fell while I was skating and kinda wrecked a knee pad.”

    He felt a stab of concern. “You okay?”

    “
I
’m fine, but the knee pad is like, you know, scraped silly.”

    “Better it than you.”

    “That’s what Momster said.”

    In the background, he heard Megan: “Let me talk to Daddy for a minute, hon.”

    Michaels felt his belly twist, his bowels go cold and tight.

    “Mom wants to talk to you.”

    He took a deep breath. “Sure. Put her on.”

    “Bye, Dadster.”

    “Bye, Little Bit.”

    Time stretched. Aeons rolled past. Civilization decayed, fell into ruin…

    “Alex?”

    “Hi, Megan. What’s up?”

    “Susie, why don’t you go make Mom a cup of coffee, okay?”

    Michaels suddenly felt as if he was in free fall.

    A moment passed. “Look, Alex, I know you put your job at the top of your list, but your daughter still thinks the moon rises in her father’s shadow. Are you going to be able to break loose and come to her play?”

    The years of arguments threatened to break out again-fresh blood from old wounds never healed, at least not on his heart. He didn’t want to fight with her. “That’s in October, right?”

    “You remembered. Amazing.”

    She could still cut him with her sarcasm as easily as a new razor-sliced paper.

    This whole deal with Day’s death would probably be over by then; if not, it was doubtful it would still be boiling so hot he couldn’t step away from the stove long enough to see his daughter’s second-grade play. He said, “I’ll be there.”