Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (98 page)
His opponent’s point drifted in just a hair too far, and Thorn extended, aiming for the outside of the wrist. He caught fabric, and felt the point of his épée sink home.
“Halt!” the director cried.
“Touché.”
“Touché.”
Gotcha!
He had a sense of his opponent now. He could work with this. Give Gridley credit, it was a good simulacrum.
He returned to his guard line, saluted, came to guard, and waited for the director’s command to begin.
Now
they were having fun. . . .
they were having fun. . . .
Cal’s Bistro Manhattan, New York
Natadze took a sip of the beer—some kind of dark ale—and nodded. “Good,” he said.
Cox waited. The place was crowded and noisy, they were in a booth in the back, and the lunch crowd’s babble was probably a more effective protection than debugging his office once a week was. The food and beer were good, but Cal’s, there for forty years, was on the verge of being “discovered.” Another couple of weeks and Cox would have to stop coming here because he would start running into people who knew him. Too bad.
“I have considered the matter,” Natadze said, after another sip of the dark brew.
Cox waited, knowing that the man would get to the subject in his own time. Part of having a highly trained expert was allowing him to present what he was being paid to present in the manner he thought best. You don’t hire Michelangelo and then try to give him lessons on how to paint a ceiling.
“This information will be restricted,” Natadze said. “It will not be ‘Net Force’ working on it, but a man or perhaps a small team of men within the organization.”
Cox nodded. “Right.”
“The team leader, if there is more than one man, is the key. He will know how much progress has been made, who has made it, and any other pertinent information related to it.”
Well, of course,
Cox thought.
Any idiot could figure that much.
But Cox refrained from saying such aloud. Let him go where he wanted to go.
Cox thought.
Any idiot could figure that much.
But Cox refrained from saying such aloud. Let him go where he wanted to go.
“Therefore, we need only to secure this man’s help.”
“Are you thinking about bribing him, Eduard?”
“No.
Collecting
him.”
Collecting
him.”
Startled, Cox looked around. Nobody was watching them. “Kidnapping?”
“It is the simplest solution. The data remains at all times within their headquarters, and a building like that will have wards. Getting inside and collecting data, while not impossible, would be complicated. It would require documents, either stolen or forged. It would require an agent who would likely be scanned, photographed, or otherwise recorded. On top of that, even with a proper disguise and identification, simply gaining admittance would not be enough to guarantee finding and securing the data. It is very complex.”
Cox nodded. “I understand.”
“But the man who works upon the code? He comes and goes. He will be unprotected away from his workplace, or, at worst, will have a bodyguard or two. Much easier to deal with. There are many options. His home. In transit to or from work. Recreating. We gather him in, question him, and with the information he provides, we will be in a much better position. Maybe he takes his work home. Perhaps there are but one or two copies of it, which he can tell us how to collect. He will hand us a lever; with it, we can pry what we need into our hands. Not difficult at all, really.” He shrugged, reached for his beer.
Cox shook his head. The thought had literally never occurred to him to kidnap a Net Force operative. This was why Eduard was so valuable to him. He easily walked down roads that Cox would never even consider taking, roads he would never even know were
there
.
there
.
“Can you find out who the operative is?”
Natadze held his beer up to the light and examined it. “I already know that.”
“How?”
“We live in an age of information, sir. There are many public records available—news media, government reports, Internet and web material. Certain names appear in these records with regard to their areas of expertise. The head of Net Force’s technical section is a man named Gridley. I have a researcher gathering information on him. Shortly, we will know all there is to know about this man—or at least all that is publicly available. Once I have this, it is simply a matter of choosing when, where, and how to best approach him.”
Cox reached for his own untouched beer. He took a sip. It was warm, slightly bitter, and smelled of hops or yeast or something, but that didn’t matter. At the moment, suddenly, the taste was wonderful. “We are in something of a hurry, Eduard.”
“It should not take long to determine what we need. A day or two at most to set it up and we will have him.”
Cox nodded. “Do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Natadze said. “I will.”
Natadze left first; Cox waited for a few minutes. Could it be this simple? God, he hoped so. If they could wipe this threat away, he would sleep a lot sounder than he had in a long time. Yes, indeed. There would still be the Russians, of course, but the status quo was something with which he could live. He was still more valuable to them free and untarnished, and while they might not go to the mat to protect him, they wouldn’t toss him away as long as he was useful. The Russians were nothing if not pragmatic.
And if this worked? Maybe it would be time to send Eduard to find the Doctor and have a little talk with him, as well. If they could determine who knew what over there and eliminate them? That would make his life just about perfect.
He grinned. He would have to give Eduard a nice bonus. A man like him was worth his weight in diamonds.
He raised his glass in a toast. “Go get ’em, Eduard.”
6
University Park, Maryland
The house Thorn had bought was in University Park, just south of the University of Maryland, in Prince George’s County. The homes were more stately than spectacular, many of them built in the 1920s and ’30s, and most of his neighbors were either professors at the U, well-off business types, or political staff. The streets bore large pin oak and pear trees, and an occasional elm that had somehow managed to survive all the years of blight that seemed to seek out that species. There had been people living here since before the Revolutionary War, though the town itself was much younger. According to the realtor, crime was low, tiger mosquitoes sometimes got bad in the summer despite efforts to eradicate them, and just about all of the single-family homes were occupied by their owners. Upscale, but not ostentatious.
From the outside, Thorn’s house was a two-story home, solid, and there was nothing to distinguish it from most of the others on his street, which was exactly what he had wanted when he set the real estate agent to looking.
Inside, there was still work being done. The four-bedroom house was much larger than a man alone needed, and he was having the living room and parlor converted into a fencing salon. One of the joys of being rich was, if you couldn’t find exactly what you wanted for a home, you could have it built.
Eventually, he would have fencing masters come to his house to teach him. He had been looking into the Japanese arts
kendo
and even
iaido
, with the live blade.
kendo
and even
iaido
, with the live blade.
Not that he wanted much other than that. Coming from a poor family had taught him early on to value people and small things. Yes, when he’d sold his first major piece of software and been handed a huge check, he had run out and gotten himself a bunch of new toys, ranging from top-of-the-line computer systems to fast cars to five-thousand-dollar suits. He had even bought his parents a house in Spokane.
But that was long ago and money no longer burned a hole in his pocket. These days, he had a driver, so he didn’t need a car. He ate well enough, though he wasn’t a gourmet, and he didn’t buy his clothes at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. His one expensive hobby was collecting swords. Aside from working foils, épées, and sabers by such makers as Vniti, Leon Paul, Prieur, and Blaise, he had a collection of antique weapons ranging from Japanese
katana
s to Chinese broadswords to Civil War sabers. He would have these hung on the walls of the
salle
when it was done, and a monitored alarm service installed to keep sticky-fingered thieves from helping themselves to the weapons. Other than that, his fortune was not something he used all that much. He did like to fly first class, for the leg room, but he could have easily afforded a private jet, and first-class was a lot cheaper than that. . . .
katana
s to Chinese broadswords to Civil War sabers. He would have these hung on the walls of the
salle
when it was done, and a monitored alarm service installed to keep sticky-fingered thieves from helping themselves to the weapons. Other than that, his fortune was not something he used all that much. He did like to fly first class, for the leg room, but he could have easily afforded a private jet, and first-class was a lot cheaper than that. . . .
He smiled at himself as the driver opened the car’s door and he alighted at the new house.
“Good night, Mr. Thorn.”
“Good night, Carl. See you in the morning.”
Thorn ambled to the door, carrying his equipment bag. He thumbed the door’s lock and pushed the front door open.
Inside, the smells of sawdust and fresh paint greeted him. He put the sword bag down and went into the kitchen. He didn’t feel like cooking, it was late, and a heavy meal before bedtime was an invitation to night-mares, but he was hungry, so he grabbed an Aussie pie from the freezer and stuck it into the microwave, opened a bottle of beer, a Samuel Adams, and went to watch the late news on the television. So far, the new job had been easy enough. He had good people, there were a few more he would eventually bring in, and he hadn’t run into anything he couldn’t handle. Of course, he didn’t expect he would run into anything he couldn’t handle.
He sipped from the bottle as the TV lit. It was a little disappointing, really. Sure, there was always a newness factor in any kind of job. Big projects brought their challenges, but it never took him long to get up to speed, and once he did, well, then it was just a matter of time before it got boring. Most of the time, he had to invent his own challenges, and now and then he would have liked to be in a position where he had to stretch a little to keep up. Mostly, that just didn’t happen.
The news flared on, the end of a story about another crisis in the Middle East.
When he’d been a kid, Thorn hadn’t realized that everybody wasn’t as smart as he was. A problem would come up, he’d see the answer, and he’d assumed that everybody else had seen the answer, but for some reason he couldn’t understand, they’d pretend they hadn’t. Eventually, he realized that wasn’t the case—that in virtually every mental race he ran, he was way out in front when he crossed the finish line.
He took another swig of the beer. The weather was up next, and it was going to be cool and rainy in the District tomorrow.
A big part of his life had been a search for equals, people he could run with, but those were few and far between. Oh, they were out there, and it was a delight when he found one, but he no longer expected to simply run into them the way he once had. Once upon a time, he had lived with a woman who was actually smarter than he was. Sharp, funny, sexy, they liked the same music, the same literature and movies, mostly, but it hadn’t worked out. She’d had her career—she was a physicist—and he’d had his, tinkering with computerware, and one day they’d looked up and realized they weren’t connected anymore. They couldn’t point to any major break. They still exchanged Christmas cards, smiled and hugged each other if they met, but their paths had diverged and neither of them could see a way back. Sad.
In sports, the NBA basketball season was in full swing. Looked as if one of the new expansion teams he hadn’t realized even existed was on a roll, ten straight victories.
The microwave
ping
ed. He flicked off the television and headed back to the kitchen. He’d do an hour or so on the web, check his personal e-mail and the fencing newsgroup, and then go to bed.
ping
ed. He flicked off the television and headed back to the kitchen. He’d do an hour or so on the web, check his personal e-mail and the fencing newsgroup, and then go to bed.
Another exciting evening in the life of Thomas Thorn.
Washington, D.C.
Natadze watched from inside the rental car as the target turned into his driveway and stopped his own car, a three-year-old Volvo.
Following the man had been easy enough, and even if he had lost him, he had known where he was going. He had committed all the statistics to memory. He knew things about Jay Gridley that the man probably did not know himself—his driver’s license and credit card numbers, his medical ID number, along with his phone number, address, birthday, and his wife’s maiden name.
Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. Knowing as much as possible about the subject was an important part of that.
Gridley got out and walked to the door of his condo, where his wife, who taught Buddhism online, would be waiting. According to her latest medical records, she was pregnant.
Well. If Gridley did as he was told, he would live to be a father. If not . . .
Natadze put that thought from his mind. It was not good to dwell on failure. Yes, you did whatever was necessary to assure that such a thing did not happen, and that meant considering all the variables and planning for them, but you did not give them power. Failure was not allowed. Only success got you approval.
He looked automatically at his watch, mentally marking the time. Normally, he would follow the target for days, a week, to establish his patterns, but there was a time constraint this time and he would not be allowed that luxury on this mission. He did not like having to hurry, but it was the nature of the assignment, and one made do as best one could, given the parameters. He would do it tomorrow, when the man left work and drove home. It should not be difficult. The target was a white-collar worker, a chair-warmer who was not particularly adept physically. Natadze would use the gun, he would intimidate the man, and that would be that. Have him call his wife and tell her he would be working late. That would give him some time before he was missed at home or work, more than enough to find out what he needed to know. A piece of cake.
Other books
The Last Summer by Judith Kinghorn
An Enormously English Monsoon Wedding by Christina Jones
The Surf Guru by Doug Dorst
The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs by Cat Kelly
Strawberry Fields by Katie Flynn
Everything I Want by Natalie Barnes
Rising Sun by Robert Conroy
Kelan's Pursuit by Lavinia Lewis
Reborn: Knight's Code by D.W. Jackson
A Book of Ruth by Sandy Wakefield
