Net Force (13 page)

    And who was apt to be searching her purse, determined or otherwise? Nobody.

    When she was fifty yards away, she saw the agents glance in her direction, then back to their chess game. She kept her expression neutral, even though she wanted to smile. They had seen her-and dismissed her.

    The dismissal was based on good reason. For what the agents saw was an old lady, easily seventy, hunched over and walking slowly, hobbling with a cane, while a small champagne-colored toy poodle trotted ten feet ahead of her on a Flexi lead, exploring the neatly cropped wilds of the sidewalk foliage.

    The poodle, a well-trained neutered male, had been rented from the Not the Brothers Dog Kennel, in upstate New York. A thousand dollars a week, the pooch, and worth every penny.

    The little dog sniffed the base of an ornamental cherry tree planted next to the walk, lifted his leg and watered the trunk.

    “Good boy, Scout,” the Selkie said. Anybody close enough to have heard her-and nobody was-would have recognized the tones of an old lady, the voice weakened by long decades of hard work and too many cigarettes.

    She wore an ankle-length cotton-print dress, a thin cotton sweater and stout, sensible, lace-up Rockport walking shoes over black knee socks. Her hair was white and fluffed up into a rounded perm. The latex mask and makeup she wore had taken her an hour and a half to apply, and should pass inspection from five feet in broad daylight. She was in some apparent pain as she shuffled along-the right hip was bad-but she was bearing it for the sake of her good boy

    Scout, who stopped to sniff every tree or bush, careful to mark as his own all those with scents from previous canine passersby.

    She was also hot, her face itched and the stink of latex and face powder was thick, but there was no help for that.

    The Selkie knew exactly what the watchers saw when they looked at her: somebody’s arthritic granny, out walking her little dog before going home to bed. And home was only three blocks away, rented in a hurry, but using her current disguise. If she was stopped-and she wouldn’t be-she had an address that justified her being here, and a pedigree better than the dog’s. She was Mrs. Phyllis Markham, retired from her job of forty-one years as a bookkeeper for the state government, at the capital in Albany. Her husband Raymond had passed away last October, and Phyllis had finally moved to Washington so she could spend her spare time visiting the museums, which she loved. Have you seen the new Russian capsule on display at the Air and Space? Or that gray 1948 Tucker they confiscated from some drug dealer?

    Mrs. Markham’s daughter Sarah lived in Philadelphia, and her son Bruce was the manager of a Dodge truck dealership in Denver. Her background was all in place, and any kind of computer check would vet it. She could bore the leg off a clothes-store dummy reciting it in her dull and scratchy voice, too. She carried no obvious weapons, nothing to give her away, save the disguised electronics that nobody would recognize for what they were if they happened to see them.

    Then again, the cane she pretended to need was a three-foot length of hand-crafted hickory, sanded furniture-smooth and lovingly oiled, made by Cane Masters, a small company in Incline Village, Nevada. Cane Masters specialized in building perfectly legal weapons for serious martial artists. An expert-and the Selkie was certainly that-could beat somebody to a dead pulp with a walking stick such as the one she carried, and do so without breaking a sweat.

    A mugger who looked at her and saw somebody’s tired and helpless old granny and an easy score, well-that would be a big mistake. And possibly his
last
mistake if she chose to make it so.

    When she was at the first condo past the target’s, she whispered, loud enough for the dog to hear but not the agents: “Scout, dump.”

    The little poodle was very well trained. He stopped, squatted and left a little pile on the grass next to the edge of the walk. With some apparent effort, the old lady bent and half squatted, and scooped the poop up with a little cardboard-and-plastic container designed for that purpose. “Good boy, Scout!” she said, loud enough for the agents to hear this time. She proceeded onward, seemingly oblivious to the young men playing chess in the car across the street. She would bet dollars to dimes they’d be smiling. Aw, look at that, isn’t that cute, old granny’s little toy dog crapping on the grass.

    She didn’t know if the guards were permanent-probably not, but it didn’t matter. Two men in a parked car on a street were not much of a threat. Now they had seen her as she wished them to see her. She would be back in the morning, and again at night, for at least the next week, perhaps longer. Soon, the day and night sets of guards would file her away under “harmless.” Mrs. Phyllis Markham was but one of several shadows who might become an unseen part of the target’s life. Another one was an office temp who could soon go to work for the Marines Civilian Liaison Office at Quantico. There was a new driver for a Taco Tio lunch wagon that sometimes fed part of the FBI, and half-a-dozen other possibilities, if necessary. She would chose the ones best suited, after she had done a little more observation.

    And if it was Phyllis Markham who drew the assignment to delete the target, he would probably die quietly in his bed one night in the next week or two, with nobody the wiser. The old lady could circle around the condo after the deed was done, then walk right past the agents assigned to watch the target, and they would never have a clue.

    By the time anybody knew the target was dead, the poodle would be back in upstate New York at his kennel, and the old lady would have ceased to exist.

    “Let’s go around the block and go home, Scout. What do you think?”

    The toy poodle wagged his tail. He was a sweet pup. And just like the T-shirt said, the more she learned about people, the better she liked dogs.

    

    
Monday, September 20th, 8:17 a.m. Kiev

    Colonel Howard had just finished a field-strip and reassembly on the H&K G3A3Z assault rifle. This was a major piece of small-arms ordinance. It roared like a thunderclap and fired the big 7.62mm NATO round full-auto. The expended brass ejected so hard that anybody within fifty or sixty feet to the right and slightly back of a shooter risked having an eye put out by a spinning shell. Sometimes the empties flew so fast they
whistled
as air blew across the mouth of the fired cartridge.

    He wiped excess dry lube from the weapon and put it back on the table. Maybe he should clean his handgun, too?

    He pulled the S&W Model 66 from its holster and looked at it. It was a six-shot stainless-steel revolver in.357, with a four-inch barrel and Craig Spegel custom-wood boot grips. Hardly regulation, the sidearm-most of the teams carried H&K USP tactical pistols in.40, with high-density plastic slides and frames, laser sights and suppressors, and more than twice as many rounds per magazine as the old wheelgun carried. But it was his talisman, the Smith, and he trusted it. He could shoot it well enough to hit a man-sized target out to a hundred meters on a good day, and it never jammed the way an auto-pistol sometimes did. He opened the cylinder and checked the loads.

    “Your hardware gets any cleaner you’ll be able to do surgery with it, sir.”

    He looked at Fernandez. “You know, a less indulgent commander would have thrown you into the stockade years ago and left you there.”

    “Yes, sir. Your patience does you proud, Colonel.”

    Howard shook his head.

    “Zero-eight-one-eight, sir,” Fernandez said.

    Howard raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t going to ask what time it was, Sergeant.”

    “No, sir, of course not, sir.”

    Howard grinned again. He closed the cylinder on his revolver and reholstered it. All right, he was fidgety. They had a location on the terrorists, and a meeting was supposed to take place for the leaders of the group at 1130 hours. Once the woman trooper had gotten the drunk to an empty room where he had been expecting something much more fun than what actually happened, he had been relatively quick to volunteer that information.

    Which meant Howard and his troops wanted to be in place an hour and a half before then, by 1000. It was a fifteen-minute drive to the warehouse district where the meeting was set. Allow twice that for traffic problems, plus a half hour for X-factor, which meant they should roll at 0900. Most of the troops were already outside the embassy compound and assembled at the takeoff point.

    Which meant that they had at least forty minutes before they should crank up.

    Time flowed as it did when undergoing a root canal-slow. Very, very slow…

    Fortunately, Howard’s appearance wasn’t going to be a problem. A local bus had been secured, of the kind used to ferry workers to and from various industrial sites in the area. He and Fernandez would leave the compound in a limo and meet the bus, and he could sit in an aisle seat where nobody would notice him from outside, if they bothered to look. And since everybody inside the bus was working for him-about twenty-five troops-that wouldn’t be a problem. Combat gear was on the bus. The troops would wear civilian coveralls. They would be just another group of workers going to a construction site in the warehouse district on the river. In theory, there should be no problems. The CIA chief, Hunter, had the routes laid out, and the local police were supposed to be advised to turn a blind eye. It ought to run like warm oil on clean glass.

    There was no reason for Howard to feel as nervous as he did, but that didn’t matter. He had already paid two visits to the bathroom, and a third would be likely. The idea of eating made his stomach queasy, and the coffee he had already drunk had only added to his jitters. It might not be a major firefight in a jungle somewhere, but it was very possible bullets would fly and men would die. And it was his responsibility. He most assuredly did not want to foul it up.

    “Oh-eight-two-two, sir,” Fernandez said.

    This time, Howard didn’t reprimand the sarge. They knew each other too well. The colonel nodded. He picked up one of the H&K’s magazines and checked the loads. Didn’t want to overfill it, jam the rounds in so tight they wouldn’t strip off and feed. That would be bad. Of course, he had counted them twice already. Probably the number hadn’t changed since the last count.

    Dentist-chair time, moving as slowly as five o’clock rush-hour traffic on the Beltway.

    The way he felt right now, a root canal would be almost welcome.

    

    
Monday, September 20th, noon Grozny

    Vladimir Plekhanov sat on a mossy rock next to an old-growth tree, drinking cool water from the bottle he carried, enjoying a shaft of early sunshine that had angled in under the thick fir canopy. He took a deep breath, smelling the sharp scent of evergreen tree sap. He saw ants scurrying up and down the Douglas fir, and watched them swerve to avoid the sticky ooze. One of the ants blundered too close and the rosin caught him. The ant struggled.

    Given another few million years, some creature that had once been human might find a bit of amber with that ant in it and wonder about its life.

    Plekhanov smiled, reached over and using his fingernail, carefully freed the struggling ant. The creature hurried along its way. What would it think, if it did think, about the giant finger that had come from nowhere to spare its life? Would it speak of it to its fellows? Of how the hand of a giant god had saved it from the deadly trap?

    His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the Ukrainian. The man appeared muscular, fit, dressed in hiking shorts and boots and a tight T-shirt. His footsteps made no sound on the soft path, but he did not look at ease as he moved. He spotted Plekhanov and nodded. “Greetings,” he said in Russian.

    The older man returned the salutation in the same language.

    The Ukrainian came to stand next to Plekhanov’s rock. He looked around. “Interesting imagery,” he said.

    Plekhanov snapped the cap back into place on the water bottle, and stuck it into his pack where it lay on the rock next to him. “I spend too much time in RW civilization-why bring it with me into VR?”

    “A bit quiet for my tastes,” the Ukrainian said. “But to each his own.”

    “Have a seat.”

    The Ukrainian shook his head. “I need to get back soon.”

    Plekhanov shrugged. “You have news for me?”

    “The Americans have discovered the location of those planning the attack upon their embassy in Kiev. They will be acting upon this information shortly.”

    Plekhanov looked at the ants on the tree trunk. “Took them long enough. Perhaps we should be less subtle in our clues.”

    It was the Ukrainian’s turn to shrug. “I don’t understand why we did not simply allow the attack to go forward.”

    Plekhanov smiled. “Because damaging a perfectly good Ukrainian building serves no purpose. Why drain any more from your already sparse treasury to repair it? Why risk killing your innocent countrymen?”

    “The plotters are also my countrymen.”

    “But hardly innocent. That band of fanatics is a loose cannon, overfilled with explosive powder. Sooner or later, it would have gone off and done as much damage to those nearest it as any target. We need such things removed from our deck-and the Americans will do that for us. The Americans have spent
their
time and money uncovering the plot, and it has also made them nervous in the process. They will be worried about such things, spending yet more time and funds to protect their other embassies. We kill several birds with one stone here, my friend. Do you still play pocket billiards?”

    “
Da
.”

    “Then you know that sinking a single ball means little, especially early in the game, unless one positions himself for the next shot.”