that there were several sectors of the communications and technology industries where Marcus Caine's various interests were in direct competition with UpLink. The lawsuit was a showstopper in that it would keep the lawyers and judges wading through a sea of complicated litigation, but unless the feds climbed aboard with a criminal antitrust suit of their own to bolster UpLink's challenge— something they were typically slow to do — it would result in a long battle of attrition with unpredictable results, and hunkering in had never been Gordian's style. As Sun Tzu once said, the possibility of victory lay in the attack. With all the resources at his disposal, there surely had to be a—
Gordian eased into the left lane to pass a lumbering trailer truck in front of him, a look of deep concentration on his features. Quite unexpectedly, his mind had turned back to the piece he'd read by Reynold Armitage in the Wall Street Journal the other day. What was it he'd had to say about Gordian's resources? The leadoff essentially had been a rant about his corporate diversification having led to wrongheaded management decisions, after which Armitage had drawn his grotesque Siamese twins metaphor, something about mismatched limbs and unsustainable growth. The article had prickled — but could it be Armitage had a point?
Gordian hesitantly had to admit that he might, and supposed part of his irritation over what he'd read stemmed from his having realized it from the beginning, if only on a semiconscious level. He could not afford to let his disdain for Armitage — or suspicions about his motives—
prevent him from intelligently evaluating his assertions. Emotionalism in a fight was blinding and corrosive. Regardless of its ultimate merit, his enemy had unwittingly given him a tip worth exploring.
And if it turns out he's right, what path does that take me down? Gordian thought, knowing full well that wasn't the question he needed to ask himself. The path was there before him, its direction clearly marked, and what he really had to learn was whether he'd have the strength and will to walk it… and accept the painful sacrifices to which it would inevitably lead.
Inhaling deeply, he glanced out the driver's window to see the sun perched fat and lazy above the mountains, as if it had found a comfortable nest where it might linger for all eternity, describing a constant, knowable horizon against which he could steer a warmly lighted path through the world.
Pity indeed life was never that simple.
It would have been a harried and difficult twenty-four hours for Pete Nimec under the best of circumstances. With only a couple of days to go until Roger Gordian and his closest advisors flew to D. C. for their press conference, a million and one security arrangements — everything from personnel selection to the job's involved Beltway logistics — needed to be finalized. In addition, there had been a series of unexplained lapses in the alarm net at the Nevada data-storage facility. And two of his Sword administrators at the Botswana satellite station had let a squabble over authority escalate into a bar fight that left one with cracked ribs, the other in a local jail, and Nimec with the problem of whether both deserved to be canned.
These were all matters requiring prompt attention, but it was Max Blackburn's unaccountable disappearance that had been occupying most of his thoughts… and the phone conversation he'd just had with Max's secretary had done a lot to exacerbate his worried mood.
On his previous call, which he'd placed from the UpLink building at six o'clock Tuesday night — eleven A. M. Wednesday, in Malaysia — Joyce had told him Max still hadn't returned to the ground station or contacted her with any explanation for his absence, making it almost four days since anyone had seen or heard from him. The protectiveness Nimec had detected in Joyce's voice when they'd had their initial talk had been replaced with a disconcerted, anxious tone.
'Joyce, I need you to be straight with me,' he'd said. 'Has he ever pulled a vanishing act before? Done anything like this at all?'
'No, sir,' she answered without hesitation. 'That's why I'm so confused. I honestly thought he'd be in touch at some point yesterday.'
Nimec paused, thinking.
'The woman he's been dating in Singapore,' he said after a moment. 'Do you know how to contact her?'
'Well, yes, I'm pretty sure I have Kirsten's home and office numbers on file,' Joyce said. 'Max left both with me in case I—'
'I need you to do some checking,' Nimec broke in. 'Call this… Kirsten, is that what you said her name is?'
'Yes, Kirsten Chu—'
'Buzz her at work first, see if she can tell you what's happening. If you don't reach her, try her where she lives. And keep trying till you catch her. Let me know soon as you speak to her, okay? Doesn't matter how late it is here in the States, I'm a night owl anyway. You can take my home number.'
'Yes, certainly…'
In the six hours following that conversation, Nimec had attended to countless items of business, gone home, pushed himself through a strenuous shukokai karate workout in his dojo, showered, had a bite to eat, and then settled down in his den to read his E-mail — acutely conscious the entire while that hadn't heard from Joyce. She'd finally called back ten minutes ago, midnight PST, four in the afternoon Johor time.
'Any luck?' he'd said, recognizing her voice the second he picked up.
'I'm sorry, no,' Joyce replied. 'After we spoke I left several messages for her at Monolith… that's where she's employed, you know—'
Yeah, I know, all too goddamned well, he'd thought.
'— but she didn't return them. It was the same story when I tried her residence.'
Nimec waited. He could tell there was more, and didn't think it would be good.
'Sir, I noticed a long pause between Kirsten's outgoing announcement and the tone on her home machine,' she'd said at last. 'It was the sort you'd get when there are already quite a few messages waiting….'
'As if she hadn't been there to retrieve them for some time,' he said, completing the sentence for her.
Another pause. He imagined Joyce nodding at her end of the line.
' 'Just before calling you, I took the liberty of phoning Kirsten's departmental receptionist,' she went on. 'I said that I was a personal friend, and had been trying to get in touch with her, and was wondering if it was possible that she wasn't checking her voice mail.'
'Yes? Go on.'
She breathed. 'Kirsten wasn't there. She's been gone since Friday and nothing's been heard from her. Everyone at her office is becoming very concerned. They say this is completely unlike her.'
Unlike her, unlike Max, unlike both of them. So where are they?
His head starting to ache, he'd thanked Joyce for her trouble, assuring her he'd be in touch, listening to her nervous assurances that she'd do the same the instant she had any news, and signing off.
Now, ten minutes later, Nimec's headache had exponentially worsened, becoming the type nothing but a good night's sleep would relieve. Except he was too wired to sleep, and therefore would have to suffer. Max was one of his most trusted and responsible men, and it was no use telling himself he was merely extending a weekend barn dance with his girlfriend. All signs were that he'd bitten off more than he could chew investigating Monolith… and God only knew what had gone wrong.
Nimec frowned as he stared at the wall opposite his desk, regretting his willingness to let Max go ahead with this thing in the first place. Yes, it had gone bad, he was becoming more convinced of it by the second. Exactly what to do about it would take a little thinking, but do something he would….
And every one of his instincts told him it would have to be soon.
'I'm going to ask you a favor on a rather sticky affair,' Nga was saying. 'Understand I would not trouble you if there were any other way.'
'It is ever my pleasure to be of help to you/' Kinzo lied, though his true pleasure would have been to stay as far from Nga Canbera as possible. But face and money compelled one to do much that was disagreeable.
They were regarding each other across Nga's desk in his office at the Bank of Kalimantan, a sleek, bright space on the building's thirty-third floor that had a breathtaking ocean view, and was decorated in a modernist Oriental style: sparse furnishings, neutral woods, its walls unadorned except for a 17th-century Chinese screen depicting an idealized winter landscape.
'Perhaps you'll want to hold your decision until you hear what needs to be done,' Nga said.
Kinzo waited in silence. Thin and small-eyed, with a face like a tight fist, he was vice president of Omitsu Industrial, an electronic components manufacturer in Banjarmasin that had originated as an equal Japanese-
