Net Force

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.

11

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