Net Force

were necessary in bukti negara. If he got to the serak, he could use that, but that was years away, if he stuck to it. So far, at least, he had shown up for every practice, and his moves indicated he'd been practicing on his own. He was still a little leery of working close, he kept wanting to distance himself too much for the proper working of the techniques, but that would level out with time.

'Hey, Guru.'

'Rusty. Let's get started.'

He nodded. He stood with his feet apart, his hands by his side, palms forward, fingers pointed at the ground.

Unlike some of the traditional Japanese styles, there were only a handful of Indonesian terms you had to know to practice her version of silat; one was the word for 'on guard.' 'Jagah,' she said.

She mirrored Rusty's pose. Her guru was right. Teaching helped sharpen your own skills. You had to think about things, get them right in your own head, before you passed them along. The ceremonial bow, something she had been doing for years, was a good example. For her, it was automatic, one long and smooth piece, but for a beginner, it was a series of small moves, and each move had a meaning:

I present myself before the Creator in the beginning—

The left foot came in, next to and slightly in front of the right foot, knees bent, hands moved to the left side, by the hip, palms down, left over right.

I present myself to the best of my ability in the knowledge of the Art—

The hands came up and out together as in supplication, palms up, almost as if holding a book. The right hand folded into a fist, the left hand wrapped around the right, both came back toward the chest.

I ask to receive from the Creator all those things which I do not see—

Another book-reading move, open hands coming back to cover the eyes.

— to engrave upon my heart—

The hands pressed together in namaste, the classic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart.

— until the end.

And the final move, a repeat of the second, the palm-down block by the left hip.

'Do your djuru, please,' she said.

Rusty nodded, and began Djuru One.

It was the simplest of the dances, but from it, everything more complex arose. A metaphor for life, she had come to realize.

Thursday, September 30th, 12:30 p.m. Quantico

The Selkie bought a Coke, sweet-and-sour chicken, and sticky rice from the Chinese place the target sometimes rode his trike to for lunch. It was a warm day, a little breeze keeping the humidity bearable, and she sat at one of the small white wrought-iron tables just outside the restaurant. She wore a baggy gray T-shirt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. The wig she affected was brunette, and even with most of it stuffed under the cap, was enough to add to her changed appearance so that she didn't look much like anybody the target had ever seen.

There he came on the raked three-wheeler, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck reflecting the hazy sunshine.

She opened the cardboard containers and dumped the chicken and rice together onto a paper plate. She stirred the combination with the split-apart-throw-away chopsticks, allowed the sauce to soak into the rice. There were a dozen other diners outside enjoying their lunches and the day, and she did not make eye contact with any of them, or the target.

The target parked the trike, pulled his gloves and helmet off and hung them on the handlebar, then walked into the restaurant. His legs were tight, pumped from the ride. The spandex shorts hid little an interested viewer might want to look at. And it was interesting. She was not a nun, though she put sex aside when she was working. Mora Sullivan could roll and break beds if she felt like it; the Selkie could not afford the risk.

It had not always been that way. Once, early in her career, she had picked up a target in a bar. He'd been a good-looking man, and she'd gone with him to his hotel and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter.

When he fell into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she had taken a silenced.22 pistol from her purse and shot him twice in the back of the head.

He'd never known what hit him, and at the time, she'd felt pleased with herself. She had made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to do so than making love to a passionate woman, falling asleep, and never waking up.

It had been foolish, what she had done. She had left hair and fluids at the murder scene, had been seen by hotel staff, even though she had been in disguise. Nothing had come of it — it was years past, the file long since buried — but it had been stupid. Another time, another place, and the target here might be fun to romp around with, but she was not willing to risk capture to be sentimental.

She ate the chicken. She'd had better. Had worse, too.

Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.

The Selkie smiled.

21

Friday, October 1st, 7 a.m. Kiev

Kiev had several decent restaurants, but the breakfast was catered in a private suite at the new Hilton hotel, not far from the banks of the beautiful Dnieper, in a site formerly occupied by a theater and row of shops. Unlike a public restaurant, such a suite could be — and had been — swept for electronic listening devices. The sixth-floor windows could be — and were — rigged with simple vibrators that would defeat a hidden laser reader aimed at them from half a block away. The food servers had been dismissed, the doors locked, the secrets thus kept among the players. Not that anybody would likely be spying upon them. Nobody outside this room had a real clue as to what was going on inside it. But one erred on the side of caution, always.

Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quantities, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.

They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldn't have expected coffee this good in such a place.

'You all have your new transfer numbers?' Plekhanov asked.

There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.

'Yes,' they said simultaneously.

Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inconsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.

Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.

Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once they'd been…