Net Force

'Comrade Plekhanov?' the woman said.

'Yes?' This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called 'comrade' in a long time — not in the way she meant the word.

'There has been some… difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are passed.'

'Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool.' That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. He'd retired as a major before going into politics.

'You are also a Cossack, Yemelyan.' Khomyakov said.

'That is how I know,' Razin said. 'Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged.'

Plekhanov looked at the woman. 'Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an… accident, Ludmilla?'

She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. 'He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary.'

'Death is final,' Razin said.

'Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful.'

'And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him.'

The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.

'Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet?' Khomyakov said.

Razin snorted.

Plekhanov raised an eyebrow at her.

'Bulavin is fond of both liquor and women,' Khomyakov said. 'He has been discreet, careful to keep his activities in these areas confined to those which would not irritate his union members if they found out. Not too much drinking in public, the occasional fling with a secretary. Men are men, and not bothered by such things. Perhaps we could supply him a woman willing to… doctor his liquor and engage in activities his members — and his wife — would find less than… tasteful? There are many possibilities along these lines. And our woman would, of course, have an excellent holographic camera.'

Razin said, 'Pah! You would put him in bed with a boy? A sheep? This is a woman's answer to everything! If it moves, screw it!'

'Better, perhaps, than a man's answer — if it moves, kill it,' she said. She smiled.

Plekhanov liked both her response and her solution. Brutes could be found anywhere; subtlety was more of a prize. A live enemy in your pocket was sometimes better than a dead one in the ground. Sometimes.

Well, at least he knew who the new President of Ukraine was going to be.

Thursday, September 30th, 11 p.m. Washington, D.C.

'I bet you've never seen anybody get killed, have you, Scout?'

The little dog wagged his tail, momentarily diverted from his sniffing and peeing. When it didn't seem as if the comment would lead to a command, he resumed his work.

In her old-woman disguise, the Selkie moved toward the target's condo. She had decided to do it tonight. The target was still awake, a bit late for him, but his reading light was on, and it was going to be simple, clean, in and out. By the time anybody knew he was dead, she would be home and Phyllis Markham would have vanished forever.

The Selkie bent down to pet the dog. As she did so, she unsnapped his leash, but said, 'Scout, heel.'

She adjusted her thin white cotton gloves, took a grip on the cane and came slowly and painfully to her feet. When she continued on her gimpy way, the dog stayed with her. Anybody from more than a few feet away would likely think the toy poodle was still on the lead, especially if they'd seen them together before. People saw what you gave them to see.

When she got to the target's condo, she forced herself to take several deep breaths. No matter how many times she did a job, the adrenaline rush always came. Her heart raced, her breathing speeded up, she felt tight, itchy, anxious to move. It was something she could use, the rush, and part of the allure. If it ever got to the point where she didn't feel the touch of stage fright, the roiling butterflies in her belly, she'd quit, no matter how much money she was shy of her goal. If she got that blase, it would be too dangerous.

The darkness was alive with fall smells: foliage, grass, the perfume of a softener-sheet in somebody's clothes dryer's exhaust. The air was sensually cool on her skin where she was not covered with makeup. The stars glittered through the city glow, hard gems in a mostly clear sky. A moth fluttered by, and his flight left ghostly trails in the night air. Sensations always turned psychedelically sharp when the life-and-death game came to its final moves. This was another part of the attraction.

One was never so alive as when dancing with Death.

She looked around, and saw she was alone. She urged Scout into the bushes to the left of the front door, where he couldn't be seen. 'Scout, down, stay,' she said.

Obediently, the little dog sat, then stretched out. She'd tested him, and he'd held that position for at least an hour.

She wouldn't need but five minutes at the outside. The Selkie moved to the door and rang the bell.

* * *

In bed, Alex Michaels dozed, the technical report balanced on his knees. The sound of his front doorbell jarred him awake. He looked at the bedside time display. Who'd be here this hour of the night?

He got up, slipped a robe on over his naked self and belted it shut.

The doorbell rang again.

He frowned, still half asleep. It was probably somebody from work.

Yeah? How come they didn't call? They have your numbers.

He opened the drawer in his bedside table, took his issue taser from the drawer and dropped it into the robe's pocket. Not that he was really worried, but there had been some robberies in D.C. where a couple of strong-arm types had knocked on doors and then forced their way inside. Better prepared than not.

When he looked through the peephole, he saw the old lady who had the poodle. He relaxed as he opened the door.

She looked upset. 'I'm so sorry to bother you,' she said, 'but Scout got off his leash.' She waved the little plastic roll-up case with the dangling clip. 'I think he wiggled through your gate into the back. If you could open it for me? I didn't want to be yelling for him in the middle of the night, waking people up and all.'

'Sure,' Michaels said. 'Why don't you just come on through the house to the back.'

'Oh, I don't want to trouble you. I can go around.'

'No problem.' He smiled, had her come inside, then closed the door. 'Follow me.' He led her through the living room.

Behind him, the old lady said, 'I don't know what got into him. He never does this. I think he heard something in the bushes.'

'My neighbors all have cats,' he said. 'Though most of them are bigger than your dog. He might get in trouble if he catches one.'

They were in the small kitchen, almost to the sliding glass door, when Michaels heard the little dog bark. It sounded like he was out front. Probably had lost the cat and gone back looking for his momma.

'Oh, there he is,' he said. He turned—

— and saw the old lady with her cane held over one shoulder like a baseball bat.

The expression on her face was cold but determined.

She swung the stick at him as if she were trying to belt one out of the park—

Shit!

Michaels tried to do two things at once. He dug for the taser in his robe's pocket and jumped backward. He didn't do either of them well. He hit the edge of the breakfast table, tangled his robe around one of the chairs and pulled it over. The chair fell between him and the old lady — and that was what saved his ass.