Net Force

would be in for a hot surprise when ten grams of Thermoflex went up with enough heat to melt the case, the disk and the fingers of anybody stupid enough to be holding both.

The White House Secure System was a set of special computers without any links to the outside world, along with state-of-the-art antivirals and sweepers installed, so once his information was installed there, it would be safe.

Still, he was tired, had drunk too much coffee, and he wanted nothing more than to find a bed far away from all this and sleep for a week.

Well, too bad. That's not what you signed on for, now is it?

The virgil cheeped.

'Yes?'

'Alex? You ready?'

The Director. 'Yes, sir. I should be there in about five minutes.'

'Anything new I should know about?'

'Nothing substantial.'

'All right. Discom.'

The procession arrived at the West Gate. Alex alighted, was checked by the metal detectors, bomb sniffers and an HOS — a hard-objects scanner — this latter a new device designed to keep ceramic or plastic guns and knives from sneaking past. He checked his taser, got a receipt and visitor badge, then ran the gamut of Marine sentries at the door who checked his ID. The Situation Room where his meeting was scheduled was one of the older ones, one level down, under the Oval Office.

Another pair of Marines inspected his badge as he exited the small elevator, and a trio of Secret Service agents in suits nodded or spoke to him as he headed toward the Situation Room. He knew two of them, one of whom had been with the Bureau back when Alex had been stationed in Idaho.

'Morning, Commander Michaels,' his old Idaho friend said.

'Hey, Bruce.' The term 'Commander' still made him uneasy. He hadn't even wanted this job. He sure as hell hadn't wanted it at the cost of Steve Day's life. The silver lining here was that being in charge gave him the best chance of catching Day's killers. And he was damned sure going to do that.

A final check, the thumbprint scanner, and the door opened to admit Alex.

Inside, Director Carver was already seated at a long table shaped like the office above the room, sipping coffee from a china cup. Standing to his left was NSO Assistant Director Sheldon Reed, making a call on his virgil. A middle-aged secretary in a tweed skirt and white silk blouse sat at a small table off to the side, a steno pad in front of her and a voxax unlinked recorder next to the pad, that next to a computer station. A Marine in dress uniform poured coffee from a silver pot into a cup balanced perfectly on a saucer, then set the steaming brew down next to Carver on the right — that would be Alex's seat, and the server would know he took it black. Hardcopy reports duplicating the ones Michaels carried were inside sealed folders that lay upon the table in front of each chair.

Carver smiled his professional smile at Alex and nodded at the seat next to him. Alex was halfway there when the door opened and the President and his Chief of Staff, Jessel Leon, entered the room.

'Good morning, gentlemen.' The President nodded at the secretary and smiled. 'And Mrs. Upton. I've got a busy schedule, so let's get right to it. Walt?'

'Mr. President. Around midnight, Steve Day, the Commander of the FBI's Net Force, was assassinated. You know Alex Michaels — I've bumped him into Day's chair. He'll lay out the situation as we now know it.'

'Helluva way to get a promotion,' the President said, nodding at Michaels. He sounded a little nervous. Worrying that maybe he'd be the next target? 'Okay, let's hear it.'

Michaels took a deep breath, as quietly as he could. He walked to the computer, opened the coded disk packet he carried and handed the disk to the secretary. She inserted the disk, and ran the viral scan. It took all of five seconds. 'You're set up for voice command,' Mrs. Upton said to him.

'Thank you,' Michaels said. 'Computer, image one, please.'

A holographic projector in the ceiling clicked on, and a three-dimensional image of the assassination scene, photographed from a police helicopter less than eight hours ago, blossomed in the middle of the table.

Michaels began to lay it out. The explosion, the attack, the dead and suspected dead. He did it methodically, taking his time. He had the computer show other views as he talked. After ten minutes, he paused and looked around the table. 'Any questions so far?'

'Any other unusual activity regarding federal officials last night?' That from the President. Yes, that was a prudent question. Who might be next?

'No, sir.'

'Anybody step forward to claim responsibility, terrorist groups, like that?'

'No, Mr. President.'

'Anything on the bombs?' Reed asked.

'The charge under the manhole cover was a U.S. Army antitank mine, and the explosive's taggants identified it as part of a batch that supposedly went into the ground in Iraq during the Gulf War. Likely dug up by some farmer with a metal detector and sold on the black market. Or maybe diverted by a quartermaster before it ever got to Iraq. No way to tell at this point.'

'The limpet on the door was untagged, but our lab says it's Israeli small-marine surplus, about five years old.'

'Probably pick up one of those at a good-sized gun show,' Reed said. He smiled to show it was a joke. He sounded nervous, too. Not really afraid, but a little edgy. Understandable.

Michaels continued: 'No prints or DNA dregs on the expended brass, all of which were identical. From the bullets removed from the victims and cars, the ammunition appears to have been factory-loaded Federal 147 gr. 9mm Luger FMJ round-nose, and would have been subsonic from either a pistol or a submachine gun. Extractor marks on the casings show that both types of weapons were used. So far, recovered tags from the gunpowder show the lot numbers to be parts of shipments that went to Chicago, Detroit, Miami and Fort Worth.'

'Good luck tracing that,' Reed said. 'And those guns are probably in the bay by now.'

'All right, we have the facts, such as they are,' the President said. 'How about a theory. Who did it, Mr. Michaels? Who are they going to come after next?'

'Computer, image twelve,' Michaels said.

Another holoproj appeared, also from the air, but this one showing a different scene, recorded in daylight.

'This is an FBI archive image of the scene of the killing of Thomas ‘Big Red' O'Rourke in New York City last September. The method of attack was remarkably similar. A bomb went off under the Irish mobster's armored limo, the doors were blown off by limpets, O'Rourke and his bodyguards were killed by multiple rounds from 9mm pistols and submachine guns.'

'There have been other killings like that, haven't there?' the President said.

'Yes, sir. Joseph DiAmmato, of the Dixie Mafia, in New Orleans last December, and Peter Heitzman in Newark this past February. The FBI's Organized Crime Unit believes the hits were ordered by Ray Genaloni, head of the New York City Five Families, but the investigation is still pending.'

'Meaning you don't have anything concrete yet,' Reed said.

'Nothing a federal prosecutor wants to take into court, no.'

The President nodded. 'So it looks like what we're talking about here is mob related? Not some kind of terrorist activity?'

Michaels was careful with his next words. 'Sir. At first glance, it would seem a strong possibility.'

Carver said, 'If I may, Alex?'

Michaels nodded, happy to let his boss take over. He hoped his relief didn't show too much.

Carver said, 'Commander Day was head of the FBI's Organized Crime Unit for several years. During that time, many of the top people in the major New York families were arrested, and half of those were convicted and put away. Genaloni's father and older brother were among those imprisoned. The mob wouldn't lose any sleep over Steve's death. And they tend to have long memories.'

' ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,' ' the President said. 'Isn't that a Sicilian proverb?' He looked a bit more relaxed than he had. The mob wouldn't be gunning for him.

He stood, glancing at his watch. 'I hate to cut this short, gentlemen, but I have pressing matters elsewhere.