Hidden Agendas

* * *

When Toni and Alex arrived, there was a lot of commotion in the computer center. Jay, Joanna, and half the regular programmers were there, stations lit and working. Julio Fernandez stood next to the doorway watching.

'Julio,' Toni said. 'How is it going?'

'I'm not the guy to ask. I'm catching about one word in twenty. It's nasty, this thing. Gridley calls it a replicant bomb.'

'Oh, shit,' Toni and Alex said together.

'But Jo and Gridley apparently got a lock on the bomb thrower. Gridley is running him down somehow. I didn't understand most of that part.'

'Thanks, Sergeant,' Toni said.

'No problem, Commander.'

Alex moved to where Joanna sat, and as Toni started to head for her office to assess damage reports, Fernandez's smile stopped her. 'Something funny I'm missing?' she asked. 'I could use a good laugh.'

'No, ma'am, nothing funny.'

'Why the grin?'

'Oh, I was just, you know, musing.'

'About what?'

'You and the commander.'

Toni felt herself color. 'Me and the commander?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

Oh, God, does it show? We haven't even done anything yet!

'What about us, Sergeant?'

'Nothing, ma'am. Just lucky how you both get here so quick.'

'You're a poor liar, Julio.'

'Yes, ma'am. Probably I need more practice.'

'I need to go,' she said.

She hurried down the hall. He knew. How? How could he know? That little slip of the tongue, when Alex said 'we,' instead of 'I'? That couldn't be; he hadn't even been talking to Fernandez, he'd been talking to Jay.

Well. Worry about that later. Right now, they had a crisis to weather.

One thing at a time, girl, one thing at a time…

Chapter Thirty-Two

Saturday, January 15th, 3:40 p.m. Marietta, Georgia

Platt was feeling damn good about his latest caper on the net. It was amazing what you could do when you had a bunch of secret codes and passwords, courtesy of somebody who had access to a U.S. senator. Like screw up a major segment of the entire United States electronic banking system, blap! just like that. Those poor feebs were running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off, going bugfuck crazy trying to keep the money systems from crashing. Wasn't gonna stop it, though, not without shutting down a bunch of it, and that was the point. Because part of what was going down was a big ole safe that kept the net cowboys from robbing the bank. Once that was out of the way, things were gonna get real interestin'…

He was in the bathroom when he heard the alarm go off. At first, he thought it was the smoke detector, but after a second, he realized it was coming from his computer, on the kitchen table.

'What the hell—?!'

He jumped up and ran into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the little speaker on the portable was wailing away.

For a second, Platt just stood there, staring at the beeping computer. It wasn't supposed to happen, but unless there was some kind of software malfunction, somebody had somehow accessed his primary input signal. The only way they could have possibly done that was to have caught it at the satellite before the bounce, and only way that was possible was to have been waiting for the signal, and to know what to look for when it got there.

Couldn't be. He hadn't left any clues that big.

He moved, fast. Tapped in the confirmation code. Maybe it was just a software error, a glitch that tripped the audible—

Aw, shit! It wasn't an error!

They had traced his signal. And if they knew where he was, they'd pretty damn quick figure out who he was, and they'd be on their way to have a little talk with him.

Platt shut the computer off. He had to get out of here, now!

How the hell could this have happened? What did the damned Net Force boys know that he didn't? Some kind of new technology? Crap!

Worry about it later, hoss. Right now, you get your ass in gear and lay tread, or you're gonna be speculating about it in a federal cell somewhere!

Saturday, January 15th, 9:15 p.m. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau

Hughes smiled at Domingos across the table and raised his wine glass in salute. They were alone in the formal dining hall, Hughes and the President, working their way through the third course of a seven-course meal. The room would comfortably seat a hundred, and there was a hollow feel to it with just the pair of them at the end of a large oval table, one of half-a-dozen other tables just like theirs.

Fish was up next, some local catch, and so they'd switched to white wine, an Australian Pinot Gris, vintage 2003, that was as good as any Hughes had ever tasted. Domingos was proud of his cellar and his cook, and rightfully so.

Hughes made complimentary noises.

'You are too kind,' the President said, but he was obviously pleased.

They sipped their wine, watching the waiters clear away their plates and reset for the next course.

'So, everything goes well, does it not?' the President said.

Hughes glanced at his watch. 'Even as we speak, Excellency, my agents are finalizing matters. In a few days, we can make the transfers. I anticipate no problems, none at all.'

'Excellent!' Domingos raised his glass. 'To the future!'

'I will certainly drink to that.'

Hughes smiled as he sipped the wine. Right about now, his agent Platt would be feeling an unexpected heat. He was useful, Platt was, but not the only operative that Hughes employed. And while Hughes was certain that the trick he'd played on the Southerner wouldn't result in his capture by the authorities — Platt was too canny to be caught that easily — certainly the cracker would sit up and take notice. He surely didn't want Platt in custody where he might spill everything he knew about this deal. But he did want the redneck off balance, a little edgy, and looking to his employer for some reassurance.

If a man thinks you're reaching a hand out to help him climb from a pit, he might not notice the knife in your other hand.

Platt was expendable — more than expendable, he had to go — and his usefulness was nearly at an end… but not quite yet.

The fish arrived, a single platter with what looked like a twenty-pound sea bass, cooked whole, upon the serving tray. The smell was wonderful.

'It's the French roasted hazelnut butter that does that,' Domingos said. 'You can understand why I'll be taking Bertil with me to Paris when I go, yes?'

Hughes smiled. Taking a chef to Paris might be gilding the lily, but if that was what he wanted, Domingos would certainly be able to afford it…

Saturday, January 15th, 4:30 p.m. Washington, D.C.