He flagged one of the nurses passing through the rec room. He didn't try to talk, that still scared him, too, but he made the two-handed sign for a VR set: forefingers over his eyes, thumbs over his ears.
She nodded. 'Sure. Just down that way and to the left. Come on, I'll take you.'
He waved her off, then used his good hand to operate the wheelchair's joystick. He would find the computer himself. Plug in, and see what he could do.
If he could do anything at all.
Major Peel leaned back in the chair in front of his desk in an office provided by his lordship in what had once been the groundskeeper's cottage. Three hundred years or so ago, during the Reformation, the cottage-cum-office had been built — as a Catholic church. In those days, with the Church of England cranking up to full steam, it was worth your neck to be caught practicing Catholicism in some parts of the country, so the faithful rich built small sanctuaries behind their manors and secretly gathered with a select few to worship. As long as they were circumspect about it, and as long as the lord of the manor was sufficiently wealthy and well thought of, local officials turned a blind eye to the practice.
The fact that the king wanted a divorce was no reason to give up generations of cherished belief and ritual, snap, just like that.
The window over Peel's desk wasn't stained glass, but it had that triple-hump Father-Son-Holy-Ghost shape inset into the mortared stone, and the desk itself sat upon the spot where once had been an altar.
Peel looked at the computer screen, watching the video, and listened to the report from Lieutenant Wilson, one of his best men. Wilson led the team they had covering Bascomb-Coombs.
'You're certain he doesn't know he's being observed?'
'Certain, sir. He might be smarter than an auditorium full of dons at Oxford, but he doesn't track very well in the real world. We've stayed away from fiddling with his computer hardware and programs — he does have those rigged with safeguards we don't want to try — but we've got spycams planted all over his house and office. There are units in the ceiling over his workstations in his lab and at his home that zero on his keyboard and monitor. He can have the best security in the world in the system, but all we have to do is watch him type or listen to him vox his codes in. And we've also got recordings of everything he sees on-screen.'
'And this business with the airports is untraceable?'
'Yes, sir. Everything this chap does on-line is untraceable. He's rigged some way to overload a virtual reality headset — we don't have a clue how he did that — and he's put several snoopers into the hospital with some kind of stroke.'
'Really?'
'Yes, sir. There is one small worry we've come across. It seems that MI-6 has contacted the head of the FBI's computer crime unit, Net Force. He's here in London, working with them.'
'Already? That was fast.'
'Apparently he was in town, attending a conference or some such.'
'Hmm. That bears watching. Keep me posted.'
'Sir.'
'Anything else?'
'Nothing concerned with the project. But there's a small item you might find interesting. You remember Plekhanov?'
'The Russian who was going to take over Asia? Of course.' They'd had a nice piece of change doing a little training for one of Plekhanov's groups.
'After his capture, there were a few loose ends,' Wilson continued. 'The most notable of which was the
'Ah, yes. Nasty piece of work, that one. Got away, did he?'
'Apparently only temporarily, according to what Bascomb-Coombs has learned. It seems they are about to collect Mr. Ruzhyo somewhere out in the American West.'
'Too bad for him.'
'Just thought you'd find it interesting, sir.'
'Yes, well, keep me up to speed on new findings.'
After he clicked off, Peel looked up at the old window. Interesting developments in all this business. While it was not the regiment, it did have its moments. Indeed it did.
'All set?'
'Yes, sir,' Fernandez said. 'Sniper teams in place, ground troops to their positions. The place is surrounded, and the Strike Team is making dust for the trailer now. Off-road, in case he's got it mined.' Fernandez grinned to show he wasn't serious about that part.
The two men stood in their modified SIPEsuits next to the Hummer, parked half a mile back on the main road — the only road — leading to Ruzhyo's Airstream. Howard had his visor up and used his silicone-armored field-grade ten-power Leupold binoculars, sweeping back and forth slowly, looking at the target. 'No sign of him. He must not be an early riser.'
'His problem,' Fernandez said. 'Our boys'll be there in a minute, a few flash-bangs, some emetic gas, and Mr. Assassin wakes up half-blind, puking last night's dinner, and in deep feces. You should have let me lead the team, no point in both of us missing all the fun.'
'You're about to be a married man with a child, Julio, and if you think I'm going to explain something happening to you to Joanna, forget it. Better get used to sitting at a desk.'
'That'll be the day.'
'Sooner than you think, Sergeant.'
He looked at the trailer. So far, so good.
Ruzhyo was already awake when he heard the sound of the approaching vehicle. He came up, strapped on the belt with the extra shotgun shells, then picked up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder by the nylon strap. He collected the pistol and the radio control unit, then walked to the window over the sink. He set the Browning down, hooked the control to his belt, and looked out.
A squat, squarish, dun-colored truck rolled toward the trailer at a good speed, coming up the slight rise ten meters to the left of the driveway, paralleling it. A cloud of pale dust billowed behind the truck.
A military assault? With the driver staying off the road to avoid mines? Smart. If they were military, they'd probably be wearing light armor, so his guns weren't going to do him much good unless he was very precise with his shooting. Something to keep in mind.
He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out, found a glass and ran a little water into it, rinsed his mouth, then spat into the sink. He put the glass down, stuck the pistol into his belt, and walked to the door.
Guests had come to call, and it was time to put out the welcome mat.
He pulled the radio control unit from his belt. There were four buttons on the device, each of which controlled a signal made stronger by a booster hidden in the satellite dish installed on top of the trailer.
He sighed and pushed the first button.
'What the hell is that?' Howard said.
A circular wall of gray appeared from the ground around the trailer, roiling up into the still-cool morning air. The dark gray cloud obscured the trailer in a matter of seconds.
'He's got smoke,' Fernandez said unnecessarily into the LOSIR headset built into his helmet. 'Slow it down.'
The leader of the Strike Team said, 'No shit.'
Howard was aware of the exchange in his own headset, but he was dropping his visor and switching his helmet's viewer to IR.
Not much help; whatever was making the smoke was also making some heat, and he couldn't see through it.
He called up the feed from Big Squint's footprint, but the computer-augmented satellite image didn't show anything inside the ring of smoke, save the trailer.
