Night Moves

minute or two, he would drift, and the imagery failed.

A computer operative who couldn't run a computer. A VR worker who couldn't work VR. He was screwed. His life was over.

But the nurse — she was some kind of Buddhist or something — she had given him this guy's web address, told him to check it out. He'd helped others, she'd said.

Gridley had nothing to lose, so he went. But he didn't see how Gshin-rji-whateverthehellhisnamewas was going to help squat.

As if reading his mind, the old man clapped his hands once, and the monks, save for Gridley, all vanished. The room around him swirled and shifted, and he found himself sitting in a comfortable armchair facing the guru, who also sat in a chair. In place of the orange robes, Jay wore slacks, a pullover sweater, and motorcycle boots, and the old man wore jeans and a work shirt. The Tibetan's legs were crossed at the ankles, he sported Nikes, and he had that big smile again. He looked like somebody's kindly old grandfather come for a visit.

'Better?' he said.

Gridley blinked. 'Uh, yeah, I guess so.'

'A lot of folks want the monastery imagery. It makes them feel as if they've found the real thing. That Tibet, unfortunately, only exists in the movies these days.'

He regarded Jay with a straight, direct gaze. 'You have a problem.'

'Yeah.'

'Your aura is fractured.'

Jesus, auras? Time to bail—

'That is to say, you appear to have some difficulty concentrating. Drugs? Or a medical problem? Tumor? Stroke?'

How the hell could he tell that? Nothing like that showed in VR!

'Uh…'

'Take your time. You want to check out, come back later, that's cool.'

Jay shook his head. 'You don't seem like any guru I ever heard of.'

'You want the monastery back?'

'No, I — it's just that—'

'Expectation,' the old man said. 'That one is a killer. You had a idea, an expectation of what I was supposed to be, so whenever I pop off and do something that doesn't fit, it's confusing. And you're already confused enough, right?'

'Uh, yeah, right.'

'Well, we'll get to that. First things first. What shall I call you?'

'Webnom or realnom?'

'Doesn't matter, just something you'll answer to.'

'Jay.'

'Okay. Call me Saji. You came for some clarity, right?'

'I — uh, I'm not sure.'

Saji laughed. 'What you mean is, you didn't come for all this Buddhist bullshit, demons and Dharma and all. But you do want clarity.'

'Yeah.'

'Well, being a Buddhist doesn't get in the way of that. In fact, it helps. But we'll get back to that later, too. First things first. The nature of your injury?'

'They say I had some kind of stroke.'

'Fine, we can deal with that.'

'I'm glad you can.'

'Not me, we, Jay.' He tapped his right temple with one finger. 'Our brains have a lot of built-in redundancies. You get a short in one spot, it's entirely possible to reroute the signal to a place where the wiring is better. You might not even need that, but we'll see. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, you respond however you like.'

'Okay.'

'What is eighty-seven minus thirteen?'

Christ-arithmetic?

'Yes, arithmetic. To start out.' He grinned.

Jay sighed. When you're at the bottom, the only way you can go is up.

'Seventy-four,' he said.

'And who is the President of the United States…?'

Sunday, April 3rd

Stonewall Flat, Nevada

'What have we got, Julio?'

'Sir, not much. We've come up with some bloody pieces of scorched bone, something that looks like burnt hair, and a couple of teeth. Whatever he had in that car did a job on him. I doubt they'll ever find all of him.'

Howard sighed. Yes, indeed. He wasn't looking forward to writing this report.

'All right. Finish the trailer, leave two men to watch the site, and we'll get the lab boys out here. Pack it up and let's go home.'

'Yes, sir.'

Howard looked at the crater where the target's car had gone up in the blast. This wasn't the plan, but at least they had taken him down. The man had been a professional killer. Aside from whatever else he had done, Reader was in bad shape, and three others were wounded enough to need hospital time. The target deserved to be questioned and imprisoned for a thousand years, but this would have to do. Quick and rough justice, Howard could live with it.

He turned away and headed for the Humvee. Julio had been right to keep the air conditioner turned up. It was hot out here and getting hotter.

Damn, he hated this.

In his burrow, Ruzhyo tried to sleep. It was hot, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't relax enough to drop off. He had considered wiring the trailer so that it would go up with the car, but had decided against it. Perhaps somebody could get some use from it. It had been, for what it was, a good home for him. And more importantly, anybody who remained behind to watch would surely use the place for shade from the hot sun, or even go inside to run the air conditioner.

From inside, there was no window that looked directly upon Ruzhyo's hiding place; he had made certain of that.

By now, they would have found the remains of what he had left inside a sterilized and vacuum-sealed plastic carton for them to find: Leavings from a barber shop's trash; several uncut bones, raw meat, and blood mixed with anticoagulant made from rat poison, all from a pig. And the final touch, a human skull from a high school biology skeleton, stolen and wrapped tightly inside the pig's scalp, packed with the pig's brain. Such things would not fool a pathologist for an instant, but someone who had just seen a car blasted to smoking bits might think the fragments of bone and blood and brain human. And they might think so long enough to allow him to escape.

Nothing was certain, but it was a chance.

The cameras showed men getting into vehicles and leaving. They would post a guard, probably no more than two or three soldiers. It would be hot, and the guards would remove their helmets or some of their armor or go inside the trailer. When they did, he would be ready. They would have checked the trailer for explosives and, finding none, would feel safe.

Pistol held loosely in his hand, Ruzhyo tried again to sleep. Even a few minutes would be good. He was so tired.

Sunday, April 3rd

London, England

MI-6 HQ looked just like any other modern office building inside. Michaels wasn't sure what he'd expected, especially given that Net Force HQ also looked like some typical corporate structure; still, he half expected to see James Bond or Q or somebody skulking through the halls on the way to do the king's business.