Night Moves

Theoretically, they say, because they can't do it.'

'Is somebody that far ahead of the rest of the computer world?'

'Apparently so.'

'I don't much like the sound of that.'

'Nor do we. And we haven't a clue so far on how to trace whoever it is. We're hoping your expertise will help.'

Michaels sighed. Yeah, right. His best expert had his brain fried by whoever it was they were hunting. That sure as hell didn't make things easier.

'Discom, then,' Cooper said. 'I'll see you at HQ later?'

'Yeah, I'll stop in.'

After she had broken the connection, the virgil rang again. Lord, it was a parade. This time, it was Melissa Allison. Just what he needed.

'Commander.'

'Director.'

'Anything to report?'

Well, yes, we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground, as far as all this goes. But he said, 'No, ma'am, nothing substantial yet. MI-5 and -6 have made their systems available, and we are getting up to speed.'

'Keep me informed of your progress.'

'Of course.'

He put the virgil back into its charger as the bathroom door opened and Toni, wrapped in a towel, came out in a cloud of vapor from her shower. 'Did I hear the phone ring?'

'Oh, yeah,' he said. He looked at her, smiled. 'But let's talk about that after.'

She smiled back at him. Undid the towel and dropped it. 'After what?'

'Come here.'

'What is the magic word?'

'Come here, quick!'

She laughed.

Once she was close enough to grab, he did, and whatever thoughts he might have had for the next few minutes were short-circuited well shy of his brain.

Chapter 13

Tuesday, April 5th

Quantico, Virginia

The obstacle course wasn't busy, and after a hundred crunches, fifty push-ups, and a dozen chins at the beginning, John Howard wasn't even close to burning off his frustration, but he didn't really feel like running the course. He was too tight, too pissed off, too… something. He wanted to hit somebody, hit them hard enough to knock their teeth out, spray blood in all directions, and watch them fall, preferably onto something sharp. It didn't help that who he was the maddest at was himself. He had screwed up, big time, and that promotion he had allowed himself to dream about was likely to be rescinded before he ever officially saw it.

Too bad, but when it got right down to it, that didn't matter as much as the two dead soldiers. Losing men in battle, in a firefight, that was one thing. Losing them in a supposedly secure area to a single man who made you look stupid, that galled. Losing them at all…

So he stood there, watching the odd FBI trainee or Marine pass him for the obstacle course, feeling impotent.

So far, there hadn't been squat on Ruzhyo since he'd disappeared. Oh, yeah, they found the truck, in front of a supermarket in Vegas, windows rolled down, keys in the ignition. He could be anywhere in the country by now, hell, anywhere on the planet. Net Force had the best computers crunching all flight information, train and bus schedules, rental cars, automobile and motorcycle sales, even car thefts in and around Las Vegas, but so far they hadn't come up with anything to match the fugitive's profile.

He wanted this guy, wanted him as bad as anything he had wanted in a long time. If he found out where he was, Howard was going to hop on a plane, officially or unofficially, whatever it took, and go get the sucker.

'Colonel?'

He shook himself from the red fog he'd allowed to envelop him and turned. Julio.

'Got something you might find interesting.'

He was grinning.

Damn. Good news, at last.

Tuesday, April 5th

The Yews, Sussex, England

The news on the telly was, as it always seemed to be these days, disgusting. The American President was going on about 'moral fiber,' a subject about which he certainly knew little, if anything. Presidents in the U.S. were notorious for their lack of self-control, from Warren G. Harding to Kennedy to Clinton. The idea that the leader of a country with such slipshod spiritual and moral values could hold forth on how anybody should behave was patently ridiculous. Especially when the leader himself was known to have the sexual ethics of a mink. The current U.S. President was as bad as any — he just hadn't been found out yet.

Goswell nodded at the telly. Well, yes, he would have to do something about that, now wouldn't he? He would put in a call to his man, see if there wasn't some way to use the new toy to find out what the President had been up to. If records existed in a computer anywhere — and surely they must — the scientist could get them. Give the Americans another scandal to drool over, and get the bastard so busy defending his so-called honor that he wouldn't have time to meddle elsewhere.

Meanwhile, he had another call to make. 'Applewhite?'

The butler appeared next to him. 'Milord?'

'A telephone, please. And one with a dial, if you would.'

'Yes, milord.'

The butler went to fetch the telephone. Goswell hated to do such business, but it was the nature of reality that a man was sometimes forced to do things he would rather not if he was to stay afloat in stormy seas.

Applewhite returned with the phone. It looked like one of the old Bakelite rotary dial models he had used as a boy, but it was just a replica. Inside, it was full of electronics as modern as any, and there was no thick black cord connecting it to anything. It was a wireless model.

As he took the phone, he said, 'Any sign of that rabbit?'

'Cook said she saw him when she went to the garden this morning, milord.'

'Ah, well. Fetch me my shotgun, then. We'll just go and see if we can't give the little bugger something to think about.'

'Yes, milord.'

As the man trundled off to the lockbox where the guns were kept, Goswell dialed the number for the man he wished to reach. It rang once on the other end, and the voice that answered was gruff. The words came out as an uneducated-sounding, 'Whot's it, then?'

'Goswell here. You have some information for me?'

'Roight, Guv, I 'ave.'

'The usual place, then. Say… seven?'

'Gawt it.'

Goswell cradled the phone's receiver, sighed, and shook his head. A pity to have to deal with such men, but this wasn't something that could be delegated.

Applewhite returned, the open shotgun cradled in one arm, with a pair of the custom-made brass and waxed green cardboard shells in hand. Two shots was all Goswell allowed himself per adventure. If he missed, then the rabbit would live to raid the garden another day. It was only fair.