Night Moves

Wednesday, April 6th

The Yews, Sussex, England

Peel stood outside the old church that was now his office, staring at Lord Goswell, who was still traipsing around carrying that ancient shotgun, trying to find one of the rabbits that had been raiding his garden.

The old boy considered himself quite the hunter. Peel had heard his old hunting stories a dozen times. Back in the early sixties, when such things were still routinely done, Goswell had gone on safari to Africa. There, he had taken an elephant, a lion, and a leopard, along with assorted wildebeests and springbok and other smaller game animals. Of course, his lordship's eyes and ears had been a lot sharper and younger fifty years ago, and he'd had an army of bearers to carry his gear, not to mention a local white hunter to find his targets. With that kind of stalk, one just showed up and pulled the trigger when told, and if one missed the shot, the white hunter would save one's arse. Hardly the same as tracking a wounded cape buffalo into a bamboo thicket alone, was it?

Just at the moment, the old boy, who was half deaf and blind, was probably as much threat to his own feet as he was to any lurking rabbits. He had been hunting bunnies on and off for months, and while he had fouled the air numerous times with that black-powder cannon of his, he had yet to hit anything other than the ground — or once, the side of the tool shed.

Goswell wasn't an awful man, merely a prime example of his class. Born rich, educated at the best schools, with all the right connections, the man had never had to want for anything. He'd married well, had the usual half- witted, inbred children, who'd also married well. One or the other of them would come to call now and then, more often since their mother had died a few years back. Even a couple of the grandchildren came round to see the old boy, and he doted on them, of course. It was true what they said; the rich were different, especially the old-money rich. They expected certain things as their due, never considered otherwise.

The old man whipped the shotgun up, aimed — but held his fire. Lowered the weapon and muttered to himself.

Peel grinned. Well, he could find out how it felt to be rich. He had a million in the bank. He could quit right now, invest the money conservatively, and live very comfortably off the interest for the rest of his life without ever touching the principal. There was security, especially for a man who had always expected to die with his boots on. But he could do even better by simply continuing on, working for Goswell. Everything the same, except that his reports about Bascomb-Coombs would change somewhat. His men would continue to follow the computer expert, save at certain specified times. One watcher would be taken off, thinking another would replace him, only that wouldn't happen. There would be a gap, as long as Bascomb-Coombs needed, and Peel would fill it in when he wrote up the reports. Not bad work for a million, altering a few schedules.

The old man wandered around the corner out of sight and, as he did, Peel reflected that the big sound- suppressor headphones made Goswell look rather like some kind of geriatric alien.

Peel glanced at his watch. About time for his men to check in.

Of course, the deal with the Jew scientist would eventually involve more than just keeping his lordship in the dark; he knew that. The other shoe would drop, and it would certainly involve work somewhat more strenuous than altering a computer log. And while Bascomb-Coombs seemed convinced of his invincibility when it came to his Qubits and all this quantum nonsense, if somebody kicked in the door and started shooting, it would take a man who knew how to shoot back to save his brilliant arse.

Well, Peel had done that for a long time, first for the queen, then her duffer son the king, and for a lot less money than he was getting now—

A bomb went off. Half a second later, another blast followed.

Peel dropped into a gunfighter's crouch, looking for danger, his hand automatically darting to his pistol. He relaxed when he saw the greasy white cloud of smoke swirl past, and heard the old man cursing. 'Bastard! You filthy, thieving bastard!'

Peel grinned. Missed another one. He straightened, shot his cuffs, and went to make sure the old man was all right. Just because he was betraying Goswell's trust didn't mean he shouldn't be civilized.

Chapter 16

Thursday, April 7th

London, England

Michaels decided to accept Toni's invitation and go along to the silat class. He ought to work out, he'd been neglecting his practice the last few days, and God only knew when they'd get home and back into a normal routine. So far, they had zip on this new threat. He'd probably feel a lot better if he exercised, developed a good sweat.

'You've got the long stare,' Toni said.

She sat in the seat across from him in the cab, and he smiled reflexively at her. 'Sorry. I spent most of the afternoon counting figurative paper clips. I'm not any closer to this guy than I was before. I feel stupid.'

'Why do you feel as if you personally are responsible for catching the mad hacker? Dozens of governmental agencies around the world are chasing him, and none of them are any further along than we are.'

'Yeah, but I sit at the top of the pyramid in the can-do U.S. of A. Nobody is eyeballing the Portuguese or the Tasmanians and expecting them to track this guy down. We're the only superpower left.'

'Hi ho, Silver!'

He blinked at her. 'Huh?'

'How the Lone Ranger got his name. Tonto nursed him back to health after the Butch Cavendish gang am- bushed the ranger troop. He came to, asked about the others. Tonto said, 'Him dead, all dead. You… only ranger left. You… lone ranger.' '

'Really?'

'Truth. You know what it says on the barrel of the Cisco Kid's gun?'

He blinked at her. 'What?'

' 'Don't make me hurt you.' '

He smiled at her. 'How do you know stuff like that?'

'A misspent youth. Older brothers who collected everything from cars to old 78 rpm vinyl records. I can tell you about Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autrey, if you want. Want to know about Red Ryder's sidekick?'

'Maybe not,' he said.

'You don't want to hear about Li'l Beaver?' She batted her eyes at him and smiled.

'Well… yeah. But… not in front of the cabbie.'

They both laughed.

The silat school was a dump, in a ratty neighborhood that made Michaels wish he had brought his taser. It was clean enough inside, though, and the students were polite when Toni introduced him.

The instructor, Carl Stewart, arrived, and Michaels met him, too. Seemed like a nice guy, a few years older than Michaels, in pretty good shape. A little taller, a little grayer, a little wider across the shoulders and thicker through the arms. He wore bifocal aviator glasses, and Michaels wondered why he wasn't wearing contacts or droptacs instead.

'Toni tells me you've begun studying silat, ' Stewart said. 'Are you going to join the class this evening?'

'If that would be all right, yes.'

'Certainly.' He smiled at Toni, she smiled right back, and Michaels felt a little pang of… something.

Jealousy? No, of course not. He trusted Toni.

The class began, and Michaels dutifully went up and down the floor practicing the two djurus he had learned. He stole quick glances at Toni, saw her footworking first the tiga, then the sliwa—the triangle and square — for her djurus. She looked very sharp.

Stewart paused in front of Michaels. 'You seem a bit distracted, Mr. Michaels. It would be better if you