Night Moves

them as possible. I'll go and see if we can obtain time on one to contact your agency in the States.'

She left, and Michaels stared at the desk. 'We've got to do something,' he said.

'I know.'

But — what?

Chapter 22

Saturday, April 9th

London, England

Ruzhyo stood in front of the post office across from Westminster Cathedral. He was aware of the frantic scurrying around him. There had been a major computer and power failure, it seemed. He had been buying stamps when the electricity failed, and the machine had gone blank and eaten his coins. He had left the building and noticed that the traffic signals were out, and that there was a kind of puzzled worry in the air. Policemen arrived and began directing traffic at the intersection. He listened to snatches of conversations from passersby and got the buzz of what they knew and didn't, and he wondered about it. But that did not distract him so much that he missed the man angling in toward him from the left, dodging traffic as he hurried across Victoria Street.

That the man was coming toward him — for him — was certain. The man was young, fit, smiling, but that meant nothing, Ruzhyo had smiled at some of the people he had deleted. It was disarming, a big smile, it allayed suspicion. How dangerous was a man grinning at you?

Such a man could be deadly, Ruzhyo knew. But was this one so?

Though dressed like a layabout in a leather jacket and jeans, the young man moved like a soldier, Ruzhyo thought. He had a definite military bearing to his step. This one had spent time in uniform, no question. Either that, or he was wearing a back brace.

Ruzhyo considered his options.

What should he do? Run? Stand his ground?

He looked around. No others were focused on him, at least not that he could see. If it was just the one, what did that mean? The smiling man showed no hardware, and though he certainly could have a pistol hidden under his motorcycle jacket, his hands were swinging loosely, making no move to draw a gun.

Ruzhyo was unarmed, save for a small pocket knife, not a particularly formidable weapon. True, he could kill with the knife at grappling range, if need be, but if it came to that, the situation would be bad.

If he was bracketed by a collection or deletion team, one good enough that he could spot only the one who was making no effort to hide, then he was already caught or dead. They would be keyed on the smiling man who was almost all the way across the street now, and a gesture from the smiling man would end the game.

Ruzhyo put his own hand into his right trouser pocket and found the small knife. It had a three-inch blade he could flick open with his thumb as fast as a springloaded switchblade. But even so, if he was targeted, and if he took his hand out of his pocket with a weapon, he'd probably be dead before he could get the knife cleared. If he had been a designated shooter on a delete team, he would be aiming at the head — a central nervous system hit being the only certain way to be sure of an instant stop. A rifle bullet through the brain generally brought things to an end.

Were there crosshairs laid upon his brow? A jittery laser spot dancing on the back of his head?

He looked around again, but could not spot the shooter. Nor did he see any others on the street paying him undue attention. Were they there? Had he gotten so old he had lost his ability to spot death watching him? Or was the leather-jacketed man alone?

While he was ready to go if beaten by players better than he, Ruzhyo found this scenario bothersome. He hadn't thought it would be this easy for them. He had expected to give a better account of himself in the final moves. Perhaps he was too far gone, too burned out, and perhaps this was his final play.

The smiling man achieved the curb and stopped three meters away, well outside the range for a quick lunge with a short knife.

'Mr. Ruzhyo,' the man said. It was not a question. His right hand had drifted down to the hem of his jacket by his hip. There was a weapon there, a knife or a gun.

'Yes.' No point in denying it. This man wouldn't be taken in by a protestation of mistaken identity. If he'd had the knife out and opened, it would be no contest. Ruzhyo could move five or six meters and stab a man clawing for a pistol nestled in a concealed holster before the man could draw his weapon. This was not an especially challenging feat. Any good knife fighter could do it; it was a simple matter of speed and reaction time. But with the knife in his pocket, it was a different proposition. Maybe he could get there first, maybe not. Probably he could take his killer with him, at the very least. But if there was a shooter in a car or hiding in a building already lined up? Well, in that case, any sudden move would end with Ruzhyo facedown on the concrete, probably dead before he got there. It would be a clean, quick end. It was tempting to see.

'Hello, sir. I'm Corporal Huard. Major Terrance Peel sends his regards and wonders if you might be free for dinner this evening?'

Peel? How did he know Ruzhyo was in London? And what did he want?

The young soldier offered Ruzhyo a card. It had an address on it.

'About seven o'clock all right?' Huard said.

Ruzhyo nodded.

'Will you be needing directions or a ride?'

'No.'

'Right, then. See you later.'

Huard smiled, turned, and marched off. Ruzhyo watched him until the man was out of sight. Nobody else joined him. It made him feel a little better that Huard seemed to have been alone. But even so, he should have spotted him sooner.

Ruzhyo looked at the card. Peel. How interesting. It had been nearly two years since he had met the man. The major had trained one of the paramilitary units for Plekhanov, after having been thrown out of the British Army for… What had it been? Torturing an IRA prisoner to death? What was he doing now? And how had he known Ruzhyo was here? On this corner, at this time? He must have had his men following him. Why?

And why hadn't he noticed a tail sooner?

He put the card into his pocket, the address already committed to memory. He would go and find out.

Saturday, April 9th

Somewhere in the British Raj, India

Jay wasn't alone this time. He had brought a native guide to stand watch. Well, it was actually a 'motion detector' program, one that would squeal if anybody — or any thing—entered his scenario uninvited — and warn him in time to get his gun ready. At least he hoped it would warn him in time. Having the program look like a turbaned native guide was as good as anything. And he had altered the scenario a little more, in that he was no longer carrying the old double-barreled elephant rifle lovingly handcrafted by a Victorian English gunsmith. Now the weapon he had on a strap digging into his shoulder and leveled, ready at his hip, was a shotgun. And not just an ordinary shotgun, but a South African Streetsweeper, a short-barreled, semiautomatic, drum-fed twelve-gauge, with twelve rounds of double-aught buckshot alternating with twelve sabot slugs in the magazine and one more in the chamber. If something moved in front of him, all Jay had to do was point the gun and start pulling the trigger, and he could put up a screaming maw of deadly metal teeth that would chew up anything in their path. Nothing alive could eat that much lead and keep coming. The gun was heavy, but it was a comforting weight on that strap digging into his shoulder.

'Keep a sharp eye out,' Jay said.

'Yes, sahib.'

Jay bent to look at the ground, using the new skills he had learned from Saji in the New Mexico desert and mountain scenario. Cutting sign, and looking as much for what wasn't there as much as what was. He knew that the tiger must have gone this way because, in the perverse logic of computer VR, it couldn't have gone this way. And since he knew that, he should be able to track it. You couldn't move through this kind of brush without leaving a sign.