“So the missionary is walking about the Indian village with the tribe’s chief, and teaching him English.
“They pass a dog. The missionary points at the animal. ‘Dog,’ he says.
“The chief nods. ‘Dog.’
“They come to a cooking fire, and the missionary points at it. ‘Fire,’ he says.
“ ‘Fire,’ the chief replies.
“As they round a teepee, they see, lying in the bushes, a naked couple making love. The missionary, embarrassed, fumbles for words. Unable to bring himself to talk about sex, he says:
“ ‘Uh… man… uh… riding bicycle… ’
“Whereupon the chief pulls an arrow from his quiver, nocks it in his bow, draws, and lets fly. The arrow hits the man in the back of the head, killing him instantly.
“Stunned, the missionary says, ‘Wh-what did you do that for?’
“ ‘Man riding
Thorn smiled again at the memory. He missed his grandfather. The man had been a fountain of wisdom and funnier than a busload of drunk comedians.
Well. It was his bicycle, at least for now, and it was what it was. He’d deal with it somehow.
Chang stood in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for the Canadian. There was a hint of jasmine in the air, and a murmur of voices in the background, speaking Chinese, English, and even what sounded like Italian.
The hotel, the Flowering Plum, was new, built only a year ago by a Canadian investment group. Urumqui was a modern city, and not without a certain international flair: There were Holiday Inns, Ramada Inns, and Double Tree was considering putting up a new building. Mexican restaurants. A Starbucks.
People in the West sometimes found such things amazing — many of those who had never been here had the idea that, outside the well-known cities, China was mostly rice paddies tended by old men wearing big straw coolie hats, riding in wooden carts pulled by oxen. He could understand this — once, he had gone to Colorado, and even though he was an educated man, he had kept looking for teepees and buffalo.
Colorado did have some of those, he learned, but only for the tourists. In the same way, China still had old men in straw hats, too. More of them than the United States had bison, to be sure. Then again, China had half as many web surfers as were in the U.S., and thirty percent
Of course, when it came to computer commerce, China had constraints most other countries didn’t: fewer servers, more regulations, and the
Admittedly, he was a good four hours away from Beijing by air, but airliners did fly here from the capital regularly, and with well over a million people, Urumqui was hardly some sleepy village.
Chang glanced at his watch, a Seiko Kinetic. Two more minutes until the Canadian — the man had a name, it was Alaine Courier, but Chang always thought of him as “the Canadian”—was due. He’d be on time — he always was.
The reason for this visit was simple, but important. Courier had access to some cutting-edge software from America. The stuff wasn’t supposed to travel outside the U.S., but it had made it as far as Canada, and Chang wanted it in the worst way.
But this wasn’t just a simple exchange. Courier wasn’t interested in merely selling the software to Chang. No, Courier was looking to establish his business connections in China, and he wanted Chang to help him with that. Which Chang was willing to do. He was ahead of most of the hot-rodders in his country when it came to cutting edge-gear and programs, but the race never slowed. Miss a step, and you’d be behind, and that wasn’t where Chang wanted to be.
Chang knew that if he wanted to put Chinese net policing on the same relative footing as the United States had with Net Force, he needed more tools. He would get those however and wherever he could. His masters would turn a blind eye in his direction as long as he got the job done without causing them any loss of face. If he screwed up, well, that would be on his own head.
“Chang!”
There was the Canadian now. Chang smiled.
When the summons came for Thorn to drop by the Director’s office at his convenience, it was not much of a surprise. Actually, the most surprising thing about it was how long it had taken. Still, the FBI kept things on a need-to-know basis, just as so much of the government seemed to do these days. Even from their own employees.
Maybe
Thorn told his secretary where he would be, then took a stroll. It wasn’t that long a walk.
There had been a shake-up in the FBI only a couple of months past, and the former Director, a sharp woman named Allison, was no longer in charge. The new guy, Roland McClain, was a long-time friend of the current President, a former Army lawyer who’d worked in Iraq after the invasion in the early Oughts. McClain had then left and taken up tort litigation, going on to make millions suing large corporations for his clients. McClain was something of a jock — played tennis and handball and golf, was a very fit sixty, and a political animal to the core.
As soon as Thorn arrived at the new Director’s office, the assistant showed him in.
“Thomas, how are you?”
The man’s handshake was firm, but not threatening. He had a tan year-round, and lots of leathery smile wrinkles. The kind of face you’d buy a used car from, if you went by looks alone.
“Mr. Director,” Thorn said.
“Please, Thomas, call me Mac. We’re not big on formality around here, you know. Have a seat.”
Thorn sat on the couch, a comfortable, Western-style piece of furniture of distressed leather with a lot of brass tacks stuck into the woodwork.
“Do you have any idea why I needed to see you, Thomas?”
Thorn smiled. “Yes, sir, I expect so.”
McClain raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“It probably has something to do with the fact that Net Force is being taken over by the military, courtesy of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and pretty soon we are all going to be Marines.”
That got his attention. McClain shook his head. “And you came by this how?”
“We are an intelligence agency, sir. We do stumble across things from time to time.”
“Would you like to be more specific?”
“Not really.”
McClain frowned.
In Washington, even more than in most places, knowledge was power, and a man who ate, slept, and breathed politics like McClain always wanted to be in the know, more so because he was the Director of the FBI. In this case, McClain didn’t have much leverage. He wasn’t going to fire Thorn, and in a very short period of time wasn’t going to be his boss any longer. At this juncture, his options were limited. McClain knew that, of course, and he knew that Thorn did, too.
Thorn said, “Does it really matter? It’s true, isn’t it?”
The Director nodded. “Yes. I fought against it — I think Net Force is better kept in civilian hands.”
For which Thorn, who was also passing familiar with politics and clout, heard: “Better kept in
“But,” McClain continued, “I’m a long way from the top of the food chain, and the big carnivores have made a firm decision. Practically speaking, not much will change, at least to look at.”
Thorn gave a very small smile at that, but didn’t say anything.
McClain ignored it. “You’ll stay where you are,” he went on, “but instead of reporting to me, you’ll be talking to the DoD via a Marine connection. I’m not sure exactly who that will be yet, but if I had to guess I’d say it would be General Roger Ellis, who is the Corps’ Special Projects Commander at the Pentagon these days.”
