they adopted the Colt slabside 1911, was in.45 caliber. Only four of such had been made. Two of those had been destroyed during testing, one was in the hands of another collector, and the last had been produced without records and kept by the man who’d made it, a supervisor at the gun factory in Germany. His great-grandson had sold it to Ames for a flat million.
Someday, Ames hoped to convince the other collector to part with his, so he’d have a pair.
His other prize was a Colt Walker-Dragoon.44 percussion, model 1847. One of the Texas Ranger Company guns, it was in excellent condition. It had been oiled and packed away within a year or two of its manufacture, and stored in a chest in Texas. A massive piece, it weighed more than four and a half pounds and had a nine-inch barrel. Tests had shown that the gun had been fired, but not much, and there was hardly a blemish on it. He had paid one point two million for it at an auction three years ago. He would have paid twice that and considered it a bargain.
Junior reached out and took the envelope. He raised an eyebrow and looked over at Ames.
“Fifty thousand,” Ames said. “Call me when that runs out.”
Junior nodded. Grinning hugely, he rose and left the office.
Ames glanced at his watch. It was a simple-looking timepiece, really, nothing fancy. Just a concave-backed rectangular black face with hour, minute, and a sweep second hand, art-deco numbers, and a monthly calendar, on a leather band. If you didn’t know watches, you would think it was just like dozens of others of the same general design, but it wasn’t. It was one of Hans Graven’s handmades.
Graven produced only four of these a year, every piece hand-tooled. The case was machined out of platinum, and any spot that had to endure friction within was jeweled with rubies. It was waterproof and self-winding. Ames had a little mechanical box at home that would gently rotate the watch every so often, if he couldn’t wear it for some reason, to keep it running.
The watch had a mineral crystal, the band was of select giraffe leather, and the movement was guaranteed to gain or lose no more than thirty seconds a year. It was also guaranteed for a hundred years against
Another toy, but it amused him that it cost so much and looked so simple. The nouveau riche could be ostentatious in displaying their wealth, but Townsend Ames had more class than that, even if he didn’t come from old money.
He stood and punched the button on his phone that automatically called the limo. He had to get moving. He had rounds to make at the hospital. None of his patients were about to die, of course. Ames was a family practitioner, after all. When his patients got real sick, he sent them to specialists.
After his rounds, he would head directly to his law offices. Being a doctor/lawyer did tend to keep a man busy. He could have slowed down, of course, but it was all about winning, and Ames was that: a winner.
He intended to prove that yet again in that little matter of the lawsuit regarding the Caribbean gambling ship. His associates should have that ready to file this afternoon. Ames needed to go over everything and make sure it was all in order. After that, he had scheduled a meeting with that Washington lobbyist for a drink around five, what was her name? Skye?
A busy day on the schedule. He glanced down at the gun again and grinned. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hey, Boss.”
Michaels looked up and saw Jay Gridley leaning against his office doorway. Yesterday’s trip to New York was still on his mind. The FBI director had essentially offered Net Force’s services to the Home Security folks on some new net-terrorism threat they had uncovered. Michaels wasn’t very happy about it. Net Force didn’t need another pair of eyes looking over their shoulder. Besides, Home Security wasn’t known for its subtlety. Michaels believed that they had a legitimate and vital mission, and he both respected and appreciated the job they had to do. Still, they had stepped over the line a few times in places where even he wouldn’t have gone.
Civil liberties tended to get trampled in times of national emergencies. Michaels knew that you had to err on the side of safety when it came to American lives, of course, but he also knew that the nature of any bureaucracy was to perpetuate itself, and the term “national security” could be stretched to cover an awful lot of activities.
“Hey, Jay. What’s up?”
“Not much new. I got a little follow-up on that thing I sent you.”
“We are talking about CyberNation, here, aren’t we?”
“I’m pretty sure we are,” Jay said, standing up straighter and taking a step inside Alex’s office. “They are dancing their usual twisty dance to distract anybody watching, but yeah, I’d bet on it.”
Michaels shook his head. The CyberNation problem had been a nasty one, and in the end had involved a shoot-out on a gambling ship in the Caribbean. Worse, it had put Toni at risk, something he still regretted, even though she hadn’t been hurt.
Unfortunately, Net Force had only gotten a few of the players when all was said and done. Not surprisingly, those arrested had been disavowed by the rest of organization as rogues and traitors. CyberNation itself was still out there, a great, big, ugly can of worms. And it looked as if the organization was about to score a major victory, too.
What they couldn’t do with terrorism, the director had told him only yesterday, they might be able to do with the ballot box. The latest round of bills to recognize the virtual nation, as they liked to call it, were being pushed hard, and actually had a chance of getting passed.
The idea just wouldn’t go away.
“What have you got?” Alex asked.
“Well, I’m sure they are funneling money to places where it ought not to be going. I haven’t been able to nail it down yet, but I will.”
“Keep on it. Let me know.”
“Sure, Boss.”
“What about the other thing? The virus?”
“Still running it down. Nothing yet, but it doesn’t look like much of a threat.”
The intercom chirped. “Alex, the director is on line one.”
Michaels nodded at Jay and picked up the receiver.
“Yes, ma’am?” he said.
Melissa Allison, the first woman director of the FBI, had been a pretty good boss. Mostly, she left Net Force alone, and mostly, she backed them up when they got into deep waters. And since she knew where a lot of political bodies were buried, she had good clout. It could be a lot worse.
“Alex, I just heard from Legal that a five-hundred-million-dollar wrongful death lawsuit has been filed against Net Force as a whole, as well as General John Howard and you in particular, on the behalf of the families of Richard A. Dunlop, Kyle J. Herrington, and S. Jackson Britton.”
“Who?” Alex asked. “Those names don’t ring any bells. And we haven’t killed anybody recently that I know of.”
“They were CyberNation employees who died during the assault on the gambling ship
Alex shook his head. CyberNation again.
“If I recall correctly, Madam Director, these men were firing weapons at Net Force operatives and only shot in perfectly justifiable self-defense. And the international maritime court that covers such things on the high seas found that to be the case.”
“That doesn’t matter in a tort action, Commander. This is civil, not criminal. If you sell somebody a cup of hot coffee and they turn around and spill it on their lap, they can sue you and win millions. People who have broken into houses for the purpose of burglary have sued the homeowners because they tripped on the rug while hauling the television set out. What’s more, they have actually won damages. We live in a litigious society.”
Unbelievable. “Swell,” he said.
She ignored his sarcasm. “You’ll be getting a call from Net Force legal council Thomas Bender, who’ll be coordinating the defense with FBI Legal and DOJ. You are, of course, covered under the governmental umbrella, but
