Changing of the Guard

feature that would give its longitude and latitude to him to within a twenty-foot radius, anywhere in the world.

He wasn’t using that setting now. Since the mishap on the highway, and his mistake, Natadze had decided to go back to the basics. The fewer machines the better. Had the feds found the bug, they might decide to check and see if anyone beamed a signal to it, and then backtrack it to the originating transmitter. Such a thing was possible, if they were alert and ready.

So he was operating passively, relying on the sensitivity of his receiver to indicate if it were near. Since he wasn’t sending anything out, he couldn’t be caught — at least not that way.

He’d found the impound yard, and had driven there. If the target’s car suddenly started moving, he wasn’t going to follow it where any watch might take note of him.

There were two possibilities, and he was prepared for either. The first was that he’d get a strong signal from the bug, indicating that it was still in the impound yard. If that were the case, he would go to the entrance and present a different set of credentials, showing him to be an insurance adjustor. A car of similar make and color to his target’s had recently been involved in a hit-and-run accident. No one had been hurt, but the car had been impounded, and a follow-up visit from a claims adjustor who had forgotten to take a measurement wouldn’t be out-of-line.

He had caused this to happen, and that automobile was in this yard somewhere.

He would remove the device while he took the measurements, and all would be as it should have been. And if he were questioned about getting the wrong car, it would be easy to believe a mistake: Darkness was drawing near, he had only seen the car once, and it had been a busy day. He knew that most people were so sloppy that they believed in the possibility of infinite mistakes. His story would hold under all but the most rigorous scrutiny, and if it came to that, he would simply not allow himself to be taken.

This was not only about survival, but being professional, clearing up all the loose threads.

The other possibility he had to consider was that the Net Force operative’s auto had been taken elsewhere, perhaps to an FBI lab. This would mean they’d found the bug, or were shortly going to do so — they were thorough about such things, he knew. No harm done: The car he’d staged would be left here in this lot, he would drive on and write it off. He had been careful to wear a disguise when he’d purchased the device, during a busy time of day. There would be no way to trace him.

He was good, but going after the car inside a Federal facility, with their suspicions alerted, would not do.

He tapped the switch, listened. There was a faint chirp from the MP3 player, and a tiny lower response, like an echo. But the sound was weak; even without looking at the signal-strength meter, Natadze knew the bug was not here.

Too bad, but it was done, and beyond his control. He had to assume that the FBI was trying to track the bug, see what it could collect. He touched the player’s controls, returning the device to its ostensible use. He tapped PLAY, and the tiny FM transmitter inside beamed a digital recording into his radio, that of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee,” arranged for guitar and piano.

He had another piece of business to attend to — checking on the target. Since Jay had seen him, and there was always the chance of being identified, however small, he had to consider permanent removal as an option. It wasn’t what he would like, but given the choice between killing Jay now or allowing him to live and ending up in jail, he would choose the former.

If it comes down to you or me, my friend, it must be you.

In his mission preplanning, he’d studied the area he used for the attack: He knew where the police stations were, estimated response times, and also where the hospitals were.

He’d considered the latter in case the target had hurt him, but knowledge was knowledge. The nearest major hospital off the Beltway at that point was Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The center didn’t serve civilians such as himself, so he’d needed to locate a second hospital.

Jay, not being technically a civilian, had wound up in Walter Reed. Having his target in a facility full of military personnel could made things more difficult, so he wanted to take a look.

He pulled onto I-495 and headed for town.

Natadze took Exit 318, Georgia Avenue South, and rolled down the street. It wasn’t far to the hospital.

The medical center was huge, and set well back from the road, looking like some kind of giant bunker. The war on terror, begun years before, had resulted in several pill-boxes that were thinly disguised as welcome areas.

It was not a sight to inspire confidence.

He could pass as military and could probably get in, but if an alarm were raised, getting out would be difficult at best.

Taking the target would require either a massive strike on the building with a great deal of collateral damage, beyond his ability to accomplish alone, or a carefully researched and planned strike through multiple levels of security.

He didn’t like either idea. If they had found the bug, they already knew the attack was not a case of road rage, and would be wondering why Jay had been targeted. Very likely, there would be armed guards, and success in an assassination at the cost of his own life was more than he was willing to pay.

He would have to come up with another way.

He shook his head as he listened to the music. Vynograd, the Russian chasing the bumblebee, had fast hands, no question. Two hundred forty beats per minute at the peak, and on an eight-string, no less, using his chin to fret the bass notes, that was something to see. Even though you needed at least a piano for the accompaniment, the guitar part was a very nasty test of hand speed. It was a showpiece, of course, something you would play for a jury, and, naturally, a lay audience would love it. Classical guitar competitions were always full of such things — there would be a fugue by Brouwer, or one of Nikita Koshkin’s pieces, “Rain,” for instance. While technically demanding and impressive for that, such pieces were not as impressive to another competent player as, say, a careful rendition of the “Concierto Aranjuez,” by Rodrigo. This was played in concerts perhaps more frequently than any other classical work around the world, save maybe for “Romanza,” and against an orchestra, but it offered places where a player could make things more interesting or less, depending on his skill. The first part ran just over six minutes, the second eleven and a half minutes, and the third part a little more than five minutes. Natadze could manage this work, but not as well as he would like — and he figured when he could play it as well as Romero or Fernandez or Bream, then he would be in good company indeed.

Yes, and if he could flap his arms hard enough, perhaps he could fly like a bumblebee.

He sighed. It was easier to think about the guitar than his job at the moment. But now it was time to get back to work.

16

Net Force HQ

Quantico, Virginia

It was getting late, well past quitting time, and Thorn was ready to head home, when he looked up to see Marissa Lowe standing in the doorway of his office.

“I should have called,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear about Gridley,” Marissa said.

Thorn waved her in. She plopped onto the couch.

“Yeah,” he said. “The doctors say they don’t know when he’ll come out of it. Or if he will. He has an old trauma — apparently he got his brain zapped a while back, had an induced stroke — and there’s a worry that the previous injury might somehow be causing problems.” He noticed a slight hint of musk in the air — her perfume?

“You trace the bug?”

“FBI knows where it came from — it’s a commercial unit, nothing real esoteric, sold retail in New York three months ago — but no record of who bought it. A cash sale, and no security cam in the store — which, of course, is a selling point with their customers. Could be anybody.”