Changing of the Guard

a famous Spanish guitarist who died a hundred years ago. The address is also bogus, but he does have an active mailbox at a Mail Store in the District where the bank sends his statements. We can get a team of feebs to watch the place. When he goes to fetch his mail, we’ve got him.”

“Great work, Jay,” Howard said.

“But wait, it gets better. I also sent copies of the picture to classical guitarists and instrument makers and sellers and all like that, once I was sure he wasn’t one of them. I’ve got half a dozen people who recognize the guy, and we have a first name — Edward. We also know he probably is foreign-born. Our witnesses say he has an accent. He sounds like a Russian, Ukranian, something like that. Nobody claims to know the guy well; they do say he seems to know guitars and can talk the talk. One shop owner in New York City says from what this guy has told him, he owns at least a few fairly expensive custom-made instruments.”

At home, but also there, Jay grinned and relaxed. He felt a little better about this, but he’d feel better still once the guy was in custody.

Or on a slab.

“Welcome back, man,” Julio said.

“Thanks,” Jay said. “It’s good to be back.”

Or anywhere, for that matter.

26

Net Force HQ

Quantico, Virginia

Thorn stripped off the VR gear and smiled, very much pleased with himself. Jay had come up with the guy’s name, but Thorn had just discovered where he lived!

He reached for the com, to call Jay at home. Jay had a personal stake in this.

Jay’s face appeared on the computer’s screen. “Hey, Boss. What’s up?”

“We got his house, Jay.”

“We did? How?”

Thorn smiled. Spoken like a true information hound — the “how” was as important as the fact it was done.

“From your info. One of the interviewees, a music store owner, said our man claimed to own some expensive handmade instruments. Said he was passionate about them, prized them highly, and knew enough particulars so that the store owner was sure he was telling the truth. The guy loves fine guitars.”

“And?”

“So, I did an on-line survey of American luthiers who produce classical guitars costing more than a couple thousand dollars, and asked if any of them had shipped one to somebody with the first name ‘Edward’ in the New York or Washington, D.C., area in the last few months. I got three hits. On one of them, from a luthier in Portland, Oregon, the spelling was different — it was E-D-U-A-R-D. I checked with the carriers the guitar-makers used, ran down the three addresses. Two of them checked out to be people who couldn’t be our man. The third one, the “u” spelling, that’s our guy — I talked to the truck driver who delivers air freight to the house. He’s trucked several guitars there in the past year. It’s him.”

“Cool,” Jay said. “But I should have thought of that.”

“You were just out of a coma from being shot in the head, Jay. Cut yourself a little slack getting back up to steam.”

“Yeah, I guess.” But it didn’t sound as if he meant it.

“Anyway, we have a home address, and a last name to go with Eduard — Natadze.”

“ ‘Not-see?’ What kind of a name is that?”

“Na-tad-ze. He’s from Georgia.”

“A Russian from Georgia?”

“No, Georgia the country. A web search shows the name is Georgian. They have their own language, but a lot of them speak Russian, given as how it used to be part of the Soviet Union.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Jay said. “You sicced the feebs on him yet?”

“Not yet. I’ve run down ownership of the house, and it’s a circle of holding companies and paper-only corporations, no way to connect to him. I was thinking maybe the fewer people who know about this, the better — that maybe we should check it out further to be sure we’re not mistaken, before we call in the regular FBI.”

There was a pause. “You’re turning Howard and Kent loose.” It wasn’t a question.

“Technically, I’m not supposed to do that,” Thorn said. “But maybe it wouldn’t hurt if somebody from Net Force did a recon and checked the situation out. Kind of a… training exercise.”

Another pause. “And if they happened to spot this guy walking out his front door, they might feel compelled to detain him and then call the FBI field guys.”

“That would seem a reasonable decision. To make sure he didn’t escape.”

Jay grinned. “You are going to fit in just fine around here, boss.” A pause, then: “Listen, I’m not a field guy myself, but do you suppose I might ride along, as an observer?”

“I’m sure General Howard and Colonel Kent wouldn’t have any objection to that. If your doctors think you are up to it.”

“They do, no question. Thanks, boss. Good work.”

“You’re welcome, Jay.”

When he discommed, Thorn smiled again. It felt pretty good to be the guy who came up with the missing piece of the puzzle. And to be the boss, too? How much better did it get than that?

He reached for the VR headset again. He hadn’t done more than a cursory look at this Natadze guy, enough to ascertain that he was their suspect. Now, he’d do a little more digging and see what else he could find.

Washington, D.C.

Natadze shook the delivery man’s hand again, and this time, he pressed a wad of folded bills into the man’s palm, ten hundreds. “Thank you, Esteban, I appreciate it.”

The man accepted the money without looking at it. “Yeah, well, you always done right by me, Mr. Natadze. This guy asked about guitars, and I told him, without thinking, you know? Lo siento. Least I could do was tell you. I hope it’s not nothing serious.”

“Let me be honest with you, Esteban, it’s a visa thing. Some papers I was supposed to fill out are… a little late.”

The delivery man, Hispanic and probably still working off a green card himself, nodded, his face grim. “I hear you.”

It was the perfect thing to say, as Natadze had known it would be. Now, in that moment, they were brothers, dodging La Migra, or whatever they were calling it these days. Just honest, hard-working men being hounded by the uncaring bureaucratic machine over some niggling technical detail, some obscure letter of the law designed to keep a good man from getting ahead. Esteban knew all about that.

“What will you do?”

“I’ll turn in the papers and pray for the best.”

“I know a guy who knows a good lawyer,” Esteban said.

“Thanks, my friend, I appreciate it. My uncle is an attorney; I’m sure he’ll know how to handle it.”

After the man left, the sense of panic Natadze felt threatened to roil up in his throat and choke him. Esteban felt bad, and that and the thousand dollars would probably keep the authorities from getting anything else out of him for a little while, but that was closing the gate after the horse had gotten out.

He forced himself to stand still and take three deep breaths, slowly, inhaling and exhaling through his nose. Blind panic would be fatal.

He felt only a little better as he headed for the back door. He would slip out, go over the fence into his neighbor’s yard — the one without the dog — and leave the area on foot. It didn’t seem likely they would have allowed the delivery man to pull right up to his door if they were out there now, watching, but he couldn’t take the