recover the information if we retrieve the drive.”
“Then let’s do that. Have Lia explain what is going on,” said Rubens. “But only as much as is absolutely necessary.”
“They’ll probably ask for a subpoena.”
“Of course.”
Rubens nodded to Jackson as Telach left the room. Jackson continued updating the others.
“Tolong is the obvious suspect,” Jackson said. “He and the other Marine on the patrol. He was immediately suspected. But then he goes on patrol and dies. So if I were to suspect someone, it would be Gordon. Anyone could have found the money if Tolong had kept it among his personal things. We have to check the unit where he was, and any other unit that could have come in contact with him.” Most of the analysts were actually computer scientists or cryptologists, but if someone had walked in off the street he would probably have thought he had stumbled into an artists’ convention. There were tie-died sixties-style T-shirts, torn jeans, a leather-fringe jacket, and what appeared to Rubens to be a full baseball uniform. Body piercings made dealing with the security protocols a major daily hassle, so aside from a few earrings — on the men, for the most part — there were none. Tattoos were also covered, though Rubens suspected there were a good variety under the shirts and other clothing.
Hairstyles were a different matter. Desk Three’s best cryptologist, a young woman two years out of Princeton, sported a green Mohawk. The team’s resident weapons expert, a thirtysomething Marine sergeant on semi-permanent loan to the agency, had a shoulder-length ponytail.
“What about Gordon?” asked Angela DiGiacomo. “Maybe Tolong told him where the money was before he died.”
“Good point.” Jackson beamed at the young woman.
“There must have been one other person involved in the conspiracy,” said Rubens. “That person feels cheated somehow, and is now out for revenge.”
“Or wants all the money to himself,” said Jackson. “But if that’s our working theory, then we have to assume that Senator McSweeney was involved in the original theft. He’s the one who made the assignments. He controlled the initial investigation, at least from the Marines’ side. He’s got to be involved up to his neck.”
“Appearances
Everyone, including Rubens, turned to Johnny Bib, await-ing an explanation for his outburst. But none was forthcoming.
“Are you reminding us to keep an open mind?” Rubens asked. “Or have you thought of something specific?”
“Open mind.” Johnny Bib grinned, then leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs. “What if Forester and Gordon really did commit suicide? What if the assassin has nothing to do with the theft of money? Two equations — common algebra.”
“Mr. Bibleria is quite right,” said Rubens, glancing at Jackson. “It is possible that these things are not related, and that in fact we do not have all the information here.”
“We are missing critical information,” added Johnny Bib. “The addition of a variable may change our answer set entirely.”
Rubens listened as Johnny Bib divvied up new assignments, most of which involved searching records thirty and forty years old for possible clues and connections. The session over, the analysts filed out. They were a noisy bunch, talking and joking and in one or two cases even singing.
“Thank you for translating,” Jackson told Rubens.
“Yes. Mr. Bibleria occasionally gets carried away with his meta phors.”
Marie Telach was just coming down the hall as Rubens stepped out.
“Come with me to the Art Room,” she said. “You won’t believe what’s on Fox.”
104
The assault began with a rocket attack, quickly followed by an infiltration on an unguarded flank. Before the enemy realized it, their perimeter had been compromised and the guerillas were already streaking toward their objective.
It was a classic VC raid, except that the attackers were not Vietcong. And the rocket attack actually consisted of two flash-bang grenades detonated by remote control. They had the desired effect, however; the security officers rallied toward the explosion, guns drawn.
Charlie Dean followed Karr as he leapt over the four-foot wall around the compound and ran toward the small building identified as a power shed by the Art Room, which was watching them via an infrared camera in the small “Crow” unmanned aerial vehicle they had launched twenty minutes before. The shotgun Dean had in his hands seemed to gain weight with each step until it felt like a howitzer. Dean threw himself against the side of the building, breathing harder than he thought he should be.
Karr was already kneeling next to him, attaching a block of plastic explosive to the conduit where the power line came out of the building. Dean checked the gear in his tactical vest, patting himself down to make sure he hadn’t lost anything important in the dash. Two canisters of shotgun shells packed with disabling pellets and gas were tucked into each of the large front pockets; exchanging them with a blank magazine in the gun took about three seconds. The gun was based on a Pancor Jackhammer and looked like a cross between a cut-down Franchi SPAS-12 and an old-fashioned tommy gun. Its ammunition was designed to be nonfatal and meant for close- quarters combat; Dean had a Colt automatic in his belt as a backup weapon.
Karr had an MP5 machine gun. Like Dean’s pistol, they’d only use it if things got hairy.
Dean readjusted his night glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose and tightening the clasp on the strap at the back of his head. Though they looked like oversized sun-glasses, they were more powerful than the Gen 3 night mon-ocles used by the American Army. Then he pulled on the respirator, so any stray tear gas wouldn’t disable him.
“Ready?” Karr asked, standing. The microphone in Karr’s mask gave his voice a hollow sound.
“Ready,” said Dean.
“We see two guards standing at the front of the building,” said Rockman. “That leaves three unaccounted for, somewhere inside.”
“Pot luck,” said Karr. “You got point, Charlie.” Dean pushed off from the shack and ran toward the back corner of the police building, about thirty yards away. Once again he threw himself against the wall, pushing the nose of his gun level as he triple-checked his position. He was between the corner of the building and one of the large windows on the first floor.
Karr slid in on the other side of the window. He already had two flash-bang grenades in his hands.
“Ten seconds,” said Karr. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Rockman?”
“Same as before.”
Dean leaned toward the end of the building, then peeked around the corner. A basement entrance sat six feet away.
“Five seconds,” said Karr. “Four, three, two—” Dean stood back upright. As Karr said, “One,” Dean swung the metal butt of the shotgun up toward the glass.
The sound of the glass shattering was drowned out by the explosion of the power shack.
“Clear,” said Karr, glancing in the window. “Go!” Dean grabbed the ledge of the window and jumped into the room. He stumbled as he landed, falling to his left. He rolled through the shards of broken glass, crushing it into tiny pieces with his shoulder, before jumping back to his feet. Huffing again, he raced to the open door of the room, reaching it a few seconds after Karr.
“Clear,” said Karr, and they ran into the hallway.
Using infrared images from the Crow, the Art Room had pinpointed a room on the first floor where they thought Qui was being held. Karr sent his foot crashing against the door.
The thin jamb gave way instantly. Karr tossed one of his grenades inside. As the room erupted with a flash, Dean followed inside.
