Net Force Part 14

Thursday, September 30th, 8:01 a.m. Grozny "You have another call, Dr. Plekhanov," Sasha shouted from the outer office. The intercom still operated only sporadically, but that hardly mattered now. "Mr. Sikes, from Bombay Munic.i.p.al Systems."

Plekhanov smiled. The phone had certainly been busy the last couple of days. Exactly as he'd expected it would be.

The plantings were beginning to bear fruit. After the computer foul-ups had killed hundreds of people in Bombay, those in charge would have called Bertrand, the second-rate programmer who had installed their security system. And while even Bertrand was skilled enough to see what had been done, he would be unable to offer a guarantee that he could stop it from being done again. So they had called Plekhanov--whom they should have called originally--and why, yes, he could most a.s.suredly guarantee them that no such security breach would happen if he he installed a new protective system. Of course he could make that a.s.surance: There were only a handful of programmers expert enough to slip his wards, only one who would bother, and that one's interests-- installed a new protective system. Of course he could make that a.s.surance: There were only a handful of programmers expert enough to slip his wards, only one who would bother, and that one's interests--his interests--would best be served if the system stayed unbreached. interests--would best be served if the system stayed unbreached.

Given how people worried over such incidences, it would take only one or two more a.s.saults on the stoplights and buses of big cities before most--if not all of them--came running to Plekhanov for his help. So by the time the movers and shakers of the munic.i.p.al transportation systems for all of Asia's major cities met for their annual get-together later this year in Guangzhou, China, most of them would be in Plekhanov's camp. He would, after all, do excellent work for them, at better than reasonable prices. They would all owe him. They would all want to keep him happy, so as to avoid suffering fates similar to those unlucky enough to be the victims of what had to be terrorists. Who would bother to rascal a transportation computer save a terrorist? Where was the profit?

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Vladimir? Bill Sikes, Bombay Transport."

"Ah, Bill, how are you?"

"Not so good. You heard about our problem?"

"Yes, I am afraid so. A terrible thing. I am so sorry."

"Yes, well, that milk is spilt, but we don't want to lose any more. Can you help us out?"

"But of course, Bill. Of course I'll help."

"Another call!" Sasha yelled from her desk. "From Korea!"

Plekhanov leaned back in his chair. His smile was truly a happy one.

Thursday, September 30th, 8:15 a.m. Washington, D.C.

Tyrone Howard met his friend Jimmy Joe in the strip club called Big b.o.o.bs. It was off-limits to boys their age, and neither of them were within years of being old enough to be there, but they wore adult personas and had enough skill to pa.s.s a casual scan. Slipping into an R-rated VR room in a public newsforum was something anybody with half a brain could do. All you could see was naked women here; the x.x.x-rooms were harder to sneak into, and besides, Tyrone didn't want to risk that. His parents would flay him if they found out, and since his dad worked with a player like Jay Gee, he could find out if he wanted.

"So, Jimmy Joe, you scan anything?"

"No mucho, spiderboy. Lotta strand-poppin' on the FEN, though."

Tyrone nodded. Far East Net had been DFB--data flowin' bad--the last few days. He'd seen that himself. The mad programmer was kicking serious a.s.s there.

On the stage in front of a flashing light show and a driving ba.s.s beat, a tall blue-eyed brunette showed the audience that her hair color was natural. Boom, bop-a boom! Boom, bop-a boom! He stared. She smiled at him, not knowing that his appearance was a fake. Of course, He stared. She smiled at him, not knowing that his appearance was a fake. Of course, her her appearance could be fake, too. She might be a sixty-year-old fat man. appearance could be fake, too. She might be a sixty-year-old fat man.

If you were hunting for truth, VR wasn't the best place to look for it.

"I'm gonna hit the OHTs and see if there's any feedback," Jimmy Joe said. "You just know some wirehead with a strainer program and no life is catching minnows. Maybe one of them can lead us to the big fish."

"Scan and download that," Tyrone said. The brunette stripper had left the stage. A new one came out. Well, well, look at that: Belladonna Wright herself. This was Jimmy Joe's doing, the override and image-craft such that the new woman wore Bella's face and body. No way would Tyrone risk that, even in VR. If Bonebreaker found out, that would be . . . bad.

"I'm gonna ride," Tyrone said.

Jimmy Joe grinned real big. He made the sound of a chicken clucking: "Buck-buck-buck-buuucckk!"

"You right about that. I'm not ready to spend six weeks regenerating bone tissue, monkey-boy. Especially for an overlay that even isn't real."

"Your loss," Jimmy Joe said. "Who is gonna know?"

"Only takes two words in Bonebreaker's ear and you're pretzel-boy."

Jimmy Joe shrugged. "Better to burn it than bank it." He turned to watch the ersatz Bella shuck her costume.

"Me, I'm ridin'," Tyrone said. But he sneaked a quick look as he headed for the door.

Maybe he'd take a pa.s.s at CyberNation, see what was up there.

Thursday, September 30th, 8:20 a.m. Quantico Parked in the Viper across the street, Jay Gridley watched Tyrone Howard leave the strip joint. The boy didn't see him. He smiled. The colonel had asked him to check up on his son from time to time, and Gridley didn't mind doing so, but he wouldn't mention this. Teenage boys were curious, and a VR stripper was a lot less dangerous than some of the stuff a kid could get himself involved with, on- or off-line. If a teenage boy wasn't wasn't interested in looking at a naked woman, that would be the time for his father to get worried. interested in looking at a naked woman, that would be the time for his father to get worried.

No harm, no foul.

Tyrone mounted his Harley and roared away.

Gridley watched him leave before he started the Viper's motor. He had plenty of other stuff to worry about.

Thursday, September 30th, 11:55 a.m. Quantico Toni Fiorella stretched in the gym, warming up her knees. She looked up and saw Rusty enter. He waved at her. He was already dressed to work out.

He was a pretty good student. Very flexible, if a bit too much addicted to speed and power, neither of which were necessary in bukti negara bukti negara. If he got to the serak, serak, he could use that, but that was years away, if he stuck to it. So far, at least, he had shown up for every practice, and his moves indicated he'd been practicing on his own. He was still a little leery of working close, he kept wanting to distance himself too much for the proper working of the techniques, but that would level out with time. he could use that, but that was years away, if he stuck to it. So far, at least, he had shown up for every practice, and his moves indicated he'd been practicing on his own. He was still a little leery of working close, he kept wanting to distance himself too much for the proper working of the techniques, but that would level out with time.

"Hey, Guru."

"Rusty. Let's get started."

He nodded. He stood with his feet apart, his hands by his side, palms forward, fingers pointed at the ground.

Unlike some of the traditional j.a.panese styles, there were only a handful of Indonesian terms you had to know to practice her version of silat silat; one was the word for "on guard." "Jagah," "Jagah," she said. she said.

She mirrored Rusty's pose. Her guru was right. Teaching helped sharpen your own skills. You had to think about things, get them right in your own head, before you pa.s.sed them along. The ceremonial bow, something she had been doing for years, was a good example. For her, it was automatic, one long and smooth piece, but for a beginner, it was a series of small moves, and each move had a meaning: I present myself before the Creator in the beginning-- The left foot came in, next to and slightly in front of the right foot, knees bent, hands moved to the left side, by the hip, palms down, left over right.

I present myself to the best of my ability in the knowledge of the Art-- The hands came up and out together as in supplication, palms up, almost as if holding a book. The right hand folded into a fist, the left hand wrapped around the right, both came back toward the chest.

I ask to receive from the Creator all those things which I do not see-- Another book-reading move, open hands coming back to cover the eyes.

--to engrave upon my heart-- The hands pressed together in namaste, namaste, the cla.s.sic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart. the cla.s.sic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart.

--until the end.

And the final move, a repeat of the second, the palm-down block by the left hip.

"Do your djuru, djuru, please," she said. please," she said.

Rusty nodded, and began Djuru One Djuru One.

It was the simplest of the dances, but from it, everything more complex arose. A metaphor for life, she had come to realize.

Thursday, September 30th, 12:30 p.m. Quantico The Selkie bought a c.o.ke, sweet-and-sour chicken, and sticky rice from the Chinese place the target sometimes rode his trike to for lunch. It was a warm day, a little breeze keeping the humidity bearable, and she sat at one of the small white wrought-iron tables just outside the restaurant. She wore a baggy gray T-shirt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sungla.s.ses. The wig she affected was brunette, and even with most of it stuffed under the cap, was enough to add to her changed appearance so that she didn't look much like anybody the target had ever seen.

There he came on the raked three-wheeler, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck reflecting the hazy sunshine.

She opened the cardboard containers and dumped the chicken and rice together onto a paper plate. She stirred the combination with the split-apart-throw-away chopsticks, allowed the sauce to soak into the rice. There were a dozen other diners outside enjoying their lunches and the day, and she did not make eye contact with any of them, or the target.

The target parked the trike, pulled his gloves and helmet off and hung them on the handlebar, then walked into the restaurant. His legs were tight, pumped from the ride. The spandex shorts hid little an interested viewer might want to look at. And it was interesting. She was not a nun, though she put s.e.x aside when she was working. Mora Sullivan could roll and break beds if she felt like it; the Selkie could not afford the risk.

It had not always been that way. Once, early in her career, she had picked up a target in a bar. He'd been a good-looking man, and she'd gone with him to his hotel and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter.

When he fell into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she had taken a silenced .22 pistol from her purse and shot him twice in the back of the head.

He'd never known what hit him, and at the time, she'd felt pleased with herself. She had made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to do so than making love to a pa.s.sionate woman, falling asleep, and never waking up.

It had been foolish, what she had done. She had left hair and fluids at the murder scene, had been seen by hotel staff, even though she had been in disguise. Nothing had come of it--it was years past, the file long since buried--but it had been stupid. Another time, another place, and the target here might be fun to romp around with, but she was not willing to risk capture to be sentimental.

She ate the chicken. She'd had better. Had worse, too.

Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.

The Selkie smiled.

Friday, October 1st, 7 a.m. Kiev Kiev had several decent restaurants, but the breakfast was catered in a private suite at the new Hilton hotel, not far from the banks of the beautiful Dnieper, in a site formerly occupied by a theater and row of shops. Unlike a public restaurant, such a suite could be--and had been--swept for electronic listening devices. The sixth-floor windows could be--and were--rigged with simple vibrators that would defeat a hidden laser reader aimed at them from half a block away. The food servers had been dismissed, the doors locked, the secrets thus kept among the players. Not that anybody would likely be spying upon them. n.o.body outside this room had a real clue as to what was going on inside it. But one erred on the side of caution, always.

Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quant.i.ties, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.

They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldn't have expected coffee this good in such a place.

"You all have your new transfer numbers?" Plekhanov asked.

There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.

"Yes," they said simultaneously.

Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inconsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.

Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.

Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once they'd been. . . .

"Comrade Plekhanov?" the woman said.

"Yes?" This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called "comrade" in a long time--not in the way she meant the word.

"There has been some . . . difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are pa.s.sed."

"Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool." That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. He'd retired as a major before going into politics.

"You are also also a Cossack, Yemelyan." Khomyakov said. a Cossack, Yemelyan." Khomyakov said.

"That is how I know," Razin said. "Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged." is how I know," Razin said. "Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged."

Plekhanov looked at the woman. "Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an . . . accident, Ludmilla?"

She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. "He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary."

"Death is final," Razin said.

"Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful." it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful."

"And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him."

The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.

"Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet?" Khomyakov said.

Razin snorted.

Plekhanov raised an eyebrow at her.

"Bulavin is fond of both liquor and women," Khomyakov said. "He has been discreet, careful to keep his activities in these areas confined to those which would not irritate his union members if they found out. Not too much drinking in public, the occasional fling with a secretary. Men are men, and not bothered by such things. Perhaps we could supply him a woman willing to . . . doctor his liquor and engage in activities his members--and his wife--would find less than . . . tasteful? There are many possibilities along these lines. And our woman would, of course, have an excellent holographic camera."

Razin said, "Pah! You would put him in bed with a boy? A sheep? This is a woman's answer to everything! If it moves, screw it!"

"Better, perhaps, than a man's answer--if it moves, kill it," she said. She smiled.

Plekhanov liked both her response and her solution. Brutes could be found anywhere; subtlety was more of a prize. A live enemy in your pocket was sometimes better than a dead one in the ground. Sometimes.

Well, at least he knew who the new President of Ukraine was going to be.

Thursday, September 30th, 11 p.m. Washington, D.C.

"I bet you've never seen anybody get killed, have you, Scout?"

The little dog wagged his tail, momentarily diverted from his sniffing and peeing. When it didn't seem as if the comment would lead to a command, he resumed his work.

In her old-woman disguise, the Selkie moved toward the target's condo. She had decided to do it tonight. The target was still awake, a bit late for him, but his reading light was on, and it was going to be simple, clean, in and out. By the time anybody knew he was dead, she would be home and Phyllis Markham would have vanished forever.