Night Moves (17 page)
Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Thriller, #Action & Adventure, #Modern fiction, #Adventure, #Terrorists, #Internet
was that.
Ah, well. Water under the bridge. That was when he had been a major in good standing, serving king and country. Now, he catered to another master, one who understood the reality of things, and he was already rich as a result. Not a bad trade, all in all. The target emerged from the pub in a cloud of alcohol-fueled noise and good cheer. BE wanted him bent but not broken, just enough to put him out of active service for a few days, after which it wouldn't matter.
It ought not to be too difficult to manage one old college professor. "Here we go, boys. Move sharp--and be careful." The target, a rotund man of sixty in a twenty-year-old tweed suit and matching Irish rain hat, sported a mostly white beard and carried a furled umbrella. "Right, Major," Lewis said, grinning. He was the leader of the attack team. "Here's a fierce old beaky.
We'll keep our heads in."
Huard and Doolittle laughed. They exited the car. The plan was for them to amble to the professor and, once close enough, jump him. A few good thumps and they'd be away, taking his wallet. The police would see it as no more than another sad example of youth gone bad and tell the professor he was lucky to get off as easy as he did. They'd look for the trio of skinheads, but since those three wouldn't exist in an hour, their disguises burned and gone, it would be a fruitless search. A pickup vehicle waited around the corner for Peel's men, a stolen lorry with the license plates switched with those of a van parked at a nearby cinema. A simple operation, and untraceable.
The major cranked the Dodge Ram's engine to depart, which he intended to do as soon as he was sure the assault was proceeding as planned.
The three skinhead slackabouts, laughing and talking too loudly, moved to intersect the professor's path. Lewis held an unlit cigarette, and he was first to reach the target. He waved the cigarette and said something to the older man. Too far away for Peel to hear, but he knew the gist: "Allo, Gramps, gottuh match, have ye?"
Huard and Doolittle drifted out to the sides, to encircle the old man. Peel put the truck in gear to drive off. It was going by the numbers, one, two, three-Then, of a moment, the operation leaped past three to seventeen: The professor lunged like bloody Zorro, jabbed at Lewis with the tip of the umbrella, and caught him a hard stab in the solar plexus. The team leader lost his cigarette prop and his wind as he backed off and clutched at his belly. The professor twisted to his left, swung the umbrella like an ax, and whacked Huard across the face.
Ah, well. Water under the bridge. That was when he had been a major in good standing, serving king and country. Now, he catered to another master, one who understood the reality of things, and he was already rich as a result. Not a bad trade, all in all. The target emerged from the pub in a cloud of alcohol-fueled noise and good cheer. BE wanted him bent but not broken, just enough to put him out of active service for a few days, after which it wouldn't matter.
It ought not to be too difficult to manage one old college professor. "Here we go, boys. Move sharp--and be careful." The target, a rotund man of sixty in a twenty-year-old tweed suit and matching Irish rain hat, sported a mostly white beard and carried a furled umbrella. "Right, Major," Lewis said, grinning. He was the leader of the attack team. "Here's a fierce old beaky.
We'll keep our heads in."
Huard and Doolittle laughed. They exited the car. The plan was for them to amble to the professor and, once close enough, jump him. A few good thumps and they'd be away, taking his wallet. The police would see it as no more than another sad example of youth gone bad and tell the professor he was lucky to get off as easy as he did. They'd look for the trio of skinheads, but since those three wouldn't exist in an hour, their disguises burned and gone, it would be a fruitless search. A pickup vehicle waited around the corner for Peel's men, a stolen lorry with the license plates switched with those of a van parked at a nearby cinema. A simple operation, and untraceable.
The major cranked the Dodge Ram's engine to depart, which he intended to do as soon as he was sure the assault was proceeding as planned.
The three skinhead slackabouts, laughing and talking too loudly, moved to intersect the professor's path. Lewis held an unlit cigarette, and he was first to reach the target. He waved the cigarette and said something to the older man. Too far away for Peel to hear, but he knew the gist: "Allo, Gramps, gottuh match, have ye?"
Huard and Doolittle drifted out to the sides, to encircle the old man. Peel put the truck in gear to drive off. It was going by the numbers, one, two, three-Then, of a moment, the operation leaped past three to seventeen: The professor lunged like bloody Zorro, jabbed at Lewis with the tip of the umbrella, and caught him a hard stab in the solar plexus. The team leader lost his cigarette prop and his wind as he backed off and clutched at his belly. The professor twisted to his left, swung the umbrella like an ax, and whacked Huard across the face.
The shock and surprise drove him backward, too.
"Help!" the white-bearded old boy yelled in a voice to wake the dead. "Assassins! Help!"
Doolittle lunged and bounced a fist off the old man's shoulder, and the old fellow spun and slashed at him with the umbrella, missing only because the fake skinhead leaped back like he was bloody Nijinsky doing steps from bloody Swan Lake.
"Help! Help, I say!"
Several men rushed out of the pub and saw the goings-on. Wonderful. Bloody wonderful!
Lewis recovered, stepped in, dodged another rapier-like thrust from the umbrella, and managed to land a solid punch to the old man's nose. The professor stumbled and sat down hard on the sidewalk but did not release his hold on his weapon. He swung at Doolittle's legs, caught a shin with a whack Peel heard thirty meters away, and flailed his weapon back and forth, missing only because Doolittle did another quick little nancy-boy ballet step to get out of the way. What a bloody cock up!
The party was over. The three troops took to their heels as the growing mob from the pub rushed them. The boys were young and fit, didn't smoke, contrary to the faggot prop, and should be able to outrun a bunch of middle-aged men who'd had a pint or two. If they couldn't, they deserved what they got. Idiots.
Peel pulled away from the curb, made a turn, and glanced at the professor. Peel did not intend to relate exactly how the attack had gone, nor how it had slipped downhill. The old man probably had a broken nose, that should be enough--though it was likely he was less damaged than the three who had set upon him.
Peel watched in his rearview mirror as the first of the pub-goers reached the professor and helped him to his feet.
Hello all. Meet my friend. Corporal Disaster. Hell's bells! He'd warned the lads to take care, but they were young and too full of themselves to even consider that one old man was a threat of any kind. Didn't expect they'd be up against John bloody Steed and his samurai umbrella, now had they? Well. They'd know better next time. Embarrassing and painful lessons were the kind that etched themselves into one's memory.
Christ.
Friday, April 8thSomewhere in the British Raj, India lay Gridley stood there, machete in one hand, his revolver in the other. He hadn't even moved yet, and already he was dripping with sweat. The jungle lay
"Help!" the white-bearded old boy yelled in a voice to wake the dead. "Assassins! Help!"
Doolittle lunged and bounced a fist off the old man's shoulder, and the old fellow spun and slashed at him with the umbrella, missing only because the fake skinhead leaped back like he was bloody Nijinsky doing steps from bloody Swan Lake.
"Help! Help, I say!"
Several men rushed out of the pub and saw the goings-on. Wonderful. Bloody wonderful!
Lewis recovered, stepped in, dodged another rapier-like thrust from the umbrella, and managed to land a solid punch to the old man's nose. The professor stumbled and sat down hard on the sidewalk but did not release his hold on his weapon. He swung at Doolittle's legs, caught a shin with a whack Peel heard thirty meters away, and flailed his weapon back and forth, missing only because Doolittle did another quick little nancy-boy ballet step to get out of the way. What a bloody cock up!
The party was over. The three troops took to their heels as the growing mob from the pub rushed them. The boys were young and fit, didn't smoke, contrary to the faggot prop, and should be able to outrun a bunch of middle-aged men who'd had a pint or two. If they couldn't, they deserved what they got. Idiots.
Peel pulled away from the curb, made a turn, and glanced at the professor. Peel did not intend to relate exactly how the attack had gone, nor how it had slipped downhill. The old man probably had a broken nose, that should be enough--though it was likely he was less damaged than the three who had set upon him.
Peel watched in his rearview mirror as the first of the pub-goers reached the professor and helped him to his feet.
Hello all. Meet my friend. Corporal Disaster. Hell's bells! He'd warned the lads to take care, but they were young and too full of themselves to even consider that one old man was a threat of any kind. Didn't expect they'd be up against John bloody Steed and his samurai umbrella, now had they? Well. They'd know better next time. Embarrassing and painful lessons were the kind that etched themselves into one's memory.
Christ.
Friday, April 8thSomewhere in the British Raj, India lay Gridley stood there, machete in one hand, his revolver in the other. He hadn't even moved yet, and already he was dripping with sweat. The jungle lay
in front of him, leaves and vines woven into a thick wall of tangles, too verdant and altogether too alive.
His heart pounded, and he was breathing hard. It took everything he had just to hold the jungle image, and even so, it wavered at the edges, threatening to collapse at any second. It wasn't just the problem with concentration. Yeah, Saji's exercises had helped, the breath and meditation and all. And his grandfather had been a Buddhist, and he knew a bunch of them, so it wasn't that weird.
The big thing was. Jay was afraid. No, not just afraid, he was terrified. This was the jungle where the tiger had been, where it had leaped from cover and clawed him, ripped at his brain so he couldn't think. Maybe killing his ability to walk the web forever, and, if so, killing him, too. He didn't have to be here. Nobody was making him go back into the jungle. But if he couldn't play computers, he might as well be dead.
He took another breath. The little handgun wouldn't even slow the tiger down, he knew, but he couldn't work the machete and hold the big double rifle ready. If it came at him again, he would get hurt again, maybe worse than before.
He could get help. Saji was willing to come with him. He wouldn't carry a gun, because he wouldn't shoot even a VR creature, but he could offer moral support.
And there were other ops, some in Net Force, some not, who could link with Jay and share the scenario, some of whom would cheerfully tow a howitzer and who'd blast anything that moved. But that wasn't the way.
Jay couldn't spend the rest of his life asking for help. If he couldn't walk in the valley of the shadow alone, he couldn't do his job, and if he couldn't do the thing he loved most in the world, what was the point?
He took yet another breath and let it out slowly. He was going in. If it got him, then it got him, but he was going to go down swinging the big knife and pulling the Webley's trigger if he went, and to hell with it.
He raised the machete. The VR wall of vegetation rippled and wavered. The image started to fade. Crap!
He came back into himself in front of his home workstation, soaked with sour-smelling sweat, heart still thumping madly away.
He'd been ready. He had. He was willing to do it. Just not ready and willing enough to hold the scenario. He blew out a sigh. Okay. He'd go back, try it again. In a little while. When he'd had a chance to get his breath back, to rest a little. Really, he would go back.
His heart pounded, and he was breathing hard. It took everything he had just to hold the jungle image, and even so, it wavered at the edges, threatening to collapse at any second. It wasn't just the problem with concentration. Yeah, Saji's exercises had helped, the breath and meditation and all. And his grandfather had been a Buddhist, and he knew a bunch of them, so it wasn't that weird.
The big thing was. Jay was afraid. No, not just afraid, he was terrified. This was the jungle where the tiger had been, where it had leaped from cover and clawed him, ripped at his brain so he couldn't think. Maybe killing his ability to walk the web forever, and, if so, killing him, too. He didn't have to be here. Nobody was making him go back into the jungle. But if he couldn't play computers, he might as well be dead.
He took another breath. The little handgun wouldn't even slow the tiger down, he knew, but he couldn't work the machete and hold the big double rifle ready. If it came at him again, he would get hurt again, maybe worse than before.
He could get help. Saji was willing to come with him. He wouldn't carry a gun, because he wouldn't shoot even a VR creature, but he could offer moral support.
And there were other ops, some in Net Force, some not, who could link with Jay and share the scenario, some of whom would cheerfully tow a howitzer and who'd blast anything that moved. But that wasn't the way.
Jay couldn't spend the rest of his life asking for help. If he couldn't walk in the valley of the shadow alone, he couldn't do his job, and if he couldn't do the thing he loved most in the world, what was the point?
He took yet another breath and let it out slowly. He was going in. If it got him, then it got him, but he was going to go down swinging the big knife and pulling the Webley's trigger if he went, and to hell with it.
He raised the machete. The VR wall of vegetation rippled and wavered. The image started to fade. Crap!
He came back into himself in front of his home workstation, soaked with sour-smelling sweat, heart still thumping madly away.
He'd been ready. He had. He was willing to do it. Just not ready and willing enough to hold the scenario. He blew out a sigh. Okay. He'd go back, try it again. In a little while. When he'd had a chance to get his breath back, to rest a little. Really, he would go back.
Really.
Saturday, April 9thLondon, England Mikhayl Ruzhyo, now looking like just another tourist, walked toward the Imperial War Museum. The building, with its centered dome and pillared front, could have almost been an Italian church, had not the approach been guarded by a pair of fifteen-inch guns, taken, according to the sign nearby, from HMS Resolution and HMS Ramillies. Churches had been violent places through the centuries, but he had never heard of one protected by naval guns outside the front entrance.
To one side of the walkway, a tall concrete slab stood, a section of the Berlin Wall taken from near the Brandenburg Gate. He had been a teenager in 1989, when they had started taking the wall down, and the significance of it had been lost on him. What an American president had once called "the evil empire" had been much closer to home. He had known very little about the world outside his homeland in those days.
He had learned too much about the world since. The piece of the Berlin Wall had been painted to look like a giant cartoon face, done in blues and blacks, with its mouth stretched wide open. Against a dark red background in the mouth were the words "Change Your Life."
Easy for you to say.
Ruzhyo had been to London several times, usually on his way elsewhere, once on assignment to erase a wayward colleague, and he had seen a few of the tourist sights: Buckingham Palace, the Wellington Monument, Abbey Road. He and Anna had almost come to England on a holiday once, before she got sick, but something or other had prevented it. Since Anna had died, he hadn't done much tourist activity. Anna would not have enjoyed this place, but these days, war museums suited his tastes. Inside, the main gallery was full of old tanks and artillery pieces, with various airplanes hung from the ceiling.
He strolled past a Mark V tank, a 9.2-inch howitzer, a Jeep. Gray greens were the dominant colors. The most impressive display was of a giant V2 rocket, the side cut away to show the engine, such as it was.
The missile was huge, painted a dark green. It looked to him like a cartoon rocket ship, a pointed cigar with fins.
on the tail.
Ruzhyo stared at the V2. How frightening it must have been to civilians to see this monster dropping from the skies during the Blitz.
According to the placard, more than 6,500 of the V2s and smaller Vis fell on London and South East in hard and explosive hailstorms, killing a total of 8,938 people. How, he wondered, had they been able to come up with the exact number killed? 8,938?
Saturday, April 9thLondon, England Mikhayl Ruzhyo, now looking like just another tourist, walked toward the Imperial War Museum. The building, with its centered dome and pillared front, could have almost been an Italian church, had not the approach been guarded by a pair of fifteen-inch guns, taken, according to the sign nearby, from HMS Resolution and HMS Ramillies. Churches had been violent places through the centuries, but he had never heard of one protected by naval guns outside the front entrance.
To one side of the walkway, a tall concrete slab stood, a section of the Berlin Wall taken from near the Brandenburg Gate. He had been a teenager in 1989, when they had started taking the wall down, and the significance of it had been lost on him. What an American president had once called "the evil empire" had been much closer to home. He had known very little about the world outside his homeland in those days.
He had learned too much about the world since. The piece of the Berlin Wall had been painted to look like a giant cartoon face, done in blues and blacks, with its mouth stretched wide open. Against a dark red background in the mouth were the words "Change Your Life."
Easy for you to say.
Ruzhyo had been to London several times, usually on his way elsewhere, once on assignment to erase a wayward colleague, and he had seen a few of the tourist sights: Buckingham Palace, the Wellington Monument, Abbey Road. He and Anna had almost come to England on a holiday once, before she got sick, but something or other had prevented it. Since Anna had died, he hadn't done much tourist activity. Anna would not have enjoyed this place, but these days, war museums suited his tastes. Inside, the main gallery was full of old tanks and artillery pieces, with various airplanes hung from the ceiling.
He strolled past a Mark V tank, a 9.2-inch howitzer, a Jeep. Gray greens were the dominant colors. The most impressive display was of a giant V2 rocket, the side cut away to show the engine, such as it was.
The missile was huge, painted a dark green. It looked to him like a cartoon rocket ship, a pointed cigar with fins.
on the tail.
Ruzhyo stared at the V2. How frightening it must have been to civilians to see this monster dropping from the skies during the Blitz.
According to the placard, more than 6,500 of the V2s and smaller Vis fell on London and South East in hard and explosive hailstorms, killing a total of 8,938 people. How, he wondered, had they been able to come up with the exact number killed? 8,938?
If the Germans had been able to manage a decent guidance system for these beasts, they would have
killed a lot more. But while they had been fearsome devices, shooting them off had been rather like launching pop bottle rockets. That they were able to hit London at all had been more due to luck than skill. Many, if not most, of the Vis and V2s had fallen harmlessly into the sea or onto the countryside. And in a war, 9,000 civilians mean little in the overall casualty count. A few drops in an ocean of blood. What men did best was to kill other men. Especially when given leave to do so in a war. Ruzhyo strolled past a searchlight, another item painted a flaky military green; he looked at a shellacked and unpainted wooden fishing boat used during the evacuation at Dunkirk; he examined Monty's tank, one in which he'd ridden during the North Africa campaign against Rommel, when Montgomery was still a lowly general and not yet the famous field marshal. The monuments of killing.
There were also side rooms with cryptography equipment the museum-goers could play with, and on the lower ground floor, a World War One experience, designed to look like the trenches. This floor also had a Blitz display, and a Second World War area, as well as a more modern conflict display: Korea, the Cold War, Vietnam, the Falklands, Bosnia, the Middle East. Ruzhyo quickly passed through the more contemporary presentations; they held little interest for him. He knew about those kinds of wars.
Chetsnya and the invading Russians lived in his memory as real as if it had taken place yesterday and not almost twenty years past.
Even though it had been a sea of mud then, it was a much cleaner business in the trenches in France in 1915 than it was when Ruzhyo had been Spetsnaz. Cleaner in the sense that you knew who your enemies were, you knew where they were, and you had things laid out for you in black and white. Attack here, shoot there, live or die along the way. There was little skulking about and shooting people while they sat at a desk or lay in bed with a wife or mistress. Those had been his stock in trade. He knew about that kind of war. It wasn't particularly satisfying, these monuments to war, but it seemed appropriate. He would book his flight out and leave today, if possible. Perhaps by way of Spain, using another identity. Madrid would be warm by now, and the smells of Spain were more pleasing than those of England. Saturday, April 9thQuantico, Virginia He should have been at home, visiting with his wife and son, John Howard knew, but he couldn't relax enough. He'd just sit there simmering, and his family would know and feel it. It wouldn't be pleasant for anybody.
Might as well be at work, though there didn't seem to be much he could do here, either. He thought about Ruzhyo, wondered about him. How could a man be a cold-blooded killer? He had started out a soldier, and killing sometimes went with the territory, but somewhere along the way, somebody had recruited the man for wet work He had stopped being a soldier and become an assassin,
killed a lot more. But while they had been fearsome devices, shooting them off had been rather like launching pop bottle rockets. That they were able to hit London at all had been more due to luck than skill. Many, if not most, of the Vis and V2s had fallen harmlessly into the sea or onto the countryside. And in a war, 9,000 civilians mean little in the overall casualty count. A few drops in an ocean of blood. What men did best was to kill other men. Especially when given leave to do so in a war. Ruzhyo strolled past a searchlight, another item painted a flaky military green; he looked at a shellacked and unpainted wooden fishing boat used during the evacuation at Dunkirk; he examined Monty's tank, one in which he'd ridden during the North Africa campaign against Rommel, when Montgomery was still a lowly general and not yet the famous field marshal. The monuments of killing.
There were also side rooms with cryptography equipment the museum-goers could play with, and on the lower ground floor, a World War One experience, designed to look like the trenches. This floor also had a Blitz display, and a Second World War area, as well as a more modern conflict display: Korea, the Cold War, Vietnam, the Falklands, Bosnia, the Middle East. Ruzhyo quickly passed through the more contemporary presentations; they held little interest for him. He knew about those kinds of wars.
Chetsnya and the invading Russians lived in his memory as real as if it had taken place yesterday and not almost twenty years past.
Even though it had been a sea of mud then, it was a much cleaner business in the trenches in France in 1915 than it was when Ruzhyo had been Spetsnaz. Cleaner in the sense that you knew who your enemies were, you knew where they were, and you had things laid out for you in black and white. Attack here, shoot there, live or die along the way. There was little skulking about and shooting people while they sat at a desk or lay in bed with a wife or mistress. Those had been his stock in trade. He knew about that kind of war. It wasn't particularly satisfying, these monuments to war, but it seemed appropriate. He would book his flight out and leave today, if possible. Perhaps by way of Spain, using another identity. Madrid would be warm by now, and the smells of Spain were more pleasing than those of England. Saturday, April 9thQuantico, Virginia He should have been at home, visiting with his wife and son, John Howard knew, but he couldn't relax enough. He'd just sit there simmering, and his family would know and feel it. It wouldn't be pleasant for anybody.
Might as well be at work, though there didn't seem to be much he could do here, either. He thought about Ruzhyo, wondered about him. How could a man be a cold-blooded killer? He had started out a soldier, and killing sometimes went with the territory, but somewhere along the way, somebody had recruited the man for wet work He had stopped being a soldier and become an assassin,
a thing of the dark.
Howard could understand that an adrenaline rush could pump you up for sneaking around in the back alleys two steps ahead of somebody chasing you, but the stone-hearted murders? That was different-"Wool-gathering, John?"
Howard smiled at Femandez.
"Just thinking about our quarry."
"Wishing you knew where to find him?"
"That, too. But more wondering how he can do what does." He explained, expecting Julio to agree with him.
To his surprise, his friend shook his head. "Not a lot of difference, way I see it." "Shooting men in the back of the head? You don't see the difference?" "Would they be any deader if he had shot them in the front of the head?" "Come again?"
"Those two we lost were soldiers, on guard duty. The risk goes with the job. If they'd been paying attention, they'd probably still be alive--or at least they'd have gotten to shoot back. But when you get right down to it, how is it different, really? Somebody shoots you for evil and might, or they shoot you for goodness and right--you're still cold, either way. Their reasons won't matter to you, will they? Dead is dead."
Howard stared at Femandez as if the sergeant had just turned into a big caterpillar puffing on a hookah: Whoo are you'll?
Femandez caught the look and grinned.
"You don't like spies and assassins, but they're as much a part of an army now as they ever were. You want to go into battle with the advantages on your side, or at least not against you. So you send a spy into the enemy camp to find out where they plan to march. He's doing the same to you, so the side with the quicker, smarter, faster spy gets a half step on the other side. That game is as old as war, isn't it?" "Spies aren't the same as assassins," Howard pointed out. "Yeah, that's true. But let me ask you a hypothetical question. Colonel. Suppose you could go back in time to Germany in the late thirties--"
"--and assassinate Hitler?" Howard finished. He had heard this one before.
Howard could understand that an adrenaline rush could pump you up for sneaking around in the back alleys two steps ahead of somebody chasing you, but the stone-hearted murders? That was different-"Wool-gathering, John?"
Howard smiled at Femandez.
"Just thinking about our quarry."
"Wishing you knew where to find him?"
"That, too. But more wondering how he can do what does." He explained, expecting Julio to agree with him.
To his surprise, his friend shook his head. "Not a lot of difference, way I see it." "Shooting men in the back of the head? You don't see the difference?" "Would they be any deader if he had shot them in the front of the head?" "Come again?"
"Those two we lost were soldiers, on guard duty. The risk goes with the job. If they'd been paying attention, they'd probably still be alive--or at least they'd have gotten to shoot back. But when you get right down to it, how is it different, really? Somebody shoots you for evil and might, or they shoot you for goodness and right--you're still cold, either way. Their reasons won't matter to you, will they? Dead is dead."
Howard stared at Femandez as if the sergeant had just turned into a big caterpillar puffing on a hookah: Whoo are you'll?
Femandez caught the look and grinned.
"You don't like spies and assassins, but they're as much a part of an army now as they ever were. You want to go into battle with the advantages on your side, or at least not against you. So you send a spy into the enemy camp to find out where they plan to march. He's doing the same to you, so the side with the quicker, smarter, faster spy gets a half step on the other side. That game is as old as war, isn't it?" "Spies aren't the same as assassins," Howard pointed out. "Yeah, that's true. But let me ask you a hypothetical question. Colonel. Suppose you could go back in time to Germany in the late thirties--"
"--and assassinate Hitler?" Howard finished. He had heard this one before.
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