Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Thriller, #Action & Adventure, #Modern fiction, #Adventure, #Terrorists, #Internet
Night Moves (2 page)
much as he did not want it to happen.
Fifteen euros: that was a lot to be allowed to walk around inside a musty castle for a couple of hours. If it hadn't been for the calculator built into the electronic virgil on his belt, Michaels would never have been able to figure out what that was in real money. Multiplying fractions was not his favorite pastime. He pointed out the security beam generator to Toni, inset into the support that held the drooping velvet ropes that were supposed to keep the tourists from sitting in the antique chairs. "Step over that, I bet we'll hear an alarm scream." Toni said nothing. Oh, Lord, what have I done now?
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Michaels drew in a long, slow breath and let it escape silently as they walked along. A costumed man who looked as if he might be from Henry's court stood under a painting of an ugly couple and two much better-looking dogs, explaining to a tour group the significance of the painting. The costumed man had what Michaels had been told was a posh accent, nary a dropped aitch, very upper class. Before he and Toni had become lovers, Michaels had been married and divorced. There was a way that a woman said, "I'm fine," the tone clipped and brusque, that meant she was anything but fine. He had learned not to go any farther down that road unless he was really ready to hear what was wrong, sometimes at a decibel level equal to standing in front of the speakers at a This Is Your Brain on Drugs rock concert.
Would Toni yell at him in the Great Hall? Or would she wait until they were in the smaller Tudor rooms where Cardinal Wolsey once pursued his studies? Right at the moment, if Michaels dared to touch her, he was almost sure his fingers would get burned. She was pissed, and he was pretty sure it was at him. Why wasn't life simple? Two people love each other, they get together, and live happily ever after? Probably what Anne Boleyn thought when she hooked up with the fat man, you reckon? said his inner voice.
He told his inner voice to shut up.
She waited until they were outside, strolling across a damp and chilly lawn toward theNorthGardens and the carefully tended hedge maze before she said anything. He was watching her peripherally, admiring her athletic walk, her beautiful face and figure. She had been his assistant since he'd been at Net Force, and she was very good at her job. She was also almost a dozen years younger than he was, a bright, tough, nice Italian girl from theBronx who was an adept at an Indonesian martial art called pentjak silat. She had been teaching it to him, and he was getting better at it, but if push came to shove and she was really angry, she could wipe the floor with him and never break a sweat. That was an odd sensation, knowing the woman you loved could kick your ass if she felt like it.
Fifteen euros: that was a lot to be allowed to walk around inside a musty castle for a couple of hours. If it hadn't been for the calculator built into the electronic virgil on his belt, Michaels would never have been able to figure out what that was in real money. Multiplying fractions was not his favorite pastime. He pointed out the security beam generator to Toni, inset into the support that held the drooping velvet ropes that were supposed to keep the tourists from sitting in the antique chairs. "Step over that, I bet we'll hear an alarm scream." Toni said nothing. Oh, Lord, what have I done now?
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Michaels drew in a long, slow breath and let it escape silently as they walked along. A costumed man who looked as if he might be from Henry's court stood under a painting of an ugly couple and two much better-looking dogs, explaining to a tour group the significance of the painting. The costumed man had what Michaels had been told was a posh accent, nary a dropped aitch, very upper class. Before he and Toni had become lovers, Michaels had been married and divorced. There was a way that a woman said, "I'm fine," the tone clipped and brusque, that meant she was anything but fine. He had learned not to go any farther down that road unless he was really ready to hear what was wrong, sometimes at a decibel level equal to standing in front of the speakers at a This Is Your Brain on Drugs rock concert.
Would Toni yell at him in the Great Hall? Or would she wait until they were in the smaller Tudor rooms where Cardinal Wolsey once pursued his studies? Right at the moment, if Michaels dared to touch her, he was almost sure his fingers would get burned. She was pissed, and he was pretty sure it was at him. Why wasn't life simple? Two people love each other, they get together, and live happily ever after? Probably what Anne Boleyn thought when she hooked up with the fat man, you reckon? said his inner voice.
He told his inner voice to shut up.
She waited until they were outside, strolling across a damp and chilly lawn toward theNorthGardens and the carefully tended hedge maze before she said anything. He was watching her peripherally, admiring her athletic walk, her beautiful face and figure. She had been his assistant since he'd been at Net Force, and she was very good at her job. She was also almost a dozen years younger than he was, a bright, tough, nice Italian girl from theBronx who was an adept at an Indonesian martial art called pentjak silat. She had been teaching it to him, and he was getting better at it, but if push came to shove and she was really angry, she could wipe the floor with him and never break a sweat. That was an odd sensation, knowing the woman you loved could kick your ass if she felt like it.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet, even, no anger apparent in it.
"Why did you sendMarshall to the OCIC meeting inKabul ?" Michaels took another deep breath. Why hadn't he sent her? BecauseAfghanistan was not a place he wanted Toni to be. It was backward, women were fourth-class citizens, after men, boys, and horses, and there were frequent terrorist attacks on foreigners, particularly Americans. He did not want to put her at risk.
But he couldn't say that straight out. Instead, he said, "Marshallwanted to go. I didn't think you did." "I didn't, particularly," she said.
"Well, so there it is. You didn't have to. No problem, right?" He should be so lucky. She said, "I was up. I should have gone." "But you just said you didn't want to go." She stopped walking and stared at him. God, she was beautiful, even when she was mad at him. Maybe even more so when she was mad at him.
"That's not the point. I was up; you should have sent me, whether I wanted to or not. Why didn't you?" He had a pretty good memory, a necessary requisite for prevarication, but even so, when it got right down to it, Michaels was not a very good liar. Oh, sure, he could tell somebody their hair looked nice when it didn't, or smile and nod at a superior's bad taste in clothes without blurting it out, but beyond simple and harmless white lies designed to spare feelings, he had no real interest in games of deceit. She had caught him, he had tried to slip past and couldn't, so he wasn't going to try to lie his way out of it. He shook his head and went for the truth: "Because I didn't want to send you into a place where you might be at risk."
"That's what I thought." She started walking again. He went after her.
"Look, Toni, I love you. Is it so wrong to want to keep you out of harm's way?" "For a lover, no. I'd be unhappy if you didn't want that. But for a colleague in the intelligence community, yes, it's wrong. You know I can take care of myself." "Yes," he said. He knew, he'd seen that demonstrated a few times. She was better able to take care of herself when things got physical than he was, but even so, she wasn't Superwoman. "I want you to treat me like one of the boys." He smiled.
"That would be a trick. I can't think of you that way, and if I did, well, I wouldn't be interested. I like girls. You in particular."
"Why did you sendMarshall to the OCIC meeting inKabul ?" Michaels took another deep breath. Why hadn't he sent her? BecauseAfghanistan was not a place he wanted Toni to be. It was backward, women were fourth-class citizens, after men, boys, and horses, and there were frequent terrorist attacks on foreigners, particularly Americans. He did not want to put her at risk.
But he couldn't say that straight out. Instead, he said, "Marshallwanted to go. I didn't think you did." "I didn't, particularly," she said.
"Well, so there it is. You didn't have to. No problem, right?" He should be so lucky. She said, "I was up. I should have gone." "But you just said you didn't want to go." She stopped walking and stared at him. God, she was beautiful, even when she was mad at him. Maybe even more so when she was mad at him.
"That's not the point. I was up; you should have sent me, whether I wanted to or not. Why didn't you?" He had a pretty good memory, a necessary requisite for prevarication, but even so, when it got right down to it, Michaels was not a very good liar. Oh, sure, he could tell somebody their hair looked nice when it didn't, or smile and nod at a superior's bad taste in clothes without blurting it out, but beyond simple and harmless white lies designed to spare feelings, he had no real interest in games of deceit. She had caught him, he had tried to slip past and couldn't, so he wasn't going to try to lie his way out of it. He shook his head and went for the truth: "Because I didn't want to send you into a place where you might be at risk."
"That's what I thought." She started walking again. He went after her.
"Look, Toni, I love you. Is it so wrong to want to keep you out of harm's way?" "For a lover, no. I'd be unhappy if you didn't want that. But for a colleague in the intelligence community, yes, it's wrong. You know I can take care of myself." "Yes," he said. He knew, he'd seen that demonstrated a few times. She was better able to take care of herself when things got physical than he was, but even so, she wasn't Superwoman. "I want you to treat me like one of the boys." He smiled.
"That would be a trick. I can't think of you that way, and if I did, well, I wouldn't be interested. I like girls. You in particular."
She gave him a tiny grin in return, a quick flash, so she wasn't totally pissed off at him.
"I meant at the office. I very much like being treated as a woman when we're on our own time." "I understand."
"Do you? You really need to, you know. I want you to hold my hand when we walk in the moonlight--but not when we're at work. You need to separate your personal life from your work life, Alex."
"Okay. I will. Next time you're up, you go, no matter where it is." She flashed a bigger smile.
"Good. Now, you suppose we might find some chocolate somewhere?" They both laughed, and he felt a great sense of relief. Neither of them had been toEngland before, and one of the things they noticed early on was that there were chocolate candy machines everywhere: in stores, train stations, even pubs. It had become a running joke between them, finding chocolate. They both expected to gain thirty pounds and have their faces break out before they returned to the States. His virgil played the first few bars of Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man." He had an incoming tele com He pulled the device from his belt and saw that the caller was from the office of the FBI's director.
"That's cute," Toni said, meaning the music. She waved her finger as if directing an orchestra. "Jay must have sneaked into my office and reprogrammed the ringer again. Better than last time, when it was George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone." "Ta dah dah clan dah dump!" Toni sang.
"Everybody I work with has a warped sense of humor," he said. "This is Alex Michaels."
"Please hold for the director," a secretary said. Toni looked at him, and he held his hand over the virgil's microphone. "Boss."
"I sure wish Walt Carver hadn't had that heart attack," Toni said. "I think he's glad he did. It gave him an excuse to retire and go fishing. It's only been a month; we should give her a chance--"
"I meant at the office. I very much like being treated as a woman when we're on our own time." "I understand."
"Do you? You really need to, you know. I want you to hold my hand when we walk in the moonlight--but not when we're at work. You need to separate your personal life from your work life, Alex."
"Okay. I will. Next time you're up, you go, no matter where it is." She flashed a bigger smile.
"Good. Now, you suppose we might find some chocolate somewhere?" They both laughed, and he felt a great sense of relief. Neither of them had been toEngland before, and one of the things they noticed early on was that there were chocolate candy machines everywhere: in stores, train stations, even pubs. It had become a running joke between them, finding chocolate. They both expected to gain thirty pounds and have their faces break out before they returned to the States. His virgil played the first few bars of Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man." He had an incoming tele com He pulled the device from his belt and saw that the caller was from the office of the FBI's director.
"That's cute," Toni said, meaning the music. She waved her finger as if directing an orchestra. "Jay must have sneaked into my office and reprogrammed the ringer again. Better than last time, when it was George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone." "Ta dah dah clan dah dump!" Toni sang.
"Everybody I work with has a warped sense of humor," he said. "This is Alex Michaels."
"Please hold for the director," a secretary said. Toni looked at him, and he held his hand over the virgil's microphone. "Boss."
"I sure wish Walt Carver hadn't had that heart attack," Toni said. "I think he's glad he did. It gave him an excuse to retire and go fishing. It's only been a month; we should give her a chance--"
"Commander, this is Melissa Allison. I'm sorry to interrupt your vacation, but we have a situation of
which you need to be aware."
Her face appeared on the virgil's liquid crystal display screen, so he tapped his send-visual mode and held the unit so he could see the virgil's cam thumbnail of his own face in the screen's corner. Allison, forty-six, was a thin redhead with a cool bordering-on-cold voice and demeanor. She was a political appointee, a lawyer with no experience in the field but an encyclopedic knowledge of where dozens of political bodies were buried. The rumor was that certain high-ranking members of congress had prevailed on the President to offer her the FBI directorship vacated by Walt Carver's mild cardiac event so she'd keep quiet about things better left that way. Outside of a couple of meetings and a few memos, Michaels hadn't had to deal with her yet. "Go ahead."
"Some hours ago, an unidentified military force attacked a Pakistani train near the Indian border, killed a dozen guards, and then blew the train to pieces. The cargo was a top-secret shipment of electronic components on their way to be used in the Pakistani nuclear bomb program." "I thought there was a nonproliferation treaty betweenPakistan andIndia ." "There is, but neither country pays any attention to it. The government ofPakistan is convinced the attacking terrorist force was a special unit of the Indian Army."
"Do they have proof of this?"
"Not enough to start a war. Not yet--but they are looking hard." Michaels looked at the tiny image of the director's face. "With all due respect, ma'am, what's this got to do with us? Shouldn't the spooks be on the hot seat?" "They are, but if they and the Pakistanis can be believed, there was no way anyone could know about the train and what it carried. The terrorists had plenty of time to get into position for the ambush, and the Pakistanis say this wasn't possible."
"Obviously it was," Michaels said.
"The liaison with the CIA tells him there were only four people who knew about the shipment and the route.
The crates were unmarked, and the workmen and train personnel who loaded and were delivering the materials didn't know what they were carrying." "Coincidence, maybe? They attacked a train at random?" "Nineteen trains passed that point in the twenty-four hours prior to the one that was destroyed. Only one carried anything of strategic importance." "Then somebody told."
which you need to be aware."
Her face appeared on the virgil's liquid crystal display screen, so he tapped his send-visual mode and held the unit so he could see the virgil's cam thumbnail of his own face in the screen's corner. Allison, forty-six, was a thin redhead with a cool bordering-on-cold voice and demeanor. She was a political appointee, a lawyer with no experience in the field but an encyclopedic knowledge of where dozens of political bodies were buried. The rumor was that certain high-ranking members of congress had prevailed on the President to offer her the FBI directorship vacated by Walt Carver's mild cardiac event so she'd keep quiet about things better left that way. Outside of a couple of meetings and a few memos, Michaels hadn't had to deal with her yet. "Go ahead."
"Some hours ago, an unidentified military force attacked a Pakistani train near the Indian border, killed a dozen guards, and then blew the train to pieces. The cargo was a top-secret shipment of electronic components on their way to be used in the Pakistani nuclear bomb program." "I thought there was a nonproliferation treaty betweenPakistan andIndia ." "There is, but neither country pays any attention to it. The government ofPakistan is convinced the attacking terrorist force was a special unit of the Indian Army."
"Do they have proof of this?"
"Not enough to start a war. Not yet--but they are looking hard." Michaels looked at the tiny image of the director's face. "With all due respect, ma'am, what's this got to do with us? Shouldn't the spooks be on the hot seat?" "They are, but if they and the Pakistanis can be believed, there was no way anyone could know about the train and what it carried. The terrorists had plenty of time to get into position for the ambush, and the Pakistanis say this wasn't possible."
"Obviously it was," Michaels said.
"The liaison with the CIA tells him there were only four people who knew about the shipment and the route.
The crates were unmarked, and the workmen and train personnel who loaded and were delivering the materials didn't know what they were carrying." "Coincidence, maybe? They attacked a train at random?" "Nineteen trains passed that point in the twenty-four hours prior to the one that was destroyed. Only one carried anything of strategic importance." "Then somebody told."
"The Pakistanis say not. Nobody had a chance to tell.
Once the operation began, three of the four who knew were together, and the other one--who happens to be the head of their secret police--didn't get around to decoding the computer message telling him about the shipment until an hour before the attack. Some kind of computer failure on his end had his system down. Even if he had wanted to tell, there wasn't enough time." "Somebody intercepted the message and broke the code, then," Michaels said. "Which is why it concerns us," she said. "The problem there is, the security encryption was supposedly bulletproof, a factored number hundreds of digits long.
According to the CIA, it would take a Super Cray running full time, day and night, about a million years to break the code."
Great, Michaels thought. He said, "I'll have my people look into it." "Good. Keep me informed."
Her picture disappeared as she broke the connection. Toni, who had been listening, shook her head. "Not possible," she said.
"Right. The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer. Come on, let's go see the maze."
"You going to call Jay?"
"It can wait a few more minutes."
Friday, April 1stLondon,EnglandThe waiter arrived with aBombay gin and tonic and set it on the table next to the overstaffed leather chair where Lord Geoffrey Goswell sat reading the Times. The Japanese markets were going to hell in a handbasket, the American stock market was holding steady, and gold futures were up.
The weather forecast forLondon called for rain on the morrow. Nothing about which to be concerned.
Goswell glanced up. He watched the servant bide a moment to see if there was anything else required, and gave the waiter a military nod.
"Thank you, Paddington."
"Milord."
The waiter glided noiselessly away. Here was a good man, old Paddington.
Once the operation began, three of the four who knew were together, and the other one--who happens to be the head of their secret police--didn't get around to decoding the computer message telling him about the shipment until an hour before the attack. Some kind of computer failure on his end had his system down. Even if he had wanted to tell, there wasn't enough time." "Somebody intercepted the message and broke the code, then," Michaels said. "Which is why it concerns us," she said. "The problem there is, the security encryption was supposedly bulletproof, a factored number hundreds of digits long.
According to the CIA, it would take a Super Cray running full time, day and night, about a million years to break the code."
Great, Michaels thought. He said, "I'll have my people look into it." "Good. Keep me informed."
Her picture disappeared as she broke the connection. Toni, who had been listening, shook her head. "Not possible," she said.
"Right. The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer. Come on, let's go see the maze."
"You going to call Jay?"
"It can wait a few more minutes."
Friday, April 1stLondon,EnglandThe waiter arrived with aBombay gin and tonic and set it on the table next to the overstaffed leather chair where Lord Geoffrey Goswell sat reading the Times. The Japanese markets were going to hell in a handbasket, the American stock market was holding steady, and gold futures were up.
The weather forecast forLondon called for rain on the morrow. Nothing about which to be concerned.
Goswell glanced up. He watched the servant bide a moment to see if there was anything else required, and gave the waiter a military nod.
"Thank you, Paddington."
"Milord."
The waiter glided noiselessly away. Here was a good man, old Paddington.
He'd had been delivering the paper and drinks here at the club for what? Thirty, thirty-five years? He
was polite, efficient, knew his place, and never intruded. Would that all servants were half as well-mannered. A man to be remembered with a nice tip at Christmas, was Paddington. Across the short stretch of dark and worn oval Oriental rug, reading a trash paper like the Sun or the New York Times or some such. Sir Harold Bellworth harrumphed and blew out a fragrant cloud of Cuban cigar smoke. He lowered his paper a bit and looked at Goswell. "Can't believe what the American President said today. I don't understand why they put up with that kind of-bloody nonsense over there. If the PM did that, he would be tossed out on his ear, and rightly so."
Bellworth, eighty-two, was class of '47, thus eight years older than Goswell. Goswell smiled politely at the older man. "Well, they're Americans now, aren't they?" "Mmm, yes, of course." Here was a standard reply that answered neatly so many questions. There was the British way, and then there were all the ... other ways. Well, they are Americans, aren't they? Or French, or German, or for God's sake, Spanish. What else could one expect from foreigners, save the wrong way of doing things? "Mmph." Harry lifted the paper and went back to his reading. Goswell glanced at the big, round clock over the bookcase. Half-past five already. He should have Paddington call Stephens, he supposed. It would be a slow drive to The Yews, especially on a Friday evening, with all the rabble streaming out of the city for their weekly two-day holiday, but there was no help for it. Normally, he would just stay at Portman House in the city until Saturday, then enjoy the leisurely drive to his estate in Sussex, but that scientist fellow of his, Peter Bascombcoombs, was arriving for dinner at half-nine, so there was no help for it. Given the traffic, Goswell would be lucky to make it in time as it was. He folded the financial section and put it next to his gin and tonic, picked up the drink, and took a large sip. Ah. He put the glass down. A moment later, unbidden, Paddington appeared. "Milord?"
"Yes, have Stephens bring the car round, will you?" "Of course, milord. Some tea and sandwiches for the trip?" "No, I have a dinner when we get to the country." He waved one hand in airy dismissal. Paddington left to find the chauffeur. Goswell stood, pulled his watch from his vest pocket, and checked its time against the club's clock.
Harry looked up from his paper again.
was polite, efficient, knew his place, and never intruded. Would that all servants were half as well-mannered. A man to be remembered with a nice tip at Christmas, was Paddington. Across the short stretch of dark and worn oval Oriental rug, reading a trash paper like the Sun or the New York Times or some such. Sir Harold Bellworth harrumphed and blew out a fragrant cloud of Cuban cigar smoke. He lowered his paper a bit and looked at Goswell. "Can't believe what the American President said today. I don't understand why they put up with that kind of-bloody nonsense over there. If the PM did that, he would be tossed out on his ear, and rightly so."
Bellworth, eighty-two, was class of '47, thus eight years older than Goswell. Goswell smiled politely at the older man. "Well, they're Americans now, aren't they?" "Mmm, yes, of course." Here was a standard reply that answered neatly so many questions. There was the British way, and then there were all the ... other ways. Well, they are Americans, aren't they? Or French, or German, or for God's sake, Spanish. What else could one expect from foreigners, save the wrong way of doing things? "Mmph." Harry lifted the paper and went back to his reading. Goswell glanced at the big, round clock over the bookcase. Half-past five already. He should have Paddington call Stephens, he supposed. It would be a slow drive to The Yews, especially on a Friday evening, with all the rabble streaming out of the city for their weekly two-day holiday, but there was no help for it. Normally, he would just stay at Portman House in the city until Saturday, then enjoy the leisurely drive to his estate in Sussex, but that scientist fellow of his, Peter Bascombcoombs, was arriving for dinner at half-nine, so there was no help for it. Given the traffic, Goswell would be lucky to make it in time as it was. He folded the financial section and put it next to his gin and tonic, picked up the drink, and took a large sip. Ah. He put the glass down. A moment later, unbidden, Paddington appeared. "Milord?"
"Yes, have Stephens bring the car round, will you?" "Of course, milord. Some tea and sandwiches for the trip?" "No, I have a dinner when we get to the country." He waved one hand in airy dismissal. Paddington left to find the chauffeur. Goswell stood, pulled his watch from his vest pocket, and checked its time against the club's clock.
Harry looked up from his paper again.
"Off, are we?"
"Yes, a meeting with my scientist at the country house." "Scientists." Harry delivered the word in the same way he would have said "thieves" or "whores." He shook his head.
"Well. Cheerio, then. By the way, have you cut down that bloody yew behind the greenhouse yet?" "Certainly not. I expect to nourish its roots with you any time now." Harry gave a wheezy smoker's laugh.
"I'll dance on your grave, you young upstart. And warm my hands from that bloody yew as it burns merrily in my fireplace, too."
The two men smiled. It was an old joke. Yews were often planted in graveyards and, because they seemed to always grow largest in such locations, it was thought that the minerals from the decomposing bodies were good for the plants' roots. The big yew behind the greenhouse on Goswell's estate was eighty-five feet tall, if it was an inch, and probably four hundred years old. He had been threatening to feed Harry to it for years.
He glanced at his watch. A minute or so fast, but close enough. The watch was a gold Waltham, of no great value, but it had belonged to his Uncle Patrick, who had died during the Blitz, and it had come to him as a lad.
He had better timepieces that ran dead-on, Rolexes and Carriers and a couple of the handmade Swiss things that cost as much as a new car. The Waltham was a simple machine. It did not offer the date nor the market news nor could it be held to one's ear and used as a telephone. It was no more than a watch, and he rather liked that. He slipped the Waltham back into his vest pocket and started for the exit. By the time he reached the street, Stephens would have the '54 Bentley waiting. He preferred the Bentley to the Rolls, as well. It was basically the same automobile, without that ostentatious grill, and being ostentatious was not something a gentleman did, now was it?
He would listen to the BBC news on the way out of the city. See if the wogs in India and Pakistan had started shooting at each other over that little ... entertainment he had arranged. That would be lovely, if they would just bomb each other back to the time of the Raj, and the Empire had to come back and bring them along to civilization again.
There would be justice, wouldn't it?
Friday, April 1stSomewhere in the British Raj, India Jay Gridley rode the net, master of all he surveyed. Right at the moment, he was in a VR--virtual reality--scenario he had designed especially for this new assignment Alex Michaels had called him about. In RW--the real world--he sat at his computer console inside Net Force HQ in Quantico, Virginia, his eyes and ears covered with input sensors, his hands and chest wired so that his smallest movements could be turned into control pulses. But in VR, Jay wore a pith helmet, khaki shorts, and a starched khaki shirt, along with knee socks, stout walking shoes, and a
"Yes, a meeting with my scientist at the country house." "Scientists." Harry delivered the word in the same way he would have said "thieves" or "whores." He shook his head.
"Well. Cheerio, then. By the way, have you cut down that bloody yew behind the greenhouse yet?" "Certainly not. I expect to nourish its roots with you any time now." Harry gave a wheezy smoker's laugh.
"I'll dance on your grave, you young upstart. And warm my hands from that bloody yew as it burns merrily in my fireplace, too."
The two men smiled. It was an old joke. Yews were often planted in graveyards and, because they seemed to always grow largest in such locations, it was thought that the minerals from the decomposing bodies were good for the plants' roots. The big yew behind the greenhouse on Goswell's estate was eighty-five feet tall, if it was an inch, and probably four hundred years old. He had been threatening to feed Harry to it for years.
He glanced at his watch. A minute or so fast, but close enough. The watch was a gold Waltham, of no great value, but it had belonged to his Uncle Patrick, who had died during the Blitz, and it had come to him as a lad.
He had better timepieces that ran dead-on, Rolexes and Carriers and a couple of the handmade Swiss things that cost as much as a new car. The Waltham was a simple machine. It did not offer the date nor the market news nor could it be held to one's ear and used as a telephone. It was no more than a watch, and he rather liked that. He slipped the Waltham back into his vest pocket and started for the exit. By the time he reached the street, Stephens would have the '54 Bentley waiting. He preferred the Bentley to the Rolls, as well. It was basically the same automobile, without that ostentatious grill, and being ostentatious was not something a gentleman did, now was it?
He would listen to the BBC news on the way out of the city. See if the wogs in India and Pakistan had started shooting at each other over that little ... entertainment he had arranged. That would be lovely, if they would just bomb each other back to the time of the Raj, and the Empire had to come back and bring them along to civilization again.
There would be justice, wouldn't it?
Friday, April 1stSomewhere in the British Raj, India Jay Gridley rode the net, master of all he surveyed. Right at the moment, he was in a VR--virtual reality--scenario he had designed especially for this new assignment Alex Michaels had called him about. In RW--the real world--he sat at his computer console inside Net Force HQ in Quantico, Virginia, his eyes and ears covered with input sensors, his hands and chest wired so that his smallest movements could be turned into control pulses. But in VR, Jay wore a pith helmet, khaki shorts, and a starched khaki shirt, along with knee socks, stout walking shoes, and a
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The Water Room by Christopher Fowler