Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (126 page)

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Authors: Tom Clancy

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BOOK: Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10
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“An offer?”
“Yes. Quietly, behind the scenes. We agree not to go after him, and put forth some kind of deal that gets Cox to retire, to give up control of his empire, maybe a big fine.”
“What?! The man is a killer!” That from Fernandez. “And the government wants to give him a
traffic
ticket?”
“Given what we have, proving felonies to a jury would be extremely difficult. He knows we’re watching, and he isn’t going to take a crooked step. There’s nothing else we can find.”
He paused, then went on, “If we had a confession, and video of him strangling a small child in front of a hundred witnesses, the process itself would still be full of pitfalls. He might be able to get to one of the jurors, offer enough money to buy their own small town if they want one. There are a hundred things that could go wrong in a trial, and we all know that Cox will have the biggest, meanest legal sharks in the world on his side hunting for these things. If he spent ten million, a hundred million dollars on his defense, it would just be pocket change to him. Maybe he gets off, scot-free, and meanwhile, maybe your father and a million other fathers like him wind up living in a shelter or on the street. Would you have that?”
Nobody said anything.
“A man like Cox lives for the game,” Thorn said. “If we can take that away from him, that will be some kind of punishment.” That was lame, and he knew it, but he had no other crumbs to offer, and he hated that.
“But he’s still a billionaire living high on the hog,” Fernandez said. “How much you figure he’s going to suffer, when it gets right down to it?”
Thorn didn’t have an answer for that.
“That’s assuming he goes for the deal,” Jay said. His voice was bitter. “We don’t have enough leverage to do much. He might tell the feds to shove it, and dare them to take him to court.”
“That’s possible.”
“This sucks,” Fernandez said. “Big time.”
Thorn nodded. “Yes. It does. It’s not right. But it’s the way things are. I’m just telling you what I’ve been told. Our job was to catch him. We uncovered him. We’re supposed to shut up and leave it alone from here on in.”
That pretty much ended the meeting, with nobody happy—especially Thorn. As the men left, Thorn stopped Fernandez. “Julio, can I see you a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
After the others were gone, Thorn told him. It surprised Fernandez, but it didn’t take five seconds for him to nod his agreement. Thorn had been pretty sure he would go along. They thought alike about this particular subject. Thorn’s grandfather had taught him that the law and justice were distant cousins; that when you were forced to make a choice between them, it was better to choose justice, even if it might put you at odds with the law. Laws changed, they shifted according to the whim of those who made them, and people sometimes made mistakes—just look at what the white man had done to the red man or the black man—genocide and slavery, and all of it perfectly legal at the time. There was the letter of the law, and then there was the spirit, his grandfather had taught him—it didn’t take an eagle to see which was the right path.
So Marissa’s story about the snow runners applied here. Maybe, just maybe, there might be another way.
36
Net Force HQ
Quantico, Virginia
Howard was cleaning out his temporary desk. The situation with Cox was effectively over, as far as Net Force was concerned. Jay was still doggedly trying to decode the file, and searching high and low for anything else that might swing the decision to back off in the other direction, but Howard knew a done deal when he heard one.
Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost. That was how it went. Losing this one, however—not only his last one with Net Force, but one with such a personal element, too—was going to be hard.
He looked up and saw Abe standing in the doorway.
“They are covering their tracks,” Abe said.
Howard said, “Yeah?”
“Natadze’s house just blew up. Pretty much leveled the sucker.”
“Really?”
“Our surveillance people have been long gone, but the local police are investigating it. First reports say it was probably natural gas, but I wouldn’t bet on it being an accident. Soon as the arson boys check it, I’m betting they find evidence of a trigger, even if it was a gas leak.”
Howard shook his head. “I don’t suppose Natadze was in the place when it went up?”
“No signs of a body. I’ll keep you posted, if you want.”
“I’d appreciate it, Abe.”
“You looking forward to the new job?”
“Yes and no. It’ll pay better. My wife will sleep easier. But it probably won’t be as much fun.”
“Anytime you want to come back and do a ride-along, let me know. You’ll always be welcome”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Abe left, and Howard finished his packing. He was going to miss this, no question. But better-paid and safer had their appeal.
37
Washington, D.C.
It had been dark for hours, and the neighborhood was quiet. Natadze’s stomach churned and sent bile into his throat as he approached what was left of his house, slipping from shadow to shadow in the night, moving with great caution.
He had driven past once earlier in the rental car, and what he had seen had twisted his bowels and thrust a shard of icy fear into his soul. His house was gone.
He had one hope. The safe.
The gun safe—a Liberty Presidential model with Quad-fire protection—had been in the basement. If it had just been a fire, he wouldn’t have worried as much. The salesman had shown him pictures of a safe like his that had been in a building that burned to the ground, and the contents, which included valuable documents, had not even been singed.
He’d had to hire a crew to take out part of the house’s wall in order to install the safe, a massive, hollowed-out chunk of insulated steel that weighed fifteen hundred pounds. Natadze had the interior of the box redesigned so that he could squeeze five standard-size guitars into it, with room left over for his Korth revolvers. He always kept the Friedrich locked away when he was gone, as well as his Hauser; others, he rotated in and out. Currently, there was an Oribe, a Ruck, and a Byers in it. Less than a third of his collection.
The room in the basement in which the safe had stood was insulated and humidity controlled, with an automatic fire-retardant system that used carbon dioxide. The other guitars had been in their cases in that locked room, and, under normal circumstances, relatively protected. But when he finally arrived, having walked there from three streets over where he had parked his car, he knew there was no hope for anything outside the safe. The entire house was gone, save for part of the chimney, and the basement was hollowed-out and black. Even in the dark, he could see that.
Most of his collection of fine instruments—among them, an Elliott, a White, a Schramm, a Spross, and the new Bogdanovich, were
gone
. Blasted to splinters, burned to ashes.
It was like a hammer blow to his heart.
It was not the money. He could buy new ones, maybe even better than the ones he’d had, but there would never be others exactly like them. Those instruments had been unique, each with its own special voice, and those voices were now stilled forever. Murdered—because it had not been an accident. Somebody had blown up his house and the precious instruments in it. Somebody. And who knew it was his house? Who stood to profit if he were to be killed in an explosion?
This was not how the authorities did things in the United States. They would confiscate the house and what was in it, sell it all, make a profit. Not blow it up.
It made him want to cry.
Natadze stood in the shadows for half an hour, watching. It was late, there was yellow police tape strung, but no sign that anybody was there waiting for him. What would be the point in watching a burned-out house?
After he was sure he was alone, he moved stealthily, and climbed down into the rubble that had been his home.
The natural gas main had been in the basement. The force of the initial explosion had knocked the safe onto its side, hinge down. The paint had been burned off, but there was enough left of the steel dial to work. He used his tiny flashlight to look at the numbers as he input them.
The safe was designed to protect the contents against temperatures over fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit, according to the tests he had been shown, keeping the condition inside well below the flash point of paper for more than half an hour at extreme external temperatures. A normal house fire would never reach that. While it might get hot enough inside to damage the finishes, which was bad, there were partitions between each instrument so that falling over shouldn’t bang them together. Only the Byers, which was up top and angled, was likely to move about much.
But—how much concussive force might have been transmitted into the safe? An explosion powerful enough to blow away most of a house and to knock a fifteen-hundred-pound safe onto its side was not a small matter.
His mouth dry with fear, he finished the combination and retracted the bolts. He nearly wrenched his shoulder lowering the door to the floor. He found he was holding his breath as he shined the light into the box. . . .
The Friedrich was in the middle, next to the Hauser. He took the Friedrich out first, and a great sense of relief washed over him. It was okay! The finish was smooth, unblemished. He carefully replaced it, removed the Hauser, and it, too, was undamaged!
The Ruck was whole! The Torres!
The Byers, topmost, had some damage. The side of the guitar nearest the safe’s wall had been partially cooked. The finish had bubbled up, and there were small cracks in it. They didn’t seem to go into the wood of the bout itself, which meant that it could be repaired.
Thank you, God. And thank you, Liberty Safe and Security.
He put the Byers back into the safe, shut the door with some effort, and spun the dial. He would go and get his car, return, and collect his precious instruments. His condo in New York did not have a sufficient floor-strength rating to install a safe this large, but there were places where he could store the guitars until he could find a new house that could. A fireproof vault in a high-class storage company that specialized in rare valuables, antiques, furs, like that, would serve.
As he hurried to collect his automobile and return, the sense of fear and worry he’d had was replaced by one of rage.
Why had he done it? What had been the point? He would have known Natadze wasn’t there. Why destroy the house?
And the only thing that came to mind was something Cox had said after his meeting with the head of Net Force at that party:
Clean up everything, neat and tidy, and don’t leave any trash lying about. Nothing.
Trash?
A man who would destroy a room full of fine guitars for no other reason than to be certain there was nothing incriminating in that room? Such a man deserved punishment beyond measure.
38
New York City
Cox, on his stair-stepper, with a few minutes left to go on the timer, smiled at the memory of the phone call he’d gotten an hour earlier.
He hadn’t laughed when his lawyers told him about the government’s tentative and careful approach, though he had felt like laughing. The government wanted to make him an offer, to spare the country the trauma of a trial. . . .
Cox had played high-stakes poker with some of the best. It had taken him all of two seconds to realize that they didn’t have squat and were trying to bluff him. He hadn’t thought they’d try this, frankly, and it was maybe not so surprising—if you couldn’t get the whole loaf, or even half of it, you might settle for a few crumbs.
Not that he was going to give them even that much.
He had already put his spin docs into play, to scotch the rumors that would certainly show their faces eventually. The war on terrorism wasn’t going as well as it should, the Middle East was still an unhealed wound, the country was on the edge of a recession, and in its desperation, the current administration was looking for high-profile targets it could attack. They needed a victory, anything they could flack into looking impressive, and the little people did love to see a rich and powerful man brought low. The spin docs would lay this out, and it would be the government who came off looking bad—not a man who had just given ten million dollars to various charities, and who employed so many people in so many good jobs.
The fed didn’t have the weight, and Samuel Walker Cox was not a man to flinch if somebody yelled “Boo!”
“Tell them we are not the least bit interested,” he’d told his lawyers. “Make it very clear to them that this is not a negotiating ploy, not an opening gambit. This is the end-game. Make sure that they know they have already lost.”
That would piss them off, but—so what? They didn’t have the cards, and if somebody called your bluff, you lost the pot.

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