Changing of the Guard

  “Sir,” Tom Thorn’s secretary said, “Marissa Lowe is here.”

  “Send her in.”

  Lowe was an attractive black woman, a few years older than he was, and tall, maybe five-ten. Her curly hair was cut short, and her gray suit was businesslike enough, the skirt reaching nearly to her knees. She wore a red silk blouse, and what looked like gold and ruby earrings that dangled an inch below her lobes. Dark brown eyes and lots of smile wrinkles at the corners. A fine-looking, very . . . earthy woman.

  Thorn shook the woman’s hand. She had a firm grip.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said with a smile.

  She flashed him a smile in return, her teeth very white against her milk-chocolate skin. She walked to the couch and sat. She moved very well, he saw, smooth and controlled.

  “What can I do for the CIA, Ms. Lowe?”

  “Marissa, please, Commander.”

  He smiled again. “Call me Tom, then.”

  She nodded. “Shortly before you took over Net Force, our embassy in Ankara had a little visit from the Turkish ambassador, Mustafa Suleyman Agar. The Ambassador’s people had come across some intel he figured might be important to the Turks’ national security.” She had a silky, deep voice.

  Thorn nodded. “Okay.”

  “Well, calls were made, people talked to, and someone somewhere decided that Net Force ought to be asked to help out the ambassador by having a look at the information—which was hidden somehow on a disk of tourist photographs that came from Iran. The Turks were fairly certain something was there because their agent got himself killed in the process of collecting and bringing it home.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Your Jay Gridley has been digging into it and found a code. He managed to crack part of it. It turned out to be a list of secret agents from the former USSR stationed in Africa and the Middle East, going as far back as the nineteen sixties.”

  Thorn seemed to remember a report he’d barely had time to glance at from Gridley, who he had just met. “Ah, yes. I recall Jay said something about Russian spies.”

  “Well, it has been a while since the evil empire collapsed, but the Russians never throw anything away, you know, so some of the agents were still in place, if a bit long in the tooth. Real names, code names, dates, places, everything.”

  He nodded. “I can see where that would be very valuable.”

  She echoed his nod. “The Turks scooped up the ones in their territory, and passed out names of the others to their friends in the region.”

  “So we get points for helping the Turks?”

  “Oh, yeah, big time.”

  Thorn searched his memory, which was usually pretty good about such stuff. There was something else . . . ? Ah, he had it.

  “I’ve been swamped with e- and paperwork and I’m not up to date,” he said, “but if I recall correctly, Gridley said he thought there was more material to be decoded.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what we understood. And we are hoping that it is a continuation of the list into our geography.”

  “Any reason to believe that?”

  “Your man seems to think so, from the report he sent. The way the countries and spies are listed shows a progression in this general direction, going from east to west. We’re hoping it will jump the ocean.”

  “You’re thinking maybe there are some Russian spies still knocking around in the U.S.?”

  “Oh, we know that. We even know who some of them are. The regular FBI keeps account of them, devil-you-know-versus-the-devil-you-don’t and all. Everybody has secret ops over here—our enemies, our friends, probably even the Swiss—just like we do in their houses. Today’s best friend might be tomorrow’s worst enemy and vice-versa, so we need to stay on our toes. Look at how many times in history we fought knock-down-drag-out wars against folks who are now our best allies: British, Spanish, Mexican, Germans, Japanese, Italians, that wheel just keeps on spinning.” She gave him another little smile. “Anyway,” she went on, “the question is, would this Iranian-Turkish list tell us about a bunch of others we don’t know about? That would be very useful to us.”

  “Indeed. So, what is it you want me to do, Marissa?”

  “Nothing, really. We’d just like to make sure you keep this one on the front burner. We would appreciate it.”

  “I believe we can do that.”

  She gave him her brilliant smile yet again. He liked it, and he liked her. She seemed grounded, no-nonsense, straight to the point, and there was never enough of that to go around.

  She stood. “I’d like to drop by from time to time, touch base, since I’m kind of the de-facto liaison from the spooks to the computer nerds. I’ll call before I show up.”

  He grinned. “You’ll be welcome any time, Marissa. A pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”

  “You, too, Tommy.”

  Normally, he didn’t much care for that nickname, but it didn’t sound so bad coming from her.

  A few minutes later, his secretary beeped him. “Sir. General Howard and Colonel Kent are here to see you.”

  “Great. Send them in.”

  4

  Trans-Planet Chemical HQ

  Manhattan, New York

  Samuel Cox sat staring at his desk, as if the solution to his problem might be found between the computer and the hard-copy outbox.

  His first reaction to the phone call had been close to panic. Not because he was worried about anybody overhearing it—Vrach’s voice was disguised, distorted far beyond vox-pattern recognition. The call was also scrambled, using state-of-the-art equipment. The NSA itself would bang their heads against the code if they tried to break it. After all, they had devised the scrambler, and they said their code was practically unbreakable.

  No, it wasn’t that he was worried about being overheard. But the words that the Doctor had spoken so matter-of-factly? They had chilled Cox right to the bone.

  The Turks had given Net Force a computer disk to decode. Thus far, the organization had been successful in finding at least some of the information hidden on the disk. They had uncovered a list of agents who had worked for the former Soviet Union in the Middle East forty years ago.

  Cox had merely shrugged at that part of the news. It meant nothing to him.

  Ah, the Doctor had said, but there could be more, much more—including a list of Soviet spies elsewhere in the world.

  When Cox heard that, he felt his belly go cold. That meant something to him.

  Where else in the world? he had asked.

  The irritatingly calm Doctor had spoken of it as he might the weather or a football score: Among others, he said, the United States. We think. We cannot be sure. No one seems to know how the information came to be in the hands of the Iranians, or how the Turks got it from them.

  At that, the cold in Cox’s belly had turned into a lump of dry ice.

  He could almost hear the Russian’s pragmatic shrug over the no-pix connection. There is nothing to be done. Either they will decode it or they will not. We will deny all, of course, but done is done. You should know. Perhaps you might consider buying an island in some friendly country, and moving your money there.

  Cox disconnected without another word and sagged back in his chair.

  So much for being a valuable, protected asset. The Russians would be sorry to lose him, but they weren’t going to help him, Cox was sure of that.

  Was he to be outed as a former spy? His good works since those foolish days would be ruined; he would be made into a villain, maybe even put in prison. It would kill his family. His wife would probably have a stroke. His children and grandchildren would be shamed. His friends would be astonished. But even if he held the government at bay and beat the charge, the taint would never leave him. Sam Cox? The billionaire? A Russian spy, did you hear? Hard to believe somebody with all that wealth and power could be so stupid, isn’t it?

  He stared at the desk and shook his head. He was a powerful man. He had access to a giant fortune, he had the ears of
presidents and kings. That was a long way to fall. A terrifyingly long way.

  It couldn’t happen. Couldn’t. He would not allow it!

  But—what could he do about it? They hadn’t uncovered anything yet, so he had some time, but how to stop it?

  It was unlikely in the extreme that he could just send somebody into Net Force HQ in Quantico to steal the incriminating information. All men had their price, but finding out what it was could be tricky. For some, it was easy, money would do it. For others, it might be something complex, not easily determined. Attempt to corrupt the wrong person, the almost-mythical honest man, and that would point a nasty finger at you in a hurry. Why was somebody offering a low-level government employee ten or twenty million dollars to give up a computer disk? What could possibly be on it that was worth that much? Who could afford to make such an offer?

  No, that could be a bad misstep.

  He frowned. Perhaps they might not be able to break the remaining code. Perhaps the disk would lie in the Net Force vaults for fifty years or a hundred, long after Cox had gone to his reward, and he would be beyond caring.

  He shook his head. He could not stake his future, his past, his life and legacy on that. If they had broken part of it, they could uncover the rest. He had to stop that, no matter what the cost.

  Think, Sam, think!

  But the desk offered no solutions, and his worry stood there grinning at him. Gotcha! it seemed to say. Gotcha!

  He sighed. This was not his forte. He had people who knew how to manage such things. He touched the intercom control.

  “Have Eduard drop by, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” his secretary said.

  Natadze would have some ideas. He always did.

  Net Force HQ Quantico, Virginia

  Jay was, he had to admit, stumped. Worse, he was a little worried that brute force, his method of last resort, wasn’t going to work, either. He wasn’t ready to try it quite yet, but he was approaching that point, and if it didn’t work, then what?

  He had tried fifty variations, coming at the code from every direction he could think of, and nothing else had clicked.

  “Hey, Smokin’ Jay.”

  He blinked and looked at the door. “Toni! How are you?”

  Toni Fiorella Michaels stepped into his office. “Doing great. How about you?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, frowning. He gestured at his desk. “Home is fine. Saji’s fine. But here . . .”

  Toni smiled. “Hasn’t it always been that way? And won’t it always be?”

  Jay shook his head. “Thanks. Just what I need to hear. You and the boss about ready to push off?”

  “Yep. Got the van mostly packed, and we’re on the road first thing in the morning.”

  “It’s a long way to Colorado.”

  “You’re welcome to drop by anytime,” she said. “You should be able to hook a ride on some Net Force or military jet going that way pretty much anytime you want.”

  He nodded. “We’ll still miss you,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. We’ll miss you, too. But things change when you have a child to look out for, Jay. With my silat, I always felt as if I could handle myself in most situations when push came to shove, but after that situation at the house, with Tyrone and that psychotic, I realized I couldn’t stay in this business. You don’t call trouble to your family.”

  “I hear you.”

  “So, how’s the new guy?”

  Jay shrugged. “Okay, I guess. You ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “You’ll dazzle him, once he gets to know you.”

  “Maybe. Guy is richer than Fort Knox, he invented all kinds of computer stuff I grew up using, and is pretty much the smartest person in any room he walks into—and knows it. I don’t think he will dazzle easily.”

  She smiled. “What are you working on?”

  He returned her grin. “Can I tell you? Are you still cleared?”

  She looked at her watch. “If you hurry. My resignation starts officially in about twenty minutes.”

  Jay explained about the Turks and the Iranian disk.

  “I’m still hacking at the rest of it,” he finished. “I’ve got the Middle Eastern part down, and some of the South African parts, but what I think will probably turn out to be North and South America is still closed. It’s like the guy who wrote the code had a personality change and went off in an entirely different direction. I can’t get a pattern.”

  “Maybe the NSA crackers might help?”

  “I’d cut out my tongue before I asked them, especially after that thing with the California druggie. They don’t much like us anyhow. They’d love to show us up, and frankly, I don’t think they’ve got the chops. But just our asking for help would have them grinning from ear to ear, even if they couldn’t break it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “I have the CIA, the regular feebs, and the Turkish ambassador all looking over my shoulder. Plus the new boss, of course.” He shrugged and gave her a weak grin. “The usual.”

  She grinned back. “I have to run,” she said. “I just wanted to come by and say good-bye in person. Stand up.”

  He frowned. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?”

  She laughed again, and when he stood, moved in and hugged him.

  “You’re a good man, Jay. Give my love to Saji.”

  Then she was gone, and Jay felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. He never used to feel that when he moved around, or when other people did. His life had been in hardware and software, and people came and went, no problem—he was happier in VR than in the real world. This time, however, he really was going to miss Toni and Alex. They were his friends, and he didn’t have so many he could afford to lose any. He would have to make an effort to keep in touch. VR, RW trips, com, whatever it took. He really would.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  Kent looked at Julio Fernandez. They were in his temporary office, just off the corridor. “No, Lieutenant,” he said, “that will be all, unless you have something I need to know?”

  Fernandez smiled. “Well, sir, as it happens, I do have something. I expect General Howard would ordinarily go for it, but he’s told me he won’t step on your prerogatives for long-term acquisitions.”

  Kent stared at him.

  “I have to show it to you, Colonel. It doesn’t tell all that well. We need to go to the motor pool.”

  Kent glanced at his watch. “All right. Lead on.”

  “Why am I looking at a recreational vehicle, Lieutenant?” Kent asked.

  Fernandez smiled. “Not exactly your typical RV, sir, though this is a Class-C motor home chassis—a Class-A looks like a Greyhound bus; the C’s have that cab over-section shading the truck-style front end.” He nodded at the vehicle. “But we aren’t talking about something a rock star would tour in, or that Winnebago you’d take the wife and kids out in for a weekend to Diamond Lake. If you’ll follow me, sir.”

  Fernandez approached the vehicle, which appeared to be white fiberglass, with vaguely aerodynamic-looking decals on the sides in pale tans and blues. The coach entrance door was aft on the starboard side, behind the back wheels.

  The lieutenant pressed his thumb against a reader and the door’s lock snicked open. Two steps led into the vehicle.

  Inside there was enough headroom for a six-footer in boots to stand straight.

  “Head is to the left, behind this door,” Fernandez said. He reached for the knob, and Kent moved deeper into the vehicle to give him room to swing the portal open. The door looked like oak to Kent.

  In the head was a marine-style toilet, sink, mirror, cabinets, and a shower stall. Small, but useable.

  “Enough water to take a dozen military showers, to cook with, and drink, all without refilling the tank, though it will run off shore water—you just plug in a hose outside and turn the spigot on. Same for power—upgraded to fifty amps f
rom the normal thirty-five. Drains for gray- and black-water outside, of course.”

  Behind Kent was a small galley, stove, sink, a microwave oven, and across from that a refrigerator/freezer. So far, much like any other RV. But past that, it got unusual.

  “This is your basic Born Free twenty-four-foot rear-bath coach,” Fernandez said. “But instead of a fold-out sleeper couch over here, we have a bank of computers, GPS, Doppler radar, FLIR, laser bouncers, and com-gear, all with hardened electronics.”

  A pair of captain’s chairs sat in front of the electronic array.

  “Over here, this little board pulls out to form a table, thus.” Fernandez lifted, pulled, then lowered it, and a tabletop jutted from the wall. “Suitable for having lunch or doing map work, or playing games on your laptop.”

  Kent nodded.

  “Up over the cab, we pull down this platform, like so, and there is sleeping space for two operators—three if they like each other real well. Even comes with a ladder.

  “There’s a big Onan generator installed, and if you aren’t plugged into shore power, this switch right here over the driver’s seat will crank it up. It is sufficiently large to run all the electronics for as long as you have fuel, which in this case means the vehicle’s fifty-five gallon gas tank. This is a Ford chassis and engine, your basic six-point-eight-liter V-ten engine, which, with its special beefed-up suspension and shocks, will give you approximately three thousand pounds of useable payload. That will include, with the installed equipment, three operators and their gear, and full fuel and water tanks, it will get nine or ten miles a gallon of unleaded if your driver doesn’t have a heavy foot, and climb anything you can take a sedan up. Cruises at seventy all day long.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes, sir. And it gets more so. The thing is built like a Swiss watch. You can stay out in the woods, if you have sufficient supplies, a couple-three months. The air conditioner is enough to cool the electronic equipment to safe operating range in ninety-five-degree heat, the furnace will maintain warmth in subfreezing weather. It’s a little tight, but there’s not an inch of wasted space in it.”