"Could be the same person. But if she was working for Genaloni . . . ?"

"Exactly. Why kill him?"

"Maybe he didn't want to pay her for missing you," she said.

"Maybe, but it doesn't feel right, all of this." He thought about it for a second. "What if we're wrong about who had Steve Day killed? What if it was somebody who wanted to blame it on Genaloni? So maybe he found out and this woman deleted him him. Maybe she's working for somebody else."

"That's a stretch."

"Yeah, it is, but consider: Day's a.s.sa.s.sination was by a team, and it was planned okay, but the execution was sloppy. A bunch of guys with submachine guns spraying all over the place, and even so, Day got one of them. Doesn't seem like this woman's style. She seems more adept than that."

"She missed you."

"Only because the dog barked. A second later or earlier, I'd be history."

"So what are you saying here? There are two sets of killers?"

"I don't know. But it's a possibility. We a.s.sumed that Day's death was due to his long battle with organized crime. The way it was done, his history, that would make sense. But what if we're wrong? What if somebody else did it? What if it wasn't connected to OC at all?"

"Okay, let's a.s.sume for a second you're right. Who? And why? Why would anybody want to take you you out?" out?"

"What do Day and I have in common?"

"Net Force. You took over as Commander when he died."

"Exactly. What if the attacks weren't on us personally, but on the heads of Net Force?"

"From two different sets of killers?"

"Yes."

They both thought about that for a moment without saying anything else.

There was a quick knock. They looked up to see Jay Gridley standing there.

"What's up, Jay?"

"Put in for my raise, Boss. We got her. The a.s.sa.s.sin. A positive ID."

Thursday, October 7th, 8:48 a.m. Quantico Toni sat in her office, looking at the information Jay had developed. There was no photo or holograph to go with it. It was old material, and not much of that.

The fingerprints of the suspected a.s.sa.s.sin, lifted from the wall of a Holiday Inn in Schenectady, New York, had a match: They belonged to Mora Sullivan, an Irish national, the daughter of an IRA man killed by the British. When the prints were taken, little Mora had been eight years old. And from then on, there was no further record of the girl or woman in any of the computer systems linked to Net Force--which was most international police systems. She had vanished. Or, as Jay had said, somebody who knew what they were doing had cracked her records and vanished vanished them, leaving no trace and no trail. The only reason they had these prints was luck, because they were hardcopy from an Irish police station that hadn't gotten around to being uploaded until they'd been discovered with a few hundred other sets of prints years after they'd been taken. them, leaving no trace and no trail. The only reason they had these prints was luck, because they were hardcopy from an Irish police station that hadn't gotten around to being uploaded until they'd been discovered with a few hundred other sets of prints years after they'd been taken.

So what they had was her age, nationality and natural hair and eye color, along with her prints. Not a lot of help in recognizing her, given her ability with disguises. With wigs or hair dye, contact lenses and gloves, she could hide all of that; a little makeup and padded clothes, and her true age changed. She had already demonstrated that she could look a hefty forty or a frail seventy, and according to her records, she was only thirty-two. Even if they'd gotten a picture of little Mora, she and whatever she called herself now weren't going to look much alike.

Still, more was better. When they finally ran her down, they'd be able to get a positive identification.

Toni's phone announced an incoming call. The caller ID strip lit with the name.

Her stomach twisted. Rusty. She'd been expecting the call, since he was returning hers, but even so, it tripped her fight-or-flight reactions. Sleeping with Rusty had been a mistake, she knew that, but she hadn't been able to figure out a way to tell him yet. She had put him off, but it wasn't fair to keep spraying fog at him. And it wasn't something she could tell him over the phone.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Guru Toni. How are you?"

Why did he have to sound so cheerful? "Fine. Busy. The usual."

"What's up?"

"I'm not going to be able to get to the gym for a workout today," she said. "Too much going on."

"No problem. I have studying I ought to be doing. Tomorrow?"

"Listen, I can break loose for a few minutes around lunch today, if you want to grab a quick cup of coffee?"

"That would make my day."

She winced at how happy he seemed when he said it. It would make his day, all right, but not in the way he thought.

"How about Heidi's?" This was a coffee shop near the complex. It was a small, quiet place. They had lousy coffee and worse food, so there wouldn't be a crowd around when she told him.

When she dumped dumped him. him.

"Great! See you then," he said.

They discommed.

Toni blew out a big sigh and stared at nothing. Yeah, Great Great.

Somebody somewhere had surely written a book on how to tell a man you still liked, but didn't want to sleep with again, that you still liked him--but didn't want to sleep with him again. She wished she had read it. How did you just up and blurt it out? Look, it was a lot of fun s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g our brains out, and I like you and all, but I don't want to have s.e.x with you anymore because it was a spur-of-the-moment mistake and, nothing personal or anything, but I love somebody else. Even though he doesn't think of me in that way. Sorry. So, how about them Orioles, huh? Look, it was a lot of fun s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g our brains out, and I like you and all, but I don't want to have s.e.x with you anymore because it was a spur-of-the-moment mistake and, nothing personal or anything, but I love somebody else. Even though he doesn't think of me in that way. Sorry. So, how about them Orioles, huh?

Toni tried to think how she would feel if the roles were reversed. It would be hard to be dumped, especially if she was in love with the man blandly telling her they should just be friends from now on. That was close enough to the relationship she had with Alex to be painful. If they'd they'd slept together and slept together and he'd he'd said it to said it to her, her, she didn't think she'd be able to stand it. she didn't think she'd be able to stand it.

Did Rusty love her? He had not said so in those words, but he certainly was attracted to her strongly. And since the s.e.x had been good, he might have trouble understanding. The problem was, he he hadn't said or done anything wrong; it wasn't his fault. But no matter how she polished and shined it up, no matter how many pretty flowers she covered it in, it was still going to be a rejection: hadn't said or done anything wrong; it wasn't his fault. But no matter how she polished and shined it up, no matter how many pretty flowers she covered it in, it was still going to be a rejection: I don't want you anymore. I don't want you anymore.

Worse, it didn't matter what Rusty thought--he didn't have any choice. It was a done deal, not open to negotiation, end of discussion. So sorry.

That it was already decided didn't make it any easier. She didn't want to hurt him, but it was either cut him off clean with a sudden slash, or poke him with a needle and let him slowly bleed out. That was the easier way. She could be too busy to see him, too busy to work out, too busy to answer his calls. His FBI training would end soon. He'd be posted as a junior agent to some field office a thousand miles away--a nasty part of her realized that if she wished it, she could even pull a few strings to arrange arrange a distant posting--and that would be the end of it. A slow leak, eventually running dry, with Rusty probably wondering all the while what he'd done wrong. a distant posting--and that would be the end of it. A slow leak, eventually running dry, with Rusty probably wondering all the while what he'd done wrong.

That was the coward's way, to stand back at a distance and avoid the confrontation. She had been taught to face things head-on, to move in close and do what was needed to finish things. It was more dangerous, but it was quicker and cleaner.

Quicker. Cleaner. Harder.

Then again, maybe all he wanted to do was get laid. He was male, she wasn't so ugly people crossed the street to avoid her--maybe s.e.x was all he had in mind? That would make it easier.

She wished she had somebody to talk to about this, a girlfriend to ask for advice, but there was n.o.body locally. She thought about calling her friend Irena back in the Bronx, but it didn't seem fair. They hadn't talked in months, and it didn't feel right to call her just to cry on her shoulder. Besides, Irena had never been a heavy dater. She'd had a couple of boyfriends before she got married, and she was madly in love with Todd. Toni had never told her about Alex, how she felt, and she would have to do that, to put the Rusty thing into context. Otherwise, why would she want want to dump him, with all he had going for him? to dump him, with all he had going for him?

No, she'd have to do this on her own.

She was not looking forward to it.

Thursday, October 7th, 8:56 p.m. Quantico John Howard paced in his office while the computer put together yet another scenario for the theoretical s.n.a.t.c.h of the Russian programmer. So far, Howard had run five operation plans, with the computer's estimates of their chances at success ranging from sixty-eight percent down to less than twelve percent. He did not like these numbers. Given his knowledge of ops out of the standard Strategy and Tactics modules, without at least an eighty-percent success estimate, people were likely to get hurt, maybe die. Could be the enemy lost troops, could be he he did. The former was better than the latter, but in this particular combatsit, both were bad. did. The former was better than the latter, but in this particular combatsit, both were bad.

Sometimes you had to fight the battle, no matter what the odds, but he didn't like going in knowing he was going to lose people.

The big elements were stable, but the small variables were always the problem. The more of those he had information on, the better he could program the Op S&T mod, but--how to determine some of these? A straight-up firefight in a big field in the middle of nowhere was easy. But what, for instance, could you do to predict the traffic pattern on the streets of any large city during a covert operation? An unexpected wreck on a major artery during rush hour could cause a total stoppage; you had to figure on alternate routes, and you had to a.s.sume that if you wanted to take those routes, others caught in the jam would also want to use them. But even if you planned on a big truck overturning, how could you figure out where where and and when when it might do so? it might do so?

You could not, unless you put it there yourself.

If you reckoned on an a.s.sault during off-peak hours, early in the morning or in the middle of the night, say, that offered other problems to replace the ones you solved by choosing that option. Local police noticed activity in the middle of the night they might ignore during the day; if discovered, it was much harder to hide, and outrunning air pursuit on the ground for any distance was nearly impossible. They had helicopters everywhere now, even in countries where most of the population still lived in gra.s.s huts.

Plus, the s.n.a.t.c.h was only one element. A small unit, three or four troops, no more, would handle that. An escape route, preferably by air, would have to be arranged. Something that could fly fast enough to get away quickly, and yet stay under enemy radar while so doing, was necessary.

But if the operation went south? How many men were necessary for a backup team? Did the Net Force team want to begin a firefight with troops of a supposedly friendly nation? What were the repercussions of that?

Howard shook his head. It was a lot to chew on, and no matter how well he did it, he knew some bit would be missed. It might be small enough to pa.s.s through the system undigested. It might be just large enough to block a windpipe and choke him. There was a pleasant thought.

The computer chimed. The new op was done. Chance of success, fifty-four percent.

Might as well flip a coin for that one.

"Computer, retain previous parameters, change operation begin-time to 2300 hours and run."

The computer chimed again and began cross-checking the op.

He paced again. It was probably all going to be moot. He did not have much confidence that Michaels would give the order to use military intervention in this situation. He had too many people to answer to higher up the chain of command, and they were all civilians. It was one thing to go into a foreign country with the locals knowing you were there but pretending you were not there, thus offering a tacit approval of your actions. It was another thing to put troops on foreign soil with the expressed disapproval of the locals. The Chechens had been touchy about such things since the Russians had invaded them years ago; they would not welcome an American StrikeForce team wandering around in their country, no matter how covert. If it hit the fan, there would be major noise. Heads would roll, and likely his would be the first to hit the ground.

Still, he had his orders. He would carry them out to the best of his ability. He was a soldier. That was what he did.

Thursday, October 7th, 9:02 p.m. Washington, D.C.

The Selkie couldn't expect the teams guarding the target to use the same route to his condo twice in a row. However, the closer they got, the fewer options they had. There were only two main approaches to the neighborhood, and if they wanted to drive there, they would have to use one or the other. If they didn't use this one today, they would likely use it tomorrow.

She got lucky. Today, they picked this route.

She stood at a public phone kiosk next to a stop-and-rob a mile away from Michaels's place, her new bicycle on its kickstand next to her. She was dressed as a man in boots, baggy jeans, an oversized jacket, with a short and well-trimmed fake beard, and while the bodyguards saw her, she had her back to them as the procession pa.s.sed, watching them via the small rearview bicycle safety mirror attached to the helmet she wore. They paid little attention to her.

As she'd expected, they had ramped up the level of protection. There were two close-in outrider cars, one in front, one behind, and the target rode in an armored limo. She hadn't wanted to risk a drive-by look at his condo, but she had to a.s.sume the place was covered with a tight net of security. She wasn't going to granny her way down the street, nor be able to slip over a back fence and sneak into his house unseen. And these guys would be quicker on the draw than a mobster's bodyguard. They'd be firing as soon as they spotted her.

She stayed at the kiosk for another minute, and was rewarded by a second tail vehicle, with two more guards in it. There might have been a fourth, further out in front, too--she hadn't noticed.

Given the location and logistics of the neighborhood, the Selkie eliminated the target's condo as a place to do the deletion. She might be able to set up to make a rifle shot as he left or entered the limo at home, but that would be risky. Likely the guards had thought of that and had any decent vantage points covered. She wouldn't be able to get outside their coverage and line up--there weren't any tall buildings around, no good angles. And even if she made the shot, getting away afterward would be the bigger problem. Escape was a primary goal, more important than the deletion.

No, the condo was out.

She hung up the phone, climbed onto her bike and headed for the motel where she'd rented a room. It was a couple of miles away and she'd used the male ident.i.ty to register, in case they were looking for any single women checking in.

Trying for a hit on a convoy was also risky. The only practical way was explosives. A Stinger missile, maybe an ant.i.tank rocket or a bomb. To use a rocket or missile, she would have to expose herself to the guards for a line-of-sight shot. If they spotted somebody with a rocket launcher standing on the side of the road or leaning from a window, she would bet heavy they'd shoot first and ask the body questions later. And rockets were iffy. She had heard of cases where missiles had hit ordinary windshield gla.s.s at an angle and bounced off without exploding. Bullets did it all the time.

And as for a bomb? She would also bet that the FBI or Net Force teams in charge of protecting the target sent somebody along the route to check manholes and garbage cans for strange packages, once they were down to one or two routes to the condo. Besides, a remote-controlled bomb might not dispatch somebody inside a well-armored limo. A big enough charge to be sure of a kill would probably be picked up by an electronic sniffer or even a bomb dog. If they knew for certain she was still after the target, they would stick him into a secure facility and he'd camp out for weeks or months. She didn't want to wait for that. Once, she would have been as patient as necessary, but having made the decision to retire, she was ready to finish this and move on. A few days, a week maybe, that was all she had to give it. And given how she had failed before, she wanted to do this up close and personal. The cane was out, but a knife or bare hands had a certain appeal.

A car honked at her as it swung around to pa.s.s the bike. She waved, trying to give the impression she was sorry for blocking the road. The car pa.s.sed. The driver yelled something at her, the last part of which was "--stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" He didn't slow down.

The Selkie grinned. The driver of the car had no idea how dangerous it would have been to pull over and beat on a small bicyclist who'd slowed him down more than he wanted. She didn't want to have to use the pistol in her f.a.n.n.y pack on some angry motorist, but it was always an option if she couldn't beat his head in with all her training.

No, the only viable alternative for a deletion now was to do it where the target wouldn't be constantly surrounded by guards, and in such a way that n.o.body would know he'd been hit until she had plenty of time to get away.

Given her options, the only place that fit was a place considered secure.

She'd have to kill him inside Net Force Headquarters.

Friday, October 8th, 9:05 a.m. Quantico Getting yourself--or some illegal object--into a secure area when you weren't supposed to was not as hard as most people would like to believe. Offhand, the Selkie knew of at least four ways to smuggle a firearm onto a plane, even without resorting to a ceramic one, like the little pistol she now had tucked into the waistband of her panty hose. The pistol was a three-shooter with triple-stack-two-inch barrels. The weapon had been illegally made in Brazil, for their foreign service operatives, from the same hard-ceramic the j.a.panese had developed for those ever-sharp kitchen knives. The caliber was 9mm short, and the ammo was caseless boron-epoxy, no cartridges, fired by a rotating piezoelectric igniter. Propellant was a more stable variation of solid rocket fuel. The thing even had a rudimentary rifling in the trio of snub-nose barrels, though the bullets were light enough so long-range target shooting wasn't an option. The piece had a twenty-meter effective accuracy range; outside that, it was fire and hope you had a patron deity if you wanted to hit anything on purpose.

At close range, the non-metal gun would kill a man as dead as the biggest steel cowboy six-shooter ever made.

The gun had been cast in two main pieces, barrels and frame; the pivots, hinges, screws, trigger and firing mechanism were also ceramic. In theory, the weapon could be reloaded and used again, but in practice, it was a throw-away. Once it had fired its initial load, the internal ceramics got a little fragile. It made a lot more sense to use a new gun than risk having the old one misfire at a critical moment. The trivalent metalloid boron in the three composite bullets contained less metal than a tooth filling. The piece wouldn't pa.s.s a Hard Object scan, but standing on its end it would likely skate by a fluroscanner because it didn't look like a gun from that angle, and it would go through any standard security metal detector on the planet without a blip. Lying on a table, the pistol would look almost as if it had been carved from a bar of Ivory soap.

Strapped to her right inner thigh, almost to her groin, was a sheath knife, also of ceramic, full-tang, with a plastic handle. The blade was a tanto tanto-style, with the angled point, and was both short and very thick. Ceramic tended to be brittle, and it needed thickness to keep from snapping if it was going to be used for stabbing, and not just throat-cutting.

The standard security setup at most government buildings, which were, after all, limited in their funding for such things, involved picture or fingerprint identification tags, metal detectors and uniformed guards. If you had business in such a place and were not an employee, the process could be as detailed as the security force was willing to use. A computer check of your ID, a search of your carry-in and your person, somebody from inside a.s.signed to accompany you wherever you went--these were all standard for basic Level Three access. Net Force was a Level Three through Level One building; that meant that getting into the building itself needed only L3 techniques. More private areas would have tighter wards--palm or retinal scanners, knuckle readers, vox codes and such. She wasn't going to slip through those to her target's office and knock on his door, not without a lot more time to prepare. But, then, she didn't really have to.

Getting to a hard target wasn't necessary--if the target made itself easy and came to you.

With even the smallest computer knowledge, it was easy enough to find low-level employees--secretaries, receptionists, maintenance people--who had worked for Net Force only a short time. Choosing one who was unmarried and living alone that she could look like, was even easier. The Selkie, after all, could look like almost anybody. . . .

Thus it was that Christine Wesson, a not-too-ugly brunette with brown eyes, age twenty-nine, came to the end of her short and probably undistinguished life. And now, a woman who looked enough like Wesson to pa.s.s for her to anybody who didn't know her very well, wearing her clothes, came to the southwest entrance--the busiest one--of Net Force HQ. It was a thank-G.o.d-it's-Friday, and a crush of day-shift employees arriving for work stood in line at the reader, waiting their turns to slide their ID cards through the scanner slot. It went fast. One swipe, a green light, and you were in.

The Selkie already knew the card was valid, since it had gotten her into the parking lot--in the late Christine Wesson's eight-year-old rattle-infested Ford.

Christine herself was wrapped in plastic bags in her bathtub, under a hundred or so pounds of melting crushed ice that should keep the neighbors from complaining about the smell--at least for long enough that the Selkie could finish her work and be gone.

Once inside the facility, there were several places she needed to check out, and several other places the Selkie could stay to avoid hanging around in the halls.

Two years ago, security people at the interim Pentagon had been found enjoying vids surrept.i.tiously taken of women--and a few men--using the rest-room facilities in the building. Public outcry had been loud and immediate--but the military was long-used to ignoring whatever whim-of-the-moment the uninformed civilian public wanted. However, the idea that somebody might see a four-star general's wee-wee as he took a whiz had bothered the bra.s.s no end. And who knew but there weren't similar spy-eyes in Congressional johns? It was amazing how fast some laws could get written and pa.s.sed when they were really important. As a result, surveillance gear in federal buildings had been restricted--at least the cameras were supposed to be kept out of bathrooms. The fake Wesson could park herself in a stall with a book and kill a couple of hours. She could dawdle over lunch in the cafeteria. She could go to the outside smoking area for a frowned-upon, but still legal, low-tar-low-nicotine cigarette, a pack of which had been in Wesson's purse. With her ID tag twisted on her blouse, she'd be anonymous. n.o.body knew her, and it was a big bureaucracy.

While the target was safe in the high-security area, he would surely come out to a less-secure area, if she could find the right reason.

Somehow, she had to figure out the right reason during the next few hours.

Sooner or later, of course, the office where Wesson worked would probably notice she had not shown up. They might call her apartment, and get the answering machine. No problem, unless, for some reason, those concerned thought to check the building's security computer. If that happened, they would see that Christine Wesson had arrived for work at her normal time--which might cause some raised eyebrows. If she was here, where was she? To stall that, the Selkie had asked more or less politely if Christine would do something for her. She had been more than willing. So, Christine Wesson had called her supervisor in the Office Supply Section in which she worked, and told her she would be a few hours late, that she had an important personal medical errand to run. The supervisor had no problem with that, and a few hours could easily stretch to noon. Then a timed-e-mail would show up at the supervisor's terminal from Wesson, explaining that things had run late. A lot later than anybody but the Selkie knew.