Changing Of The Guard Part 28

The orchestra wound down another waltz.

"You're right," she said. "I saw a waiter go up and talk to the band leader a minute ago. You figure we're about to hear something from the big band swing era?"

He shrugged.

The conductor raised his baton. One of the cello players set his instrument down and stood. He was maybe thirty, with red hair and pale skin.

The violins cranked up. It took the crowd a few seconds to realize they weren't getting another waltz.

The cellist started singing "Big Car Blues," a pretty fair imitation of Lightnin' Hopkins's version of it, too. Never would have guessed he had it in him, to look at him.

When he started going on about that big black Cadillac with white-sidewall tires, some of the attendees laughed.

Marissa just grinned real big and shook her head. "Oh, Tommy. What am I going to do with you?" But she was tapping her foot to the music-as were at least a few others.

As the song wound down, Thorn looked up and saw Beatrice Theiron working her way through the crowd in their direction. She was seventy, but with enough knife-work and makeup that she looked to be in her late fifties. She caught his gaze and smiled.

Marissa looked to see what Thorn was staring at.

"Show time," he said.

He looks good for a man his age, Thorn thought. Fit, skin still mostly clear, lots of smile wrinkles. Very expensive caps on his teeth. His hair was gray and going white, the haircut probably a hundred bucks, and the tuxedo was immaculate, perfectly fitted. Italian leather shoes, too. Thorn thought. Fit, skin still mostly clear, lots of smile wrinkles. Very expensive caps on his teeth. His hair was gray and going white, the haircut probably a hundred bucks, and the tuxedo was immaculate, perfectly fitted. Italian leather shoes, too.

Beatrice Theiron spoke to c.o.x as an equal-her family's wealth, counted in the billions, came from munitions, and ran back to before the Revolutionary War. American money didn't get much older. The Theirons had been so rich for so long they didn't even think about it as anything but a force of nature, like the sun or the rain.

"Samuel, this is Tom Thorn, the young man about whom I spoke earlier. Tom, Samuel c.o.x."

"Ah, Tom, so nice to finally meet you."

He turned his full attention upon Thorn like a spotlight as they shook hands. A firm grip, enough to show he was a man, not enough to be a challenge.

Her duty done, Beatrice said, "Pardon me, if you would, I just saw Madame LeDoux, and I must must run and ask her about her dress!" run and ask her about her dress!"

She flitted away, spry for a woman well past retirement age.

Thorn watched her for a moment, then said, "Mr. c.o.x. This is Marissa Lowe."

"Please, call me Sam." c.o.x took Marissa's hand, flashed his high-wattage smile at her. "My deep pleasure, Ms. Lowe."

Marissa gave him a half smile and nod.

c.o.x released her hand and looked around. A waiter appeared as if by magic, bearing a tray with champagne flutes, still cold enough that the gla.s.ses were frosted. c.o.x took two stems, gave one each to Thorn and Marissa, took a third for himself. The waiter vanished.

"Nice trick," Marissa said, nodding at the gla.s.s.

He smiled at her. "One of the small perks."

He raised his gla.s.s slightly, and offered a toast: "To success," he said.

They clinked gla.s.ses. "Success," Thorn and Marissa echoed.

They sipped the wine. Thorn didn't think this was the same vintage everybody else was drinking-it was crisper, cleaner, with a hint of apple. Private stock? Probably.

"So, you are the Commander of Net Force," c.o.x said.

"Afraid so."

"Must be interesting, working for the government, after being in the private sector. It is just amazing what they can do with computers these days. I have no head for such things myself. Never quite trust them to give me what I need."

"It is a challenge at times."

"And you, Ms. Lowe, you are a federal employee, as well?"

"I am."

c.o.x grinned, and it was a sly look. "But not with Net Force. Let me guess: I'd say . . . the CIA?"

Her smile didn't falter a bit. "A good guess, Mr. c.o.x."

And Thorn thought, "Guess"-yeah, right. "Guess"-yeah, right.

"Please, Sam. We're past the formal stage, wouldn't you say? I feel as if I have known you two for a long time. Almost as if we have been doing business with one another."

It wasn't so much the words, but the look that attended them that struck Thorn. The comment about the CIA, coupled with a glint in the eyes and just a hint of a grin.

No question in Thorn's mind that the man knew he was being stalked, and exactly who it was on his tail.

Not that it would be hard to guess-after Natadze had snuck out of the estate, it would have been easy enough to put two and two together. Somebody stops his limo at the gate, and a couple days later, here is Thomas Thorn, Commander of Net Force, asking for an introduction?

No, it wouldn't take a bright bulb to illuminate that one, and c.o.x was certainly not dim. Thorn had known that going in. He was here to size up his opponent, see his moves, and it didn't matter if the man knew who he was and why he'd come.

c.o.x glanced at his watch. It was a plain-looking instrument, nothing the least bit ostentatious, but Thorn knew it was one of those handmade Swiss things that cost as much as a new Mercedes. Probably sat in a motorized box at home that would rotate every now and then to keep it wound when c.o.x wasn't wearing it.

"Oh, my, look at the time. I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm afraid I have to run-we have another of these things on tonight's schedule. n.o.blesse oblige and all that. A great pleasure to finally meet you both. I wish you good fortune in your endeavors, Tom and Marissa. And a parting piece of wisdom I learned from my track coach when I was in high school: Some days you get the bear and some days, the bear gets you." He gave them a slow, military bow, and left.

After he was gone, Marissa looked up at Thorn and said, "He's playing with us, Tommy."

He nodded. "Yeah. That last bit about the bear pretty much nailed it shut. He was gloating gloating. He knows we know, but doesn't think we can touch him."

"I guess that much money and power buys a lot of confidence," she said.

"Even Achilles had his heel," he said.

"And if he'd worn a metal boot, he would have been invulnerable," she said.

"Whose side are you on?"

"Why, yours, Tommy. Your left side, as I make it." She batted her eyelids at him theatrically.

He grinned, despite his irritation at c.o.x. The die was cast. The man knew who they were, knew they were after him, and had the gall to stand there and spar with them about it.

We'll see who gets whom, Mr. Bear.

33.

New York City In the back of the limo on the way home from the charity dinner, c.o.x fixed himself a drink, bourbon over ice. He was not pleased. As soon as the Theiron woman had approached him, asking to introduce Thomas Thorn and his dark-skinned date, c.o.x had known. Net Force must have broken the coded file, despite what Eduard had done to prevent it. They knew he was a spy. They had come to take his measure for the coffin they hoped to build.

A quick phone call had given him some background information on Thorn, and on his paramour, who worked for the CIA. He had been armed a little better when finally they had spoken.

c.o.x sipped his drink. He had tweaked Thorn and the woman a bit, knowing a good offense was the best defense. Let them know he knew what they were about to keep them off balance, that was how he had fought his way to the top. Give back more than you receive, that was how you won.

Even so, he had to resist the urge to panic. Them knowing knowing was not the same as them was not the same as them proving proving. He knew that. Unless they had ironclad evidence, something absolutely certain and incontrovertible, the feds would not move against him. The Russian was dead, the other copies of the file were either gone or about to be, and his name written in an old Soviet doc.u.ment? Any lawyer worth his salt could argue that such a listing could be nothing more than disinformation, designed to impeach a man's character, to sow distrust. It proved nothing in itself. Anybody could put a name into a file. For that matter, how do we know that the file in question wasn't simply fabricated altogether?

Yes, if they knew how much he did not wish such information to become public, they could hold that over him, but they did not know that. And any threats to smear him would result in legal and political troubles that would give a strong man pause. A politician would have to be very brave indeed to venture onto such a tricky path where a misstep could result in the end of a career. The most fiery federal prosecutor had bosses to whom he must answer, and his bosses had their bosses. The higher you went, the more political things got. Attorneys-General and Presidents did not blindly sail into uncharted waters.

A crafty politician knew that when you fought a giant, you had best be careful with your sling. If your first shot was wide, you might be crushed before you had a chance to reload.

And if you had but one stone? Then the risk was extreme indeed, and the payoff had better be worth it-and guaranteed.

c.o.x did not wish to come to blows with the feds, but at this juncture he felt certain that they would not be eager to start that war, either. They didn't have a walkover victory lined up. They couldn't.

He should have thought of this much sooner, of course, long before tonight, even. His first reaction to the threat of being unearthed after all these years, sending Eduard after Jay Gridley, had been . . . less considered than it should have been. He had, in retrospect, acted in more haste than was wise. Then, even the hint of scandal about such things had seemed insupportable. And there had been several additional factors other than the Net Force file.

Now? Now, an accusation based on a single doc.u.ment, without any supporting evidence? That could be laughed off: Me? A Communist spy? My G.o.d man, look at me! I'm Samuel Walker c.o.x, I'm a billionaire! Are you out of your mind? Me? A Communist spy? My G.o.d man, look at me! I'm Samuel Walker c.o.x, I'm a billionaire! Are you out of your mind?

Even his enemies would smile at that one-unless there was hefty proof to back it up.

If there had been a handler willing to testify, and supporting papers from official sources, that would have been weightier, but a file allegedly given to Net Force by our sometimes-friends, sometimes-not-friends, the Turks? Where is their copy backing this? Lost, you say? What about the Russians, surely they had supporting evidence? Oops, can't find it?

My, my.

He was in a better position than before. Still not ideal, but even so, if it got to that, he could afford the best spin docs in the world.

If it got to that.

And, unless they came up with something else, c.o.x was pretty sure it would never get get to that. You didn't need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blew. All was not lost. to that. You didn't need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blew. All was not lost.

He sipped the drink, finis.h.i.+ng it. He needed to rein Eduard in, he saw. If Net Force had broken the code, as surely they had, or else they wouldn't have come to have a look at him, then any further attempts against their people would be useless and and dangerous. Eduard was loyal, but suppose he was captured or killed? There might be some way to link him to c.o.x, and that would give them another bit of circ.u.mstantial evidence, however tenuous. If they couldn't come up with anything else, he was safe. Best not to give them a chance at anything else, no matter how remote it might be. dangerous. Eduard was loyal, but suppose he was captured or killed? There might be some way to link him to c.o.x, and that would give them another bit of circ.u.mstantial evidence, however tenuous. If they couldn't come up with anything else, he was safe. Best not to give them a chance at anything else, no matter how remote it might be.

If your enemy's fire was burning low, giving him more fuel was unwise.

He dug into the seat pocket and came up with one of the throwaway phones. He thumbed in Eduard's number for the day.

Net Force might be a squall headed his way, but if he sat tight, hunkered down, and waited, it would pa.s.s. No point in risking the lightning by standing alone in a field.

"Yes?"

"Cancel the current contract," c.o.x said. "Clean up everything, neat and tidy, and don't leave any trash lying about. Nothing."

"Yes, sir," Eduard said.

And that was that.

34.

University Park, Maryland A week after his meeting with c.o.x, nothing new had developed on that front. The constant surveillance-which was costing a considerable amount of his budget-had not produced so much as a glimpse of Natadze and c.o.x together.

Thorn invited Marissa to dinner. He chose a small but sophisticated place where they could talk. He wanted to get to know her better, but he also wanted her take on some things that were bothering him, and he wanted them both without interruption.

After they had eaten and were lingering over coffee, he turned the conversation back to the party they'd attended. "You stood and listened to him taunt us," he said. "We know he is guilty, but we don't have the proof."

"What do we know that he's guilty of?" she said.

"He had at least one person we know of killed, albeit that one was a Russian agent and not a great loss to the world. And he had somebody shoot Jay Gridley-though he survived. The only thing that makes sense is that he was afraid of something Jay was working on, and my guess is that he's listed on that file of Soviet agents-that would explain him having the Russian taken out. It doesn't make much much sense, a rich man spying for the Communists, but nothing else computes. The man was a spy. Maybe he still is." sense, a rich man spying for the Communists, but nothing else computes. The man was a spy. Maybe he still is."

He sighed. "I'm sure he did other things at least that bad along the way, but we don't have what we need to get him."

"That's how it works sometimes," Marissa said. She paused. "Let me tell you a story."

"Another story? You ought to have your own show on PBS," he said. " 'Marissa the Wise Woman Speaks.' "

"That's true, I should. Good of you to acknowledge it."

He laughed.

She said, "Where there's a will, there's usually a way. We're tropical creatures, our bodies are designed for warm climates, gra.s.slands, trees. But we've come up with clothes that let us walk around at the South Pole, created machines that let us cover great distances at speed, allow us to cross land, the oceans-or to go deep under water, if we want. We've even been to the moon, through a cold vacuum where you'd die in seconds unprotected."

"Yeah, we're adaptable. So?"

"So, we don't always come up with the ultimate answer, but for every question, we usually come up with something. Consider the mata-you."

"What's a mata-you?"