"No. Collecting Collecting him." him."

Startled, c.o.x looked around. n.o.body was watching them. "Kidnapping?"

"It is the simplest solution. The data remains at all times within their headquarters, and a building like that will have wards. Getting inside and collecting data, while not impossible, would be complicated. It would require doc.u.ments, either stolen or forged. It would require an agent who would likely be scanned, photographed, or otherwise recorded. On top of that, even with a proper disguise and identification, simply gaining admittance would not be enough to guarantee finding and securing the data. It is very complex."

c.o.x nodded. "I understand."

"But the man who works upon the code? He comes and goes. He will be unprotected away from his workplace, or, at worst, will have a bodyguard or two. Much easier to deal with. There are many options. His home. In transit to or from work. Recreating. We gather him in, question him, and with the information he provides, we will be in a much better position. Maybe he takes his work home. Perhaps there are but one or two copies of it, which he can tell us how to collect. He will hand us a lever; with it, we can pry what we need into our hands. Not difficult at all, really." He shrugged, reached for his beer.

c.o.x shook his head. The thought had literally never occurred to him to kidnap a Net Force operative. This was why Eduard was so valuable to him. He easily walked down roads that c.o.x would never even consider taking, roads he would never even know were there there.

"Can you find out who the operative is?"

Natadze held his beer up to the light and examined it. "I already know that."

"How?"

"We live in an age of information, sir. There are many public records available-news media, government reports, Internet and web material. Certain names appear in these records with regard to their areas of expertise. The head of Net Force's technical section is a man named Gridley. I have a researcher gathering information on him. Shortly, we will know all there is to know about this man-or at least all that is publicly available. Once I have this, it is simply a matter of choosing when, where, and how to best approach him."

c.o.x reached for his own untouched beer. He took a sip. It was warm, slightly bitter, and smelled of hops or yeast or something, but that didn't matter. At the moment, suddenly, the taste was wonderful. "We are in something of a hurry, Eduard."

"It should not take long to determine what we need. A day or two at most to set it up and we will have him."

c.o.x nodded. "Do it."

"Yes, sir," Natadze said. "I will."

Natadze left first; c.o.x waited for a few minutes. Could it be this simple? G.o.d, he hoped so. If they could wipe this threat away, he would sleep a lot sounder than he had in a long time. Yes, indeed. There would still be the Russians, of course, but the status quo was something with which he could live. He was still more valuable to them free and untarnished, and while they might not go to the mat to protect him, they wouldn't toss him away as long as he was useful. The Russians were nothing if not pragmatic.

And if this worked? Maybe it would be time to send Eduard to find the Doctor and have a little talk with him, as well. If they could determine who knew what over there and eliminate them? That would make his life just about perfect.

He grinned. He would have to give Eduard a nice bonus. A man like him was worth his weight in diamonds.

He raised his gla.s.s in a toast. "Go get 'em, Eduard."

6.

University Park, Maryland The house Thorn had bought was in University Park, just south of the University of Maryland, in Prince George's County. The homes were more stately than spectacular, many of them built in the 1920s and '30s, and most of his neighbors were either professors at the U, well-off business types, or political staff. The streets bore large pin oak and pear trees, and an occasional elm that had somehow managed to survive all the years of blight that seemed to seek out that species. There had been people living here since before the Revolutionary War, though the town itself was much younger. According to the realtor, crime was low, tiger mosquitoes sometimes got bad in the summer despite efforts to eradicate them, and just about all of the single-family homes were occupied by their owners. Upscale, but not ostentatious.

From the outside, Thorn's house was a two-story home, solid, and there was nothing to distinguish it from most of the others on his street, which was exactly what he had wanted when he set the real estate agent to looking.

Inside, there was still work being done. The four-bedroom house was much larger than a man alone needed, and he was having the living room and parlor converted into a fencing salon. One of the joys of being rich was, if you couldn't find exactly what you wanted for a home, you could have it built.

Eventually, he would have fencing masters come to his house to teach him. He had been looking into the j.a.panese arts kendo kendo and even and even iaido iaido, with the live blade.

Not that he wanted much other than that. Coming from a poor family had taught him early on to value people and small things. Yes, when he'd sold his first major piece of software and been handed a huge check, he had run out and gotten himself a bunch of new toys, ranging from top-of-the-line computer systems to fast cars to five-thousand-dollar suits. He had even bought his parents a house in Spokane.

But that was long ago and money no longer burned a hole in his pocket. These days, he had a driver, so he didn't need a car. He ate well enough, though he wasn't a gourmet, and he didn't buy his clothes at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. His one expensive hobby was collecting swords. Aside from working foils, epees, and sabers by such makers as Vniti, Leon Paul, Prieur, and Blaise, he had a collection of antique weapons ranging from j.a.panese katana katanas to Chinese broadswords to Civil War sabers. He would have these hung on the walls of the salle salle when it was done, and a monitored alarm service installed to keep sticky-fingered thieves from helping themselves to the weapons. Other than that, his fortune was not something he used all that much. He did like to fly first cla.s.s, for the leg room, but he could have easily afforded a private jet, and first-cla.s.s was a lot cheaper than that. . . . when it was done, and a monitored alarm service installed to keep sticky-fingered thieves from helping themselves to the weapons. Other than that, his fortune was not something he used all that much. He did like to fly first cla.s.s, for the leg room, but he could have easily afforded a private jet, and first-cla.s.s was a lot cheaper than that. . . .

He smiled at himself as the driver opened the car's door and he alighted at the new house.

"Good night, Mr. Thorn."

"Good night, Carl. See you in the morning."

Thorn ambled to the door, carrying his equipment bag. He thumbed the door's lock and pushed the front door open.

Inside, the smells of sawdust and fresh paint greeted him. He put the sword bag down and went into the kitchen. He didn't feel like cooking, it was late, and a heavy meal before bedtime was an invitation to night-mares, but he was hungry, so he grabbed an Aussie pie from the freezer and stuck it into the microwave, opened a bottle of beer, a Samuel Adams, and went to watch the late news on the television. So far, the new job had been easy enough. He had good people, there were a few more he would eventually bring in, and he hadn't run into anything he couldn't handle. Of course, he didn't expect he would run into anything he couldn't handle.

He sipped from the bottle as the TV lit. It was a little disappointing, really. Sure, there was always a newness factor in any kind of job. Big projects brought their challenges, but it never took him long to get up to speed, and once he did, well, then it was just a matter of time before it got boring. Most of the time, he had to invent his own challenges, and now and then he would have liked to be in a position where he had to stretch a little to keep up. Mostly, that just didn't happen.

The news flared on, the end of a story about another crisis in the Middle East.

When he'd been a kid, Thorn hadn't realized that everybody wasn't as smart as he was. A problem would come up, he'd see the answer, and he'd a.s.sumed that everybody else had seen the answer, but for some reason he couldn't understand, they'd pretend they hadn't. Eventually, he realized that wasn't the case-that in virtually every mental race he ran, he was way out in front when he crossed the finish line.

He took another swig of the beer. The weather was up next, and it was going to be cool and rainy in the District tomorrow.

A big part of his life had been a search for equals, people he could run with, but those were few and far between. Oh, they were out there, and it was a delight when he found one, but he no longer expected to simply run into them the way he once had. Once upon a time, he had lived with a woman who was actually smarter than he was. Sharp, funny, s.e.xy, they liked the same music, the same literature and movies, mostly, but it hadn't worked out. She'd had her career-she was a physicist-and he'd had his, tinkering with computerware, and one day they'd looked up and realized they weren't connected anymore. They couldn't point to any major break. They still exchanged Christmas cards, smiled and hugged each other if they met, but their paths had diverged and neither of them could see a way back. Sad.

In sports, the NBA basketball season was in full swing. Looked as if one of the new expansion teams he hadn't realized even existed was on a roll, ten straight victories.

The microwave ping pinged. He flicked off the television and headed back to the kitchen. He'd do an hour or so on the web, check his personal e-mail and the fencing newsgroup, and then go to bed.

Another exciting evening in the life of Thomas Thorn.

Washington, D.C.

Natadze watched from inside the rental car as the target turned into his driveway and stopped his own car, a three-year-old Volvo.

Following the man had been easy enough, and even if he had lost him, he had known where he was going. He had committed all the statistics to memory. He knew things about Jay Gridley that the man probably did not know himself-his driver's license and credit card numbers, his medical ID number, along with his phone number, address, birthday, and his wife's maiden name.

Proper planning prevents p.i.s.s-poor performance. Knowing as much as possible about the subject was an important part of that.

Gridley got out and walked to the door of his condo, where his wife, who taught Buddhism online, would be waiting. According to her latest medical records, she was pregnant.

Well. If Gridley did as he was told, he would live to be a father. If not . . .

Natadze put that thought from his mind. It was not good to dwell on failure. Yes, you did whatever was necessary to a.s.sure that such a thing did not happen, and that meant considering all the variables and planning for them, but you did not give them power. Failure was not allowed. Only success got you approval.

He looked automatically at his watch, mentally marking the time. Normally, he would follow the target for days, a week, to establish his patterns, but there was a time constraint this time and he would not be allowed that luxury on this mission. He did not like having to hurry, but it was the nature of the a.s.signment, and one made do as best one could, given the parameters. He would do it tomorrow, when the man left work and drove home. It should not be difficult. The target was a white-collar worker, a chair-warmer who was not particularly adept physically. Natadze would use the gun, he would intimidate the man, and that would be that. Have him call his wife and tell her he would be working late. That would give him some time before he was missed at home or work, more than enough to find out what he needed to know. A piece of cake.

He drove past the target's residence. Time to go home. To relax and to practice. The highlight of his day.

University Park, Maryland Thorn logged onto UseNet and into the newsgroup Rec.sport.fencing, where there were sometimes interesting exchanges ranging from technique to politics. Threads-follow-ups that began with a single post-tended to stay on a subject for a while, a.s.suming they weren't stupid to begin with or an insult to the FAQ (frequently asked questions). After twenty or fifty responses, if the original subject was sufficiently covered, then the postings in that thread tended to veer into other areas before dribbling to a stop.

In this group, people came to discuss the French versus the Italian grip; why the Spanish grip should be allowed in compet.i.tion; or where to buy the best blades and furniture. Many of the people who wrote in were knowledgeable about all aspects of fencing. Some were tyros who didn't know an epee from an elephant. And some posters were flat-out trolls.

A troll was somebody who logged into a newsgroup and posted something provocative purely for the sake of generating attention or starting an argument. The term supposedly came from fishing, wherein lines were set to troll for fish. Some said it came from those mythical beasts who lived under bridges and menaced pa.s.sers-by. Either way, a troll on UseNet was a waste of time and s.p.a.ce. They were almost always anonymous, posting insults under screen names so as to be insulated from reprisals, and sometimes they went past merely being annoying to offering libel online.

Some trolls were more clever than simply shouting obscenities into the faces of anybody around; they would pose a question or comment in such a manner as to seem serious. But clever or merely loud, trolls were an annoying fact of net life.

Sometimes very annoying.

Thorn had attracted a couple of these pests in his years on the net, both as a programmer and as a fencer, and when he opened the thread on pistol-grip handles versus straight-grips that now ran to forty-three messages, he found that one of the more irritating trolls of recent months was there, d.o.g.g.i.ng him again.

Thorn had posted the question: Has anybody had problems with tendonitis using the straight grip that switching to a pistol grip has helped? Has anybody had problems with tendonitis using the straight grip that switching to a pistol grip has helped?

There had been several helpful replies, a few more that were interested, and, invariably, the idiot who tried to hijack the thread to serve his own ends. The troll-he had several pseudonyms he hid behind, but his current netnom was "Rapier"-had entered the building: Tendonitis, Thorn? Must be you're gripping your blade wrong. Or, wait. Maybe it's just that you're gripping the wrong blade ;-)! Is that it, Thorn? So why don't you hire somebody to give you that kind of attention? You can afford it, a rich guy like you. . . .

Thorn gritted his teeth. What was wrong with somebody that the only way he could get attention was to jump up and down spitting and cursing at people, acting like a two-year-old? Look at me! Look at me! See how clever I am? Look at me! Look at me! See how clever I am?

Unfortunately, yes, we see exactly exactly how clever you are. Which isn't at all. how clever you are. Which isn't at all.

Responding only made it worse. These fools didn't care what you said, only that you said something-anything-thus providing the attention they craved. The best way to respond was to ignore it. "Don't feed the trolls" was the advice that seasoned UseNetters gave to newbies. If n.o.body reacts, they leave.

Which, unfortunately, was not true of the really obnoxious ones. They simply changed their netnoms and came back in a new disguise, looking to get your goat.

Generally, as soon as Thorn recognized a troll, he put the name into his "kill" filter. From then on, that name would be marked and he simply didn't open the postings. Of course, every time a troll changed names, he would slip by for a message or two.

The anonymity of the net had given rise to tens of thousands of such losers. If they said those things to a man's face, they would be looking for their teeth, but safe in their homes at a keyboard they felt free to insult the world at large. Sad that this was all the life they had.

Thorn had a huge kill file of names, and one of the worst had used a dozen aliases in the last six months. It was the same guy. The writing style-such that it was-was easy to spot. The guy didn't shout by using all caps, and his grammar wasn't atrocious, but the snideness was definitive, and the speech patterns didn't vary. And here he was yet again.

Thorn sighed, then added "Rapier" to his kill file.

Somebody ought to do something about these idiots.

Even as he thought it, he had the realization: He was now in a position where he could do something. He was running Net Force.

He smiled and shook his head. Trolls weren't illegal. Irritating, obnoxious, sometimes even pitiful or outright psychotic, but there weren't any laws against that. If they actually threatened or libeled you, you could do something, but the smarter ones would avoid going that far. They'd step right up to the edge, but not past it. Innuendo, yes, and thinly veiled threats, but never enough to take them into court to squash.

There were ways to backtrack e-mail and postings, perfectly legal ones to run through an Internet service provider to bring to their attention that they had people misbehaving. Some of the larger ISPs would kick an offender off if they got enough complaints. But some of the smaller ones, especially those in third-world countries, didn't really care what their patrons did, as long as they paid their bills. Nigeria was notorious, all kinds of con-men ran schemes from there, the most famous being one about smuggling a large fortune out of the country and cutting in people who would help. A lot of folks had lost a lot of money on those schemes, even after they had been made public time and time again.

Clever trolls could hide their ident.i.ties, and some of them used anonymous machines, at libraries or Internet cafes, so even if you tracked the computer down, you wouldn't catch them. If they were dangerous, you could install key-watch software and eventually nail them, but Net Force didn't chase trolls; if they did, they wouldn't have time for anything else.

Well, it was what it was, and you just had to shrug it off. It was tempting to drop the posting into Jay Gridley's lap and tell him to find the guy, though. Outing "Rapier" on the net would feel very satisfying. There were folks who, if they knew where the man lived, would drop by and have a few words with him.

Of course, the "man" could be a thirteen-year-old precocious brat using his mother's computer, and Thorn didn't want to be responsible for some irritated stranger kicking the c.r.a.p out of him. Though it would be very satisfying to have the kid's mother do it. . . .

He smiled. Enough for today. Time to get to bed.

7.

Washington, D.C.

Natadze picked up his guitar and moved to his playing chair, a specially made stool with a footrest built in at precisely the right height for him. He was in a T-shirt and sweatpants, and he had a sleeve, made from a silk sock with the toe end cut off, over his right arm, to keep his skin from touching the instrument. The sweatpants were elastic-no b.u.t.tons or zippers, nothing that might scratch the wood.

He did not wear a watch or rings, and the only things that might possibly damage the fine finish were the fingernails on his right hand, which were kept long and filed carefully for plucking the strings. The nails on his left hand were trimmed very short, so as not to cause buzzing on the frets.

Cla.s.sical guitar was a strict discipline, and that had appealed to Natadze even when he had been introduced to it as a boy. It needed a certain position, the left leg up, the instrument's waist on that leg, the lower bout just so, the left thumb always placed behind the neck, right hand relaxed here. . . .

This guitar had been made in 1967 by the luthier Daniel Friedrich, one of the most renowned guitar makers of the late twentieth century. At his peak, there had been a tenor twelve-year waiting list for one of his new instruments, which was not that uncommon among the best makers. The top was German spruce, the back and sides Brazilian rosewood, the neck a standard 650-millimeter scale and 52 millimeters at the nut. The finish was French polish, the tuners by Rodgers, and it had been in almost mint condition when Natadze had bought it-paying forty thousand U.S. dollars for it.

A decent concert guitar could be had for a quarter of that. This was much better than decent, though. It was superb.

He was, he knew, not a good enough player to deserve such an instrument. Yes, he could play with sufficient skill so that he probably could have earned a meager living at it. He had a fair repertoire, several memorized pieces that ran more than twenty minutes, one that was almost half an hour without repeating sections, and he could manage a better-than-average tremolo when playing Fernando Sor, even though he was largely self-taught. But his music theory was only fair, his sight-reading still slow, and he resorted to tablature when he was in a hurry to learn a new piece.

Hard to justify the Friedrich, which had a powerful, almost haunting tone that would fill a concert hall, and was mostly played in Natadze's living room. Such an instrument should be in the hands of a world-cla.s.s artist, somebody who could coax from it degrees of subtlety far beyond an amateur such as himself.

He had more than enough room to grow into it-he would never be good enough to fully utilize the guitar's capabilities, certainly not practicing just two or three hours a day as he did. But he had wanted it, and he could afford it, and so he had gotten it. He had owned beautiful instruments from other expert luthiers from around the world. He had Spanish, German, French, and Italian guitars locked away in a humidity- and temperature-controlled room in his house. The last few years, he had favored American makers-he had an Oribe, a Ruck, one by Byers, a particularly sweet-toned cedar-top from J. S. Bogdanovich that had been very reasonably priced-but this guitar had, in addition to its perfect craftsmanship and construction, a history. It had been played by some of the best guitarists ever. It had called to him the moment he touched it, he could feel the sense of history, and there had been no question that he would own it.

He settled himself upon the thin cushion on the stool. He did not need a back support, since he would sit completely upright throughout the session. One did not lean back while playing cla.s.sical style.

He had his electronic tuner on the music stand in front of him, though he could tune to A440 by ear after all these years. He had experimented with various combinations of strings over the years, but found that medium-tension La Bella's worked well, though some of the newer composites lasted longer.

He smiled. When you had a forty-thousand-dollar guitar, buying new strings was not a major expense.

He tuned the instrument, plucked an E-major chord, belled all six string harmonics on the twelfth fret, and was satisfied with the sound.

He began with his warm-up pieces, simple airs he had known since he had started playing: Bach's "Bouree in E-minor," the traditional Spanish piece, "Romanza," Pachelbel's "Canon in D."

Then he played McCartney's "Blackbird." Hardly cla.s.sical, but a simple way to be sure he wasn't being sloppy and squeaking the ba.s.s strings. Besides, it was fun, more so than scales or barres barres up and down the neck. Now and again, he would play down-and-dirty blues, too, and while they sounded much nastier on a dobro steel body, it was amazing how well they came out of this guitar. Not as if it were sacrilege to play other kinds of music on such an instrument, though some cla.s.sical players would argue that it was. up and down the neck. Now and again, he would play down-and-dirty blues, too, and while they sounded much nastier on a dobro steel body, it was amazing how well they came out of this guitar. Not as if it were sacrilege to play other kinds of music on such an instrument, though some cla.s.sical players would argue that it was.

He smiled, and went to work on the new piece, one by Chopin. He hated Chopin, but he was determined to learn it anyway. A man had to stretch now and then.

All thoughts of work, of anything other than the music, left him as he became one with the guitar of which he knew he was unworthy.

c.o.x Estates Long Island, New York Most of the time, c.o.x stayed in the city until the weekend; he had an apartment in Manhattan, an entire floor in an exclusive co-op overlooking the park. His neighbors there were senators and Broadway producers and old oil money. He also had his current mistress, a delightful woman of thirty-four, installed in a brownstone, and if he didn't feel like going that far, could make do in what amounted to a small apartment down the hall from his office. But now and then, he'd have his chauffeur haul him out to the estate during the week, just for a change. Sometimes Laura would be there, more often not-she was active in a dozen different charities, ran a foundation that gave grant money to starving artists, and went to see the children and grandchildren with some frequency, most of whom lived within a couple of hours of here. She had her own place in the city, and, likely as not, she would be there during the week as well-as apparently she was this evening, for she was not home.

The house was much too large for just them-thirty rooms, not counting the baths, but when you were a billionaire in a mansion, servants were a given. Even when Laura was gone there would be a dozen people there-a butler, cooks, maids, gardeners, security and maintenance people, his driver.

Now, as he sat in his home office, a room paneled in half-inch hand-rubbed and waxed pecan, with a desk made from flame maple and a couple million dollars worth of paintings by various Flemish masters on the walls, c.o.x looked at what appeared to be a rubber stamp, and allowed himself to gloat a little.

The silicone stamp was that of a human thumbprint.

A man in his position made a few enemies along the way. When you sat at the top of the heap, the climbers who would take your place were always scrabbling their way upward, hoping you would fall, and willing to push you if you didn't.