Smith frowned. “What point?”
“Give us back our toys and do it right damn quick,” I said. “Don’t think they’re going to give us a third chance.”
Top nodded. So, after a moment, did everyone else.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
Bug had a large team, one that grew faster than any other department within the DMS. Cyberterrorism and cybercrime were the greatest threat to governments around the world since the creation of atomic weapons — and far more insidious. They could cause incredible destruction without scorching the earth or irradiating the air. And the weapon of choice in the twenty-first century was a laptop with good Wi-Fi.
Bug was on the other side of that battlefield. He — like many of his employees — had begun his career as a gray-hat hacker. Some of his people had actually been black hats, though when faced with a choice of using their skills to help rather than harm, had made sensible choices. Others Bug had tried to recruit hadn’t made the right call, and they were in prison cells, denied any access to computers.
This did not mean that Bug and his people respected laws. That was hardly the case. They routinely committed felonies of all kinds. The difference was the reason. For Bug and his department, it was very much a philosophy of the ends justifying the means.
When he forwarded requests through proper channels to initiate a nationwide search for the male identified as Valen Oruraka, a suspected Russian agent, his request was denied. The refusal came down from the highest office in the land, and was front-loaded with a blistering reprimand and all manner of threats should the De partment of Military Sciences try to hijack already overtaxed systems for a wild-goose hunt. And various words to that effect. The doors of free and unfettered access to the various databases of the American intelligence networks were slammed in his face.
“Fine,” said Bug, “be that way.”
He called a brief meeting with his department heads and told them what he wanted them to do. None of the people in the meeting looked particularly dangerous. An outsider might label them geeks or nerds. Those labels were fair enough; however, they were very dangerous geeks and nerds. They were, in their way, every bit as dangerous as Joe Ledger, Top, Bunny, or any of the shooters who went into the field. None of Bug’s team carried a gun; most wouldn’t know how to even load one. They didn’t need to. They had MindReader Q1.
“Find Valen Oruraka,” said Bug. “No mercy.”
The “no mercy” thing was an unwritten in-house protocol. It meant that the full power of the world’s most powerful, sophisticated, and subtle computer system, with all of its super-intrusion software, would be aimed at those closed doors and the trigger pulled.
The vast databases of the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security never saw them coming. They did, however, brace for an attack, because the White House told them to expect some kind of trickery from the DMS. They looked, but they did not see the bullet. Neither did the CIA, the DIA, the Secret Service, or any of the dozens of other departments and agencies in the collective law enforcement, intelligence, and investigative community. MindReader Q1 walked past all of their watchdog programs, invisible and unfelt. It accessed trillions of files and rewrote the host software to erase even the slightest trace of its presence. No footprint was left, no echo, no scar.
Bug’s intercom buzzed and he punched the button. “Thrill me,” he said.
“On your screen,” said Delilah, one of his best gunslingers.
An image appeared, showing a man with black hair, a goatee, Wayfarer sunglasses, and a cowboy hat walking into a convenience store attached to a gas station across from the Econo Lodge in Livingston, Montana. The black-and-white surveillance cameras got good views of him from three different angles. He wore boot-cut jeans and a Western-style shirt. The boots had thick soles and thicker heels. He did not look remotely like the man they were hunting.
Bug smiled anyway. He bent close and looked at a dozen pop-up windows that overlaid the video feed. Minute measurements of ears, cheekbones, nose, and other features flashed as they lined up with the college identification photo of Valen Oruraka.
“Got you, you son of a bitch,” murmured Bug.
PART THREE
HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN TONIGHT
The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE
“Cowboy,” said Bug via the command channel, “the pilot says you’re not going to Montana.”
“No,” I said, “I’m going hunting for Valen Oruraka.”
“But Valen’s in Montana,” insisted Bug.
“Maybe,” I said, “but that’s not where he’s going.”
Doc Holliday said, “Activating the ORB. I think we need to have us a little powwow.”
Suddenly she was there, with Junie, Church, and Bug, along with my whole team.
“Before I explain where I’m going, I want to go over some things. Let’s take this one piece at a time. Honest opinion, guys… is Valen our Big Bad?”
“No,” said Bug. “It’s Gadyuka.”
“I agree,” said Junie. “Valen is a scientist and an idealist. He’s fighting for a cause. Two causes, really. This New Soviet thing, and family. He thinks his uncle was unfairly blamed for Chernobyl. It’s been the focus of his whole life to learn enough to be able to prove what he believes.”
“He’s still a bad guy, though,” said Bunny. “Heartbreak or not, he’s just killed nearly two thousand people.”
“Two thousand one hundred and nine, as of this morning,” corrected Doc. That hurt. It really goddamn hurt. I saw Top wince; Cole turned away, unable to look at anyone for a moment.
“Let me change the question,” I said. “Is Gadyuka the Big Bad?”
“Yes,” said Bug.
“Yes,” said Doc and Junie.
“No,” said Church. “Gadyuka is a spymaster and, possibly, an assassin, but the setup at Pushkin Dynamics could not exist without substantial political juice. Someone had to authorize the money for it, make sure it was left alone, guarantee that the tax returns would not be looked at too closely, and grease the wheels for the exports. That takes an infrastructure of considerable size. Gadyuka seems more likely as the director of field operations, but I can’t buy her as being senior management. It would be too risky to run an op of that size from the field. That, for the record, is why I do not go into the field anymore. Any chain of command needs to be solidly anchored.”
Doc frowned for a moment. “When you say ‘infrastructure,’ you’re not talking about Russian Mafiya? Do you mean a ghost organization within the Russian government?”
Church shrugged. “That, or something bigger.”
“What’s bigger…?” began Bunny, then he stopped and goggled. “Wait… you’re talking about all the way big, aren’t you? Like the actual Russian government. Are we talking Uncle Vladimir as the Big Bad?”
“Anything is possible, Master Sergeant.”
I said, “No way something like this was happening without key people at the very top being involved. The risk is too big, for one thing. If a single shred of proof ever gets out connecting Russia to D.C., then it’s an act of war. Such an event would splinter all global alliances. Countries would have to decide if they wanted to move fast to help crush Russia completely to prevent the use of the earthquake weapon; or they might align themselves with the New Soviet for fear of devastating retaliation. We have proof that Pushkin was shipping, or planning to ship, those machines to China, England, and other countries.”