34
As he was rebuilding his system, damaged in the sudden VR bail he'd been forced to take, Plekhanov came across bad news.
Somebody had snapped a couple of his trip wires.
It was late, he was tired and his first reaction was panic.
He forced himself to take several deep breaths. Easy, Vladimir. All is not lost.
He re-ran his security scans. There were no other signs of the intruder, so he was good, whoever he was. But there was no way to avoid breaking the trip if you went down certain electronic corridors. Like very fine strands of spider silk, the trips were always placed with utmost care, put in places short of where most would begin to look for them. Even a passer-through looking for such wards would usually miss them. They'd be strung across at knee-level, nearly invisible, offering so little resistance they'd never be noticed. If you stepped over one, chances were you would then break the next one. Once broken, the threads could not be restrung.
It could have been a coincidence, some hacker exploring, but he did not believe that, not for a moment. No, he was sure that it was a Net Force operative, using the information gathered during the chase. Had the positions been reversed, had he been tailing somebody in VR, he could have tracked somebody with what he would have gotten during that run. As much as it galled him to admit it, if he could do it, so could someone else.
He had underestimated them once. He would not do so again.
So. Either they knew who he was, or they were close to figuring it out. If it was still the latter, with the resources of Net Force at their disposal, it would be only a matter of time.
And then? Ah, then was when it would get interesting. They had no hard evidence, he was certain of that. And in order to get such evidence, they would have to probe a lot deeper into his system than they could possibly have managed thus far. And if they did know who he was, they would know how impossible that was going to be. They would know his capabilities. The key to his cipher existed only inside his brain, it was not written down anywhere, and they couldn't legally force him to divulge it. Without the key, his coded files might as well be blocks of iron — nobody could open them, nobody.
Plekhanov leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and considered the problem. Knowing who he was was not the same as proving what he had done. He had, of course, run scenarios in which Net Force or some other law enforcement organization had uncovered his identity before his plan came to full fruition. As unlikely as that possibility had seemed, he was too old and too experienced to have not at least considered it. In his worst case scenario, they knew who he was and they had proof of what he had done — the net rascals, the bribery, the killings, all of it.
There was a point beyond which even that would not matter. Once his people came to power, he would be practically invulnerable. Extradition requests would not be denied outright. That would be impolite. An investigation into the charges against the valuable and honored friend of the people would, however, eventually come to the conclusion that it was not in the best interests of the country to turn him over to the Americans. Not that his people wouldn't throw him to the wolves if they thought they could get away with it. They would. Fortunately, the newly elected officials would not only owe him for their jobs, there would exist also a detailed record of how they got those jobs. To abandon him to the beasts would mean those responsible would fall off the sleigh with him. He had learned a long time ago that self-interest was more dependable than any amount of gratitude.
This was distressing, of course. A blot on an otherwise perfect plan, but not crippling, not this far along. He would keep a careful watch on things, proceed with extra care, but keep going as before. Ruzhyo was in place. Any sudden activity from Net Force, and the Rifle could be fired to offer them more confusion. Past a certain point, nothing they did would matter, and that point was fast approaching.
Michaels was still chewing on the news that Ray Genaloni was dead, along with his mistress and a bodyguard, as he wound the meeting down. Richardson had already gone.
Alex had a couple of final assignments for his own people.
"Jay, run scenarios on what Plekhanov might be after. Tie all the pieces you have together. Is there any way to figure out where he's been, who he's seen, both in VR and RW?"
"Maybe. He'll have his files locked, but we've got an ID and we might be able to backwalk some of his movement."
"Do so, please."
Jay nodded. He left.
Michaels said to Howard, "I need you to do something for me. Work up a plan that would involve a sub-rosa extraction of Plekhanov from Chechnya."
Howard stared at him. "Sir?"
"Assume for a second that we can't get the Russian legally extradited. What would it take for a team to go in and get him? Could it be done?"
Howard didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir, it could be done. How sub-rosa are we talking about?"
"We wouldn't want our troops marching down the main street in full dress uniform waving the stars ‘n' stripes; on the other hand, if something went wrong, we wouldn't leave them hanging. Dog tags under civilian clothes. Some kind of contingency plan if the extraction went sour. This is your area of expertise."
"I see. I can work this up, sir, but realistically speaking, what are the odds of getting such a go-ahead?"
"I'd say the chances are slim and snowball, Colonel, but as far as this scenario is concerned, we're talking the NRA slogan about guns and self-defense here."
" ‘Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it'?"
"Exactly."
"Sir. I'll work it up ASAP." Was that a new sense of respect in his voice? Even a little warmth?
"Thank you, Colonel."
Michaels went back to his office. Toni walked along with him.
"If Genaloni had Steve Day killed, he's beyond our reach now," she said.
"Somebody saved the people the cost of a long and expensive trial, yeah. What I'm wondering is — who did it? And why?"
Toni shrugged. "He's a mobster. They swat each other like people at an outdoor summer barbecue slap mosquitoes."
They got to his office. Toni followed him in.
He frowned. "This wasn't a casual, reactive swat. Somebody very professional did this, an expert. Three dead people in a quiet neighborhood and nobody saw anything. They capped Genaloni and his mistress inside the house, came out, dropped the bodyguard in the back, knowing there were four hardwared bodyguards out front. We're not just talking cool, we're talking about somebody with supercooled liquid in their veins. Anything I don't have here?" He waved at his computer screen.
"Our forensic report is still preliminary. All we got is a boot print in the neighbor's yard. He's a little guy, whoever he is."
Michaels raised an eyebrow.
She called up the prelim: "See. Print looks like a man's size four or five. Depth in the ground says he weighed maybe one-fifteen, one-twenty. Cat-burglar build."
Michaels shook his head. There was something about this rattling around in his mind… "I don't like it," he said, "it's too neat."
"Sometimes things just… happen, Alex, and they aren't directly connected. You can't predict them. Somebody turns up in the right place at the right time, the circumstances are ripe, things just get out of hand."
He looked at her. What was she talking about? It sounded more like an apology than an explanation.
She looked uncomfortable. She said, "What I'm saying is, somebody had it out for Genaloni. Maybe the timing is a coincidence."
Something occurred to him. He tapped his keyboard, called up a file.