Despite heroic measures, eighteen polio patients breathing on respirators in the Dundee Memorial Hospital died when the backup generators failed after a power outage blacked out the city. The problem was worse because it was so dark in the building away from the battery-powered lighting that nobody could find some of the dead until almost an hour later.
"Oh, Lord," Alex Michaels said. "He's killing people."
The video of the South African train accident came from a security cam at Tembisa Station. The plane crash was recorded by a tourist waiting for a passenger on the JAL jet. The Australian deaths were vox only, no video.
Just as well, Michaels thought. The idea of watching almost a score of people die trying to breathe might have been more than he could stand. At least the train and jet crashes had been quick for those who perished.
"Yes," Cooper said. "He's bollixed dozens of major systems. I don't see how it is possible."
Neither did Michaels, but like the apocryphal ostrich with his head in the sand, not seeing it didn't make it go away. Communications, transportation, even traffic signals were screwed up. Who was this guy? How could he do such things all over the world at the same time?
They were in the office that MI-6 had provided, and the building around them hummed with frantic energy that matched their own. He looked at Toni. "We need to talk to our people at home."
"Unless you have a fast carrier pigeon, good luck," Toni said. "The landlines that work via the Atlantic cable are jammed, and anything going up to satcoms is scrambled worse than Humpty Dumpty."
"I can't believe it. He's managed to shut down virtually everything tied into a major computer net. The power is beyond anything we've ever seen," Cooper said.
That was for damn sure. Worse, why was the hacker doing it? What did he stand to gain? Was he a terrorist? Michaels knew he needed to do something. But — what? What could you do when the tools you normally used were all broken?
Better come up with some new ones, Alex, or this guy is going to bring the whole planet to a screeching halt. Maybe he's already done so. You can't get good intel, so how would you know?
"We got these vids and reports on our shielded and hardened lines," Cooper said. "We'll get as much input via them as possible. I'll go and see if we can obtain time on one to contact your agency in the States."
She left, and Michaels stared at the desk. "We've got to do something," he said.
"I know."
But — what?
Chapter 22
Ruzhyo stood in front of the post office across from Westminster Cathedral. He was aware of the frantic scurrying around him. There had been a major computer and power failure, it seemed. He had been buying stamps when the electricity failed, and the machine had gone blank and eaten his coins. He had left the building and noticed that the traffic signals were out, and that there was a kind of puzzled worry in the air. Policemen arrived and began directing traffic at the intersection. He listened to snatches of conversations from passersby and got the buzz of what they knew and didn't, and he wondered about it. But that did not distract him so much that he missed the man angling in toward him from the left, dodging traffic as he hurried across Victoria Street.
That the man was coming toward him — for him — was certain. The man was young, fit, smiling, but that meant nothing, Ruzhyo had smiled at some of the people he had deleted. It was disarming, a big smile, it allayed suspicion. How dangerous was a man grinning at you?
Such a man could be deadly, Ruzhyo knew. But was this one so?
Though dressed like a layabout in a leather jacket and jeans, the young man moved like a soldier, Ruzhyo thought. He had a definite military bearing to his step. This one had spent time in uniform, no question. Either that, or he was wearing a back brace.
Ruzhyo considered his options.
What should he do? Run? Stand his ground?
He looked around. No others were focused on him, at least not that he could see. If it was just the one, what did that mean? The smiling man showed no hardware, and though he certainly could have a pistol hidden under his motorcycle jacket, his hands were swinging loosely, making no move to draw a gun.
Ruzhyo was unarmed, save for a small pocket knife, not a particularly formidable weapon. True, he could kill with the knife at grappling range, if need be, but if it came to that, the situation would be bad.
If he was bracketed by a collection or deletion team, one good enough that he could spot only the one who was making no effort to hide, then he was already caught or dead. They would be keyed on the smiling man who was almost all the way across the street now, and a gesture from the smiling man would end the game.
Ruzhyo put his own hand into his right trouser pocket and found the small knife. It had a three-inch blade he could flick open with his thumb as fast as a springloaded switchblade. But even so, if he was targeted, and if he took his hand out of his pocket with a weapon, he'd probably be dead before he could get the knife cleared. If he had been a designated shooter on a delete team, he would be aiming at the head — a central nervous system hit being the only certain way to be sure of an instant stop. A rifle bullet through the brain generally brought things to an end.
Were there crosshairs laid upon his brow? A jittery laser spot dancing on the back of his head?
He looked around again, but could not spot the shooter. Nor did he see any others on the street paying him undue attention. Were they there? Had he gotten so old he had lost his ability to spot death watching him? Or was the leather-jacketed man alone?
While he was ready to go if beaten by players better than he, Ruzhyo found this scenario bothersome. He hadn't thought it would be this easy for them. He had expected to give a better account of himself in the final moves. Perhaps he was too far gone, too burned out, and perhaps this was his final play.
The smiling man achieved the curb and stopped three meters away, well outside the range for a quick lunge with a short knife.
"Mr. Ruzhyo," the man said. It was not a question. His right hand had drifted down to the hem of his jacket by his hip. There was a weapon there, a knife or a gun.
"Yes." No point in denying it. This man wouldn't be taken in by a protestation of mistaken identity. If he'd had the knife out and opened, it would be no contest. Ruzhyo could move five or six meters and stab a man clawing for a pistol nestled in a concealed holster before the man could draw his weapon. This was not an especially challenging feat. Any good knife fighter could do it; it was a simple matter of speed and reaction time. But with the knife in his pocket, it was a different proposition. Maybe he could get there first, maybe not. Probably he could take his killer with him, at the very least. But if there was a shooter in a car or hiding in a building already lined up? Well, in that case, any sudden move would end with Ruzhyo facedown on the concrete, probably dead before he got there. It would be a clean, quick end. It was tempting to see.
"Hello, sir. I'm Corporal Huard. Major Terrance Peel sends his regards and wonders if you might be free for dinner this evening?"
Peel? How did he know Ruzhyo was in London? And what did he want?
The young soldier offered Ruzhyo a card. It had an address on it.
"About seven o'clock all right?" Huard said.
Ruzhyo nodded.
"Will you be needing directions or a ride?"
"No."
"Right, then. See you later."
Huard smiled, turned, and marched off. Ruzhyo watched him until the man was out of sight. Nobody else joined him. It made him feel a little better that Huard seemed to have been alone. But even so, he should have spotted him sooner.