Following its trail wasn't gonna be a problem. But like a dog chasing a car, the question was, what would he do if he caught it? That machine gun might not be enough to accomplish the job, and if he got close enough to use the rocket launcher and he missed, he wasn't gonna get a second shot.
He turned and headed back to the car. "Move over," he told Saji.
"Doesn't look as if cutting sign is going to be a problem," she said.
"No, I don't think so." He put the car in gear and started following the monster's trail.
Since his brain had more or less started working again, albeit somewhat slowly, Jay had turned the problem over and over, trying to come up with an explanation — any explanation — as to how such a brute could exist. What could have created it? And with technology as he knew it, there wasn't any answer. But as they drove down the VR path looking for the beast, he thought again about the old Sherlock Holmes dictum about eliminating the impossible and dealing with the unlikely remainder. Nothing he knew about had this kind of power, and he knew a lot about computers. But, given that the thing existed, what could be responsible? What would it take? There weren't too many possibilities, only one that made any sense, and it was theoretical; the hardware didn't exist to make it work.
But what if, by some miracle, it did exist?
"Better go left here," Saji said.
"Really? I thought I'd just drive into that big tree instead."
"Just trying to be helpful."
He shook his head. "Sorry. I'm distracted."
"Something on your mind?"
"A theory."
"Want to bounce it off me?"
Jay looked at the swatch of destruction that ran through the VR jungle. He had to catch up with Godzilla's nasty brother, but the more he knew about him, the better. Anything to clarify his thoughts was good. "Sure," he said.
His lordship had gone off to his club, escorts fore and aft, and Peel was in the little church, on the telephone, currently on hold. Outside, along with Peel's regular crew, the man from Chetsnya waited in a rental car, watching for potential enemies. He should be safe here, Peel figured, but he couldn't bet his life on that.
What was he going to do about the bloody scientist? Should he kill him now?
Naturally, the first thing Peel had tried to do when he started worrying that maybe Bascomb-Coombs wasn't on the level with him was to try to withdraw the million from the Indonesian bank. Had he been able to transfer the money into England, he would have felt a lot better, and that would also have gone a long way toward assuaging his fears. Unfortunately, all kinds of electronic transactions had been disrupted, courtesy of Bascomb-Coombs's infernal computer. All Peel had been able to get from his computer log-in was a "transfer pending" notation, awaiting some final clearance that never happened.
Given the computer problems worldwide, this could have been a legitimate response. It was possible.
But it was also possible that this might be a clever ruse by Bascomb-Coombs, one easily hidden by the chaos he had himself caused. By the time things cleared up, Peel might be dead.
"This is Vice-President Imandihardjo," came a man's voice. "How may I help you?"
Peel turned his attention back to the phone. At last, the bloody Indonesian banker. "Right. I need to check the status of my account."
He could almost hear the man frown. Check an account? For this you needed a vice-president? "Your name and password, please?"
Peel gave it to him.
There was a long pause. "Ah, Mr. Bellsong, yes, I see it."
Peel shook his head. Bellsong. The song of a bell, and thus Bascomb-Coombs's little joke: peal. Same sound, different spelling as Peel.
"You have my account information?"
"Yes, sir, I certainly do." The VP's voice shifted; it now had that obsequious tone that big chunks of money sometimes brought from those who weren't rich. This was good.
"I should like to transfer part of the account into another bank."
"Certainly, certainly. If you will give me the particulars?"
Peel rattled off his English account number and password. He would move it, and once he was sure it had cleared, he would breathe a lot easier.
A moment later, the banker said, "Ah, Mr. Bellsong, there appears to be a problem with our system."
"Really?"
"Yes, sir, I'm sure it's nothing major, but I'm afraid I can't access anything but the balance. The computer won't let me make a transfer."
Peel nodded to himself. Well, well.
"Hmm. It seems that there are several dozen accounts affected. I'm sure it's only a temporary aberration."
"You mean I can't get my money out until it's fixed?"
"Ah, well, I'm afraid so, yes."
"I see." That was all Peel needed to hear. His bowels clenched and went cold. He had a sudden, deep suspicion that what the Indonesian bank would find on closer examination would be electron money: demon dollars that glittered brightly if you looked at them peripherally, but that would turn to smoke and vanish if you tried to lay your hands on them. Bascomb-Coombs was having him on.
"I'm sure this will be cleared up very soon. If you will give me a number where I can reach you, I shall call as soon as we've resolved the problem."
Right.
He gave them his number, but Peel wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for that money to clear. He'd been skewered, and he knew who was holding the shaft, too.
Time to go and have a chat with Mr. Bascomb-Coombs. Yes, indeed.
But almost as he thought this, his phone buzzed. The private line.
"Yes?"
"Hello, Terrance." Well, well. Speak of the devil.
"Hello."
"I'm afraid we have something of problem. It seems his lordship has given orders cutting my access to my — ah — toy. He has shut down all the apparent external lines and posted a guard to keep me from physically entering the building."
"Really? Why is that?"
"I suspect the old boy doesn't trust me."
Good bloody reason for that, Peel thought. Then another thought popped up. " 'Apparent external lines,' you said?"
Bascomb-Coombs had his visual mode off, but Peel could almost see him smile. "Very good, Terrance. Naturally, I have a few digital and microwave transceiver links carefully hidden around the hardware. Even a landline wired into the power supply, if anybody thinks to use jammers. They'd have to take it down to the floor-boards to cut off my connection, and since they don't know it's there, they won't. If they shut it off, they know they might not ever be able to get it up and running again."
"I see. And what does this mean?"
"I believe we shall have to deal with the old boy. Using your area of expertise."
"You think so?"
"I'm afraid I do. I must ring off now, but I'll call you back shortly. Give it some thought, would you?"
The scientist broke the connection. Peel stared at the wall of his office.
God, the man had brass balls. Here he was, trying to have Peel himself iced and pretending as if nothing had happened as he ordered him to kill their mutual employer. Bloody nerve, all right.
He would, Peel realized, be better off with both of them gone. Bascomb-Coombs had to depart this mortal coil, of course; a man who tried to have you assassinated could hardly be allowed to live. And Goswell might be in his dotage, but he wasn't completely senile. Sooner or later, he might tumble to the fact that his security chief had sold him out to the mad scientist, and that would be extremely bad. He doubted the old man would reach for his black powder shotgun to blast him, but certainly he would be able to see to it that Peel never worked in the U.K. again. With a million in the bank, such a thing hadn't worried him, but if the money was no more than a ruse by Bascomb-Coombs, then Peel would be, in a word, screwed.