We're behind the curve, all right. Toni gathered herself and gave Cooper the sweetest smile she could form. "Anything else you need to know, Ms. Cooper?"
"Not at the moment, Ms. Fiorella." Cooper gave Alex a quick look, and in it Toni saw a measure of what she thought might be concern. Pity, even.
So, Cooper had figured out that Toni knew, too. And the British tart was feeling sympathy for Alex because of it. Great. Now we're all just one big, unhappy fucking family.
Michaels pulled his virgil and put in a priority call to Jay Gridley.
"Yeah, boss, what's up?"
"If I gave you an address, a physical address for where this QC hardware might be, would that help you search?"
"Couldn't hurt. Might be able to spot a trail if I'm close enough to it, though there's no guarantee."
"Stand by, I'm uploading it now. We found Bascomb-Coombs and where he works. We can't lay our hands on him just at the moment, but maybe you can figure out something from your end."
"Thanks, boss."
"Be careful, Jay."
"I copy that, decibel and crystal. Discom."
Michaels walked to where Cooper stood. "Does this change things? Can we go to Goswell's and grab Peel?"
"I can check with the DG, but I'm afraid it won't matter. We have missing agents, but not much to tie them to his lordship or even to Peel. For all we know, Peel drove off before they could speak to him, and our men were coincidentally attacked by sheep rustlers."
"Yeah, right."
"Sorry, Alex, but that's how it is. Our hands are tied."
On their way back to the helicopter, Michaels lagged behind. "Hold up a second, Colonel."
Howard slowed.
"Cooper says MI-6's hands are tied. They can't go traipsing into Lord Goswell's estate without an engraved invitation."
"Wonderful," Howard said. His voice dripped sarcasm.
"Colonel, I don't know how good your grapevine is, but I've put you up for a promotion."
Howard hesitated a second, then said, "I had heard the rumor, Commander. Thank you, I appreciate it."
"I mention this only because an international diplomatic incident might squash your chances. Probably would."
Howard grinned. "If that would let me catch Ruzhyo and this mad hacker, I could live with it."
Michaels smiled back at him. "Somehow I knew you'd feel that way. When we get back to MI-6, I think our crew needs to take a break. Go for a ride in the country or something."
"Yes, sir."
Michaels looked at the copter, squinting against the dust blown up by the prop wash. Most of the time, he colored between the lines. Now and then, he had to go outside the boundaries. There was a difference between justice and the law, and sometimes the end did justify the means. Generally, in his line of work, if you took a risk out in territory where your ass was bare and you pulled it off, you could rationalize it afterward. If you failed, you got skewered. They were hunting terrorists, killers both by remote means and with their own hands. The worst that could happen to Michaels if he screwed this up was that they'd fire him in disgrace and put him in jail for twenty or thirty years.
As he watched Toni climb into the helicopter, pointedly not looking at him, he knew there were heavier prices to pay for screwing up — or, in this case, almost screwing somebody.
Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get killed in this clandestine operation.
On foot, the rocket launcher slung over his shoulder, Jay sniffed the air. The usual jungle odors were there, and there was another smell that washed over the others, insistent in its demand to be noticed. Impossible to ignore, actually.
Next to him, Saji wrinkled her nose and said, "Lord, what is that stench?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it, it's monster shit."
He pointed.
Ahead of them was another thicket of prehistoric jungle, representing reams of coded packets, an electronic locus, a nexus that, in RW, corresponded to a computer company in London. Upon the path that led to that jungle, forming a rough triangle with two huge footprints, was a mound of scat, a pile of reeking excrement, brown, the size of a dumpster, and beset by a flock of busy flies.
Off to the sides of the path were a dozen or so other mounds, dried and hardened into the beginnings of giant coprolites. Welcome to Feek City.
The two of them circled around the fresh deposit. This close, they could see undigested bits of bone stuck in the pile, could feel the heat coming off it. The stink was so thick you could almost lean against it.
Jay said, "Not to pretend I'm any better at cutting sign or anything, but I'm pretty sure it went this way. And I'd bet it came out here to do its business because it lives in there."
Saji stared at the mound. She shook her head. "I don't much like the idea of going in there after it," she said.
Jay unshipped the rocket launcher. "Me, neither. Stand to the side there," he said. He shouldered the weapon, aimed it at the jungle, and squeezed the trigger. The rocket whooshed away on a flaming tail, arced into the woods, and blew apart in a fiery kaboom that spewed leaves and other bits of trees every which way.
"Couple more of those ought to get its attention," Jay said.
Peel alighted from his car and slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary. He got a grip on his irritation, nodded at Huard, who was standing watch at the rear of the main house, then turned to watch as Ruzhyo got out of the passenger side. The car with the two dead agents in it, along with the gun that killed them, was at the bottom of a thirty-foot-deep sinkhole in a stock pond on one of his lordship's farms in East Sussex, not far from where they'd shot the pair. Well, where Ruzhyo had shot them. The SIS or local police would likely get around to finding the car and its cargo eventually, but probably not immediately. He should have plenty of time to clean up the loose ends and get the hell out of the country. A pity, that, but it was going to be too hot to stay, that was for certain. And while he wouldn't be getting that phantom fortune from the Indonesian bank, Goswell had a safe in his house that would surely yield running-away money. His plan was to ice Goswell, that bastard Bascomb-Coombs, and Ruzhyo — this last with great care, from behind, when he wasn't expecting it. Some artful arranging of the bodies so that it would seem as if the ex-Spetsnaz agent had killed the other two, then been shot by one of his men — Huard, say, who'd have to be iced as well — and Peel would be off. His situation was bad but not fatal, and while he would have preferred that things turned out differently, he could survive it. He was a trained soldier, an officer with command experience in the field. There was always a market for his services somewhere in the third world. He could train an army in one of the CIS countries, or command a battalion in central Africa, or work security for an Arab prince. War dogs were never completely out of fashion, no matter how peaceful things might be. You never knew but that your neighbor was eyeing your territory, and you had to be prepared to protect it, regardless of how wide his smile was or how open his hand seemed.
Not his first choice, but better than the options.
"Stay here and keep your eyes open," Peel told Ruzhyo.
Ruzhyo saluted with his rolled-up umbrella. He'd likely need that soon: The sky threatened rain, dark clouds rolling in from the North Atlantic in a cool front. Perfect, a storm to make things even gloomier.