“Perhaps Commander Michaels can explain to this committee why this latest round of attack on the Internet structure has continued despite Net Force’s efforts to stop it?”
What Michaels wanted to say was “Because I am here listening to the senatorial windbags blow warm hurricanes instead of at the office helping them?” That would have been very satisfying. Stupid, but satisfying. He had this fantasy every time he testified, and he had never acted on it; still, he thought about it.
“Don’t do it,” Tommy said under his breath. It didn’t take much of a mind reader to glean what Michaels was thinking.
No, he’d better not say anything nasty. Not only would that be career suicide, his agency would suffer, and he didn’t want to cause that.
“Commander?”
“I’m sorry, Senator. I didn’t realize you were asking me to speak.”
That earned him a glare from Jell-O, and grins from three of the other senators.
“We are following up leads on the attacks,” Michaels said. “Our operatives have narrowed down the suspects and are getting closer to a resolution.” You could always say that and it would be true enough.
“Would you care to give us more specific information, Commander? Who, where, and when?”
“I am sure you realize that this is an ongoing investigation, Senator. I would not wish to compromise it by releasing details in public. If you would like a private briefing, I will have my staff follow up.”
Of course, Jell-O didn’t care about the investigation, and would no more want to spend his time going over the details of it than he would want to give up cigars and whiskey. This was a piddling committee, and one had to milk what one could from it. Scoring a few points for law and order was always good for the voters back home to see. He would have a staffer listen to the report and boil it down to half a page or so, highlighting key words to be spoken in his syrupy Foghorn Leghorn drawl next time Michaels had to show up and sit in the hot seat.
The senator droned on, and Michaels listened with half an ear. This was the part of the job he hated most, the sitting in front of a bunch of old farts and being treated like a grammar school boy by men and women who, for the most part, couldn’t understand what it was he did. They were mostly lawyers, half of them were technophobes, if not Luddites, terrified of anything more complicated than a phone or television set, and their main strengths seemed to be the ability to get re-elected.
Face it, if they had anything on the ball, they wouldn’t be stuck on this committee, now would they? The only one here who had more than two neurons to spark at each other inside his hollow head was Wayne DeWitt, the recently elected junior from West Virginia. He was young, sharp, and technically educated, with a degree in engineering. He was one of the few senators willing to stand up and say that the idea of CyberNation was stupid in the extreme. He was a fairly right-wing Republican, but even so, Michaels was willing to cut him a lot of slack — better a right-winger with a brain than anybody without one.
Not very charitable of him, those thoughts, but, hey, if it was true, it was true.
He glanced at his watch again. Another two hours of his life he’d never get back.
Damn.
Santos had left his most recent coin buy in a safe-deposit box at a bank in Fort Lauderdale. They’d be secure enough there, but he would prefer to have them in his own bank. He had worked out an arrangement with an assistant ambassador in Washington who flew home to Brazil now and again, and who had access to diplomatic pouches. For a healthy fee, he would transport whatever Santos gave him back there, where Santos’s cousin Estaban would collect it and take it to the branch of the Banco Vizinho where Santos did his business. He had an arrangement with a bank officer there to make sure his coins were well-cared for.
Estaban was blood, and the bank official was also related, by marriage, to another cousin. Both were well-paid, and both knew what would happen to them if they got greedy and decided to pocket a few of the coins. Once, when they were much younger, Estaban had seen Santos take out a crooked policeman who tried to shake him down too hard. Crooked or not, killing a punño, a “fist,” as they were sometimes called in the shanty towns, was the act of a man with bolas grande. Those who dealt with Santos at home knew his reputation. He was not a man to be fooled with — aside from his own skills, he had a couple of paid friends in high places, always necessary in Brazil, and he was protected, at least to a degree.
Once his gold was home, it would be safe enough.
When Missy ordered him to take care of some business in Washington, D.C., this was perfect. He would stop at the bank in Florida and retrieve his Maple Leafs, speak with the diplomat once he got to the capital, and all would be well.
The business Missy wanted him to handle? Well, that was of small importance. One man who needed to have a bad accident. He didn’t even have to die, merely be put out of commission for a month or two. Easy as falling out of a tree.
He made a point of swinging by the computer rooms just before lunchtime. He saw Keller with two of his people as they headed for the private cafeteria. Keller was laughing at something one of the others said.
Keller looked up, saw Santos.
Santos gave Keller a quick two-fingered salute, a how-you-doin’-amigo? gesture, nothing the least bit threatening in it. He smiled.
Keller went pale, as if somebody had just punched him in the belly.
Santos didn’t stop. He turned away and ambled off down the corridor. All he’d wanted to do was make Jackson aware that he knew. That was enough, for now. Let him sweat a while, worry that maybe something hard was coming. Because it was coming, no question. There were some lines you did not cross, and Jackson had crossed one. He knew it. How much it would cost, when, where, he did not know. And that was part of the payment, too.
Santos hummed to himself as he headed for the helipad. Good day, so far. Real good.
20
Toni sat at Alex’s desk, going over operations reports. She was glad to be back. She’d forgotten how interesting this work was in the time she’d been away. As Alex’s assistant, she had been privy to the inner workings of the nation’s computer business, all kinds of information the average citizen didn’t even know existed had come across her desk. When she’d quit — over a mistaken supposition that Alex had been too idiotic to correct — she hadn’t missed work, because almost immediately she’d had an offer from the director to start a job for the mainline FBI. The pregnancy, then the baby, had stopped that. It had been the better part of a year, and she’d lost a few steps. But it was like riding a bicycle — the basic balance was still there, and with a little practice, she’d be rolling smoothly again pretty fast.
She felt a quick stab of guilt. Did that make her a bad mother, that she wanted to work? Shouldn’t she be at home, doing mommy things, putting all this away until Little Alex was old enough to go off to school? It wasn’t as if they needed the money. And she did miss the baby, that was true. But her husband needed her, too, and what was she to do? Guru had showed up, and that had seemed like some kind of sign.
Still, she worried.
Well, it was only temporary, after all. A few days, a week, until the crisis was over, that was all…
“Boss still testifying?” Jay said from the doorway.
“I think so,” she said. “Anything new on your front?”