He said as much to Fernandez.
Fernandez laughed.
"What?"
"Oh, I was just imagining what the commander of the British armies must have said to his field officers toward the end of the Revolutionary War: ‘What? A bunch of out-of-shape gutter-scum with big ideas and almost no strategic or tactical experience just kicked the shit out of His Majesty's finest? How could we have possibly lost to rabble like that?' "
Howard chuckled. Fernandez had a way of putting a spin on things you wouldn't expect from a noncom who'd earned his rockers the hard way. And the posh British accent just added to it. And he had a point. The terrorists could have been more adept. The blood on the warehouse floor could have been that of his troops. There was always that possibility.
"Thing is, John, the glory might be a bit thin on this one, but a win is a win. That's why we went, ain't it?"
"Yeah. You're right."
"Damn, and me without a tape recorder? Can I wake up some witnesses for the colonel to repeat that, sir? The me-being-right part?"
"To what are you are referring, Sergeant? I don't recall saying any such thing."
"That's what I thought, sir." He grinned. "Guess I'll see if I can catch a few winks."
"Good night, Julio. Thanks."
"Sir. And if it is any consolation, I got a feeling this won't be the last episode in this particular war. Next time might be different."
Howard watched his best man amble toward a row of empty seats. Yes. There was always that. A small battle did not a war make.
Ruzhyo watched the front door of McCormick's Restaurant. The place was away from the main section of town, toward one of the bedroom communities to the west. It specialized in fish. The food was supposedly excellent, and it looked to be so from his brief visit to reconnoiter earlier. It was the best restaurant near the company that produced one of the fastest computer chips for home use, a company just up the road in Beaverton, a town named after the dam-building aquatic mammal.
Ruzhyo sat in the rental car across the street, parked in the shadows of a sign in front of a Korean travel agency. Sixty-two meters away from the door, according to the Ranging optical tape, an easy distance. The car was a full-sized one with a large engine, though he did not think he would need the power for his escape. With both eyes open, he looked through the large aperture of the Bushnell HOLOsight. What he saw was an unmagnified image of the door with a glowing red crosshair superimposed upon it. The scope was a state-of-the-art gunsight; unlike a laser, it emitted no light to the front, and thus did not reveal the user. The scope had cost more than the weapon upon which it rode, a 30–06 bolt-action Winchester deer rifle, itself an excellent piece of equipment. He had bought the sight at a gun store in San Diego; the rifle he'd purchased in Sacramento, second-hand, from an advertisement in a newspaper. He had assembled the rifle and scope, and sighted the weapon in at a rock quarry along an old logging road west of Forest Grove, Oregon.
With the sighted-in rifle, Ruzhyo could shoot consistently into a circle made with his thumb and forefinger out to a hundred meters. More than sufficient.
He had considered using a suppressor on the rifle, but the projectile would break the sound barrier and make a loud crack after it left the barrel anyway, so there was really no point in trying to damp the noise. Besides, in these conditions, the shot would echo, seeming to come from everywhere. And even if they knew exactly where he was, it would mean little. Executives of the local computer company did not go forth armed, nor with bodyguards. There had never been any need. Nor would there likely be a need after this night, though it was unlikely they would believe it to be so.
By the time police arrived, Ruzhyo would be miles away. He had three escape routes mapped out in his mind, and all included quick stops where he would not be seen, where he could lose the rifle. He wore waterproof thinskin synsilk gloves — there would be no prints or fluids left on the scope, rifle or bullets inside the weapon.
He glanced at his watch. Just after eleven, local time. The party had been in the restaurant nearly two hours. Their vehicles were parked in the front. The diners would be in sight for plenty of time.
He lowered the weapon.
Eight minutes later, the door to the restaurant opened.
Ruzhyo put the silicone earplugs into his ears. The sound of a high-powered rifle shot inside an automobile could easily destroy unprotected eardrums.
Six men emerged, talking, laughing, taking their time.
Ruzhyo raised the rifle. He took a deep breath, let half of it out, held the rest. He clicked the safety off, lined the glowing crosshairs up on the second man in the group, put the sight picture on the man's forehead, right between the eyes…
He squeezed off the shot.
With a rifle, you don't hear the one that kills you.
The man was dead before the sound of the bullet reached him.
Ruzhyo put the rifle down on the floor of the car and started the engine. He pulled out of the travel agency's parking lot and drove away. Traffic was light this time of the evening. He was half a mile away, at the entrance to the elevated freeway, when the first police car flew past, lights flashing, siren wailing, going toward the restaurant.
He did not look back. There was no need. Nobody was following him.
20
"You have another call, Dr. Plekhanov," Sasha shouted from the outer office. The intercom still operated only sporadically, but that hardly mattered now. "Mr. Sikes, from Bombay Municipal Systems."
Plekhanov smiled. The phone had certainly been busy the last couple of days. Exactly as he'd expected it would be.
The plantings were beginning to bear fruit. After the computer foul-ups had killed hundreds of people in Bombay, those in charge would have called Bertrand, the second-rate programmer who had installed their security system. And while even Bertrand was skilled enough to see what had been done, he would be unable to offer a guarantee that he could stop it from being done again. So they had called Plekhanov — whom they should have called originally — and why, yes, he could most assuredly guarantee them that no such security breach would happen if he installed a new protective system. Of course he could make that assurance: There were only a handful of programmers expert enough to slip his wards, only one who would bother, and that one's interests—his interests — would best be served if the system stayed unbreached.
Given how people worried over such incidences, it would take only one or two more assaults on the stoplights and buses of big cities before most — if not all of them — came running to Plekhanov for his help. So by the time the movers and shakers of the municipal transportation systems for all of Asia's major cities met for their annual get-together later this year in Guangzhou, China, most of them would be in Plekhanov's camp. He would, after all, do excellent work for them, at better than reasonable prices. They would all owe him. They would all want to keep him happy, so as to avoid suffering fates similar to those unlucky enough to be the victims of what had to be terrorists. Who would bother to rascal a transportation computer save a terrorist? Where was the profit?
"Hello?"
"Vladimir? Bill Sikes, Bombay Transport."
"Ah, Bill, how are you?"
"Not so good. You heard about our problem?"
"Yes, I am afraid so. A terrible thing. I am so sorry."
"Yes, well, that milk is spilt, but we don't want to lose any more. Can you help us out?"