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  A tiny map appeared, hanging in space where the vox input had been.

  There she was—

  While the program had been working, Jay found the codes he’d been looking for.

  The Greenies were about to ride again.

  A few weeks ago, he’d helped the District Public Works Department track down some hackers who called themselves the Greenies. They had been messing with local traffic signals using stolen codes they’d run through VR that could read traffic light IDs and change them at the push of a button.

  At the moment, the only buttons they were pushing were on phones at the county jail. Jay prayed that those codes still worked.

  He tied the search program to software he’d used once for following money across VR, changing the input parameters to track Saji instead. He tagged a locator for the nearest traffic signal on her route to the hospital, just . . . there, and set the light to go green.

  Now, wherever she was, all the lights were going to turn and stay green until she passed them.

  For a second, Jay thought about what he’d done. He’d just hacked public transportation for personal reasons—no excuse under the law, and if he was found out, there would be trouble.

  True, he’d bounced the program across several hundred VR nodes in the net, spanning the globe several times, with spoofed router codes that would make it virtually impossible to trace. It was unlikely anyone else could catch him, but the risk didn’t matter. It was his son’s life, and there was nothing—absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do for him. If somebody was going to be late on their commute because of what he’d done, that was just too bad.

  He set the program to dissolve after Saji reached the hospital, and slipped out of VR. He had to get to his car—

  He nearly ran over Thorn as he bolted through the door.

  “Sorry!”

  “Where’s the fire, Jay?” Thorn smiled.

  “Mark’s on the way to the hospital with Saji—he’s having seizures!”

  Thorn’s smile vanished. Immediately he said, “We’ve got a helicopter on the pad. Go there—I’ll clear it.”

  “Thanks, Boss.”

  Jay ran.

  Beijing, China

  Now and again, General Wu had occasion to travel, and this time, it was to attend the retirement dinner of his old comrade, General Pei, a salt-of-the-earth fellow who had risen through the ranks from foot soldier to commander. Pei had been a peasant who had joined the army during the Cultural Revolution and progressed quickly in rank. This was due less to his military genius than it was by virtue of his uncanny ability to not offend anyone. Sturdy and steady Pei, he was known as. After rising to the top ranks, he had been put in charge of supplies at a base near Tibet, where he had served honorably for ten years before time to retire.

  Now Pei was leaving, probably to go back to his family farm in the sticks, and his friends and comrades were going to raise glasses and toast his departure, knowing their own time would be coming soon enough.

  The event was being held at a new military building on West Chang’an, south of Nunhai Lake and near the Beijing Concert Hall.

  Since Wu had arrived more than two hours before the dinner was to start, he took the opportunity to stretch his legs a bit.

  The area was thick with museums, including Monuments to the People’s Heroes, Mao’s Mausoleum, and the Museum of the Chinese Revolution, which were conveniently located across from the Gate of Heavenly Peace, which led to Tian’anmen Square and the Forbidden City.

  There was also more than a little smog in the air, undoubtedly negating any health benefits the walk might confer. Wu smiled at this thought. He had been living on borrowed time since the riot at Manchu Station twenty-four years ago. A little smog wasn’t going to worry him.

  The day was warm, with no rain in the forecast, so the air would stay murky for a time. There were more than a few people on the sidewalks, and foreign tourists strung about with cameras in loud shorts and shirts gaping at the buildings and monuments. It was always busy at the main gate to the Forbidden City.

  Would that he had lived two hundred years ago, to have been a general in an age when it really mattered.

  Even fifty years ago, it would have been a nicer walk. Now, there were McDonalds’ and Burger Kings and Kentucky Fried Chicken fast-food places, French bakeries, and signs advertising Coca Cola and The Gap and Ford automobiles. Holiday Inns and Sheraton Hotels. The Olympics in 2008 had left more such dross behind. Like pox sores on a beautiful woman, these things made Wu feel ill to behold, here in the heart of his homeland.

  He liked to believe that he was a realist. He knew he could not single-handedly roll back the clock and erase all Western influence here. But perhaps he could undo some of it, and certainly he could make a difference. One did what one could.

  And certainly he would do that.

  He looked at his watch. Still plenty of time. He might stop in at the new military library, which was not far from Pei’s event. Or perhaps he would just walk. It was smoggy and warm, but he was fairly relaxed. He had seen Mayli just before he had left, gotten her report on Shing, along with her more intimate ministrations, plus he had managed to nap for a couple hours on the flight. One thing you learned to do in the military was sleep when the chance came up—you never knew but that you might not get another opportunity for a while.

  Yes. He would walk through the city, and try to ignore the Western bastardizations as best he could. . . .

  19

  Giarelli’s Restaurant

  Washington, D.C.

  Some restaurants you went to for the food, some for the ambiance. A few you went to in order to see or be seen. This one had it all—the chef, Antonio Cavelos, was a master in the kitchen. The decor was low-key, subdued, and with enough sound-absorbing material in the walls and ceiling that the place was relatively quiet, even though it was packed. There were dignitaries ranging from U.S. senators to ambassadors to movie stars. All of whom were interesting, though not, Thorn thought, as interesting as the woman sitting across from him.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked Marissa.

  “Tony can cook, no questions. Best eggplant parmesan I’ve had outside the old country.”

  “Go there a lot? Wait—that’s classified, right?”

  She smiled. “So, Tommy, how’s your love life?”

  He blinked. This was a new area of conversation for them. “What love life?” he asked. “I haven’t had a date since you and I went to that charity thing in New York.”

  “That wasn’t a date. We were working.”

  “See?”

  “Poor Tommy. Spending his evenings all alone.”

  Where was she going with this? “I’m used to it,” he said.

  She smiled. “How’s work?”

  He paused, unsure whether he was glad she had changed the subject. “The usual. Well, except for us being taken over by the military and given a new mission which we don’t seem to be accomplishing at the moment.”

  “Well, as Dylan said, the times they are a-changin’.”

  “Was that before or after he started making commercials for Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Waaay before. And how is that for you?”

  He shrugged.

  The waiter materialized, holding the dessert tray. He smiled as he lowered the tray.

  “Which one has the most fat, sugar, and calories in it?” Marissa asked.

  “The triple-chocolate cream cheesecake.”

  “We’ll have two of those,” she said. “And coffee, not decaf.”

  The waiter smiled again and moved away.

  “Seriously, Tommy.”

  “The jury is still out. So far, it’s been hands off, but that’s because they really need us. The military has a different approach to life than civilians. We’ll see how it goes.”

  She gave him a long, steady look. “Are you thinking about walking if things don’t go your way?”

  She had a way of putting her finger right on things. More th
an once, she had looked at him and nailed down exactly what was going on in his mind.

  “I didn’t sign on to be somebody’s lapdog. I’ve been around too many people who think that everybody who works for them needs to be micromanaged. If I’m hired for my skills and abilities, then I expect to be able to use them without somebody not as good telling me how to do my job.”

  “Too rich to put up with that crap, huh?”

  “In a word, yes. One of money’s biggest perks is, you don’t have to work with jerks and idiots if you don’t feel like it.”

  The waiter returned, bearing coffee and chocolate cheesecake.

  “Lord, that was fast,” Marissa said.

  “The best people get the best service,” the waiter said. “Tony’s rule.” He smiled at Marissa.

  “Lucky I’m with her,” Thorn said.

  “Yes, sir, very lucky.”

  The coffee, freshly brewed, and probably from beans roasted in the back and ground minutes ago, smelled wonderful. And the cheesecake looked as if it would make you gain five pounds before you touched it with your fork.

  Marissa took a big bite of hers, and moaned. “Better than sex,” she said. “Mmmm.”

  Thorn took a bite of his own cake. Way too rich. Thousand calories in the piece, easy.

  “C’mon, Tommy, when I give you a straight line like that, you’re supposed to run with it.”

  “Oh, sorry. What’s my line?”

  “You’re no fun.”

  They had another bite each. Thorn sipped at the hot coffee. Excellent brew.

  “There are some smart folks in the service, contrary to the old claims about military intelligence being an oxy-moron,” she said.

  He waited for her to take another big bite before saying, “Where’d a sweet young CIA op like you learn a word like that?”

  Before she could swallow enough of the cake to slap him down, he continued, “I know they aren’t all third-grade dropout hawks. I just don’t do well with somebody looking over my shoulder. If they leave us alone, no problem.” He paused, then said, “Abe Kent is happy, though.”

  “Oh, yeah, back in the Corps. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s a good man, but he had a nasty experience recently.”

  He told her about Kent’s trip to Nebraska, and the run-in with Natadze, the classical guitarist hit man. She knew who he was, of course, having been a part of the Cox investigation, and her clearance was at least as high as Thorn’s, probably higher.

  “Interesting,” she said, when he was done. “Nobody likes a loose end after things are supposed to be wrapped up tight. I got the idea that the colonel was pretty methodical. I’d put money on him eventually running Natadze down.”

  Thorn nodded. “Jay Gridley had a little scare, too. His baby son got sick. Boy is in the hospital, but it looks like he’ll be okay.”

  “That’s good.”

  There was a moment of silence, one gravid with . . . something.

  “I’ll be buying dinner tonight,” she said, her voice quiet.

  He started to smile and treat it as a joke—dinner would set them back maybe three hundred bucks, more with the wine—but he stopped. “Why would that be?” he said, his voice as quiet as hers.

  “Because I don’t want you to think that buying me a nice dinner is why I’m going home with you tonight.”

  Thorn’s mouth suddenly seemed very dry. He couldn’t find any words.

  She smiled. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “I hope,” he managed.

  She laughed.

  University Park, Maryland

  Thorn woke up to the smell of coffee brewing. A moment later, Marissa came into his bedroom, wearing a thick and fluffy bathrobe he’d gotten at the Tokyo Hilton years ago. She carried two mugs of steaming coffee.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Yeah, hey, yourself.”

  Her hair was damp, she must have showered. He’d slept through it. She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at him, handing him one of the cups as he sat up.

  No surprise he hadn’t heard the shower running. After last night, he’d have slept through a bomb going off in the front yard.

  He sipped the coffee. It was good.

  “You a breakfast eater?”

  He shook his head. “Mostly not.”

  “Me, neither. Just as well. I’m not a domestic kind of girl,” she said. “I can make coffee and run the microwave oven, but I don’t cook to speak of. Lord knows my mama tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in climbing trees and fences and exploring the Two Acre Woods. I can burn a hamburger, and on a good day, make salad.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”

  “And not bad for a white boy in the bedroom.”

  They both smiled.

  She said, “I need to get going, Tommy. Work.”

  He nodded. “You need a change of clothes?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You have women’s clothes here? In my size?”

  “I think maybe my aunt might have left some stuff here when she came to visit a while back.”

  “Uh-huh, sure she did.” She grinned again. “I have a fresh outfit in my car, and a go bag.”

  It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Oh, really? You mean you planned this all along?”

  “Did I say that? I always keep a change of clothes and a go bag in the car. Never know but that you might be caught out on an all-night surveillance or something.”

  “I thought the CIA wasn’t supposed to run ops inside the country.”

  “Where on earth did you get that notion, sweetie? You need to come to town more often.”

  She started to rise. He touched her shoulder with one hand. He needed to tell her how . . . great this was. And maybe see if she felt the same way. And maybe see where it might go. Definitely see where it might go. “Hey, Marissa . . . ?”

  She read his mind. Shook her head. “Don’t go there yet, Tommy. Let’s let it sit for a while and see how it feels. But, yeah, it was a pretty special first date, wasn’t it?”

  She padded away and into the hall bathroom. He sat in the bed, the sheet around his waist, and sipped at the coffee. She wasn’t anything like his usual type of woman—they tended to be intellectual, brainy, and Nordic—blue-eyed blondes with sharp wits and gym-toned bodies. Marissa pretended to be less smart than she was—he’d checked her out and her IQ was higher than his—but she was still more of a heart-person. And given her chocolate skin, brown eyes, and black curly hair, about as far away from “Nordic” as you could get.

  He shook his head. And none of that mattered at all. Because what Thorn was feeling was something that hadn’t stirred in him for a long time—but not so long that he had forgotten what it was called.

  He didn’t want this feeling. Couldn’t afford it, really, not at this time, but there it was.

  Like it or not, he was falling in love with this woman.

  20

  Net Force HQ

  Quantico, Virginia

  Thorn sat staring at his computer’s holoproj, not really seeing it. This thing with Marissa was definitely throwing him for a loop. He had to acknowledge it, but it was still weird. She was so . . . different. . . .

  He looked up and saw Colonel Kent standing in the doorway.

  “Abe. Come in.”

  Kent did so.

  “So, what’s up?” Thorn said, shifting mental gears.

  Kent said, “I’ve got a line on Natadze.”

  Thorn blinked. “Really?”

  Kent nodded at Thorn’s computer terminal. “Log in to his file, bring up the name Stansell.”

  Thorn waved at the computer sensors, then said, “File: Natadze, sub-file, Stansell.”

  A webpage blossomed in the air, a holoproj showing several guitars.

  “Ask for La Tigra Blanca Tres,” Kent said.

  Thorn did.

  The image changed. A classical guitar appeared, rotating slowly. The instrument was a pale but ri
ch color, somewhere between tan and off-white on the sides and back, and the color of an old manila folder on the front. The sides and back had patterns that looked like tiger stripes on them.

  “Looks almost like it’s glowing,” Thorn said.

  “That’s called chatoyancy. Same thing you get off a tiger’s eye gem, or a piece of fine silk. A characteristic of the wood used.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “The White Tiger,” Kent said. “And the third one with the name. Made by a guy named Les Stansell, in a little southern Oregon town just north of the California border.”

  “Very nice.”

  “The wood on the front is Port Orford cedar, that on the sides and back Oregon myrtlewood. Neck is Spanish cedar, the fretboard is ebony, if it makes any difference. Runs about five grand and change for Stansell’s basic models—he’s made a specialty out of these kinds of woods, and the guitars are apparently well thought of by serious players. I checked it out, they go on about tone and sustain and the top opening up fast.”

  Thorn nodded.

  “This particular one wound up in a specialty shop in San Francisco, and the asking price is ten thousand dollars.”

  Thorn waited. “And . . . ?” he said after a moment.

  “Not a lot of people walk in off the street and buy ten-thousand-dollar guitars. I sent a bulletin to every luthier and high-end shop I could find via the Net, asking to be informed of sales where the buyer of a classical instrument costing more than five thousand dollars wasn’t somebody known to the seller. I get six or eight hits a day, and I usually am able to run them down and eliminate them—with help from one of Gridley’s guys.”

  “And you haven’t been able to run this one down.”

  “No. The backwalk runs into a dead end.”