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  So, call home, visit with the family, then grab a bite to eat. And after that? Maybe come back to the room and read. After all, he had to get up early, and while the rare bacterial infection he'd had a while back that made him feel old and tired had been cleared up, the days when he could party all night long and then go straight to work without missing a beat were long past. If he was going to be up and ready to roll at 0600, he was going to have to get to bed at a decent hour.

  He grinned at himself in the mirror. Maybe Fernandez was right; maybe he should retire and go drown worms in a catfish pond.

  Nah. Not yet.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Quantico, Virginia

  When Jay Gridley awoke, he had a moment of panic: Where was he?

  There was an IV going into his left hand, a tube running from his penis into a bag attached to the side of the bed, and wireless pickups stuck to his chest and his head. There was a cuff around his left upper arm. He wore one of those shortie open-backed gowns.

  A hospital, okay, he got that. And something must have happened to him for him to be here. An accident?

  He couldn't remember. He started to look at his arms and legs more carefully, to see if anything was missing or damaged. No, they were there, and he wasn't feeling any pain—

  A tall, short-haired brunette in green scrubs appeared next to the bed. She took Jay's right wrist in her hand and looked at her watch. She was about thirty, very attractive. She smiled at him. "Hey," she said.

  He couldn't feel her fingers on his wrist. In fact, he couldn't feel his right arm at all. Couldn't even relate to it. As if that arm she was holding belonged to somebody else. What—?

  She said, "You're in the Neuro Ward at the base hospital. You had a CVA, a cerebrovascular accident. A stroke. My name is Rowena. I'm the floor nurse this shift. Do you understand?"

  A stroke? How could that be? He said, "I understand." But what came out of his mouth instead was a horrible, slurred, slack-lipped sound: "Awo unnersan."

  His incipient panic expanded into full-blown terror.

  The nurse put her hand on his chest, on the left side. He felt that. "Easy. Your doctor is on the way, she'll explain it all to you, but listen, don't worry. You've got some transient paralysis on the right side. It's going to go away. What happened to you was not major. The drugs you are on are going to fix the damage. It'll take a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, okay? But you are going to be all right."

  Gridley felt his panic abate a little. He was going to be all right. He clutched at that, trying to get a tighter grip on it. He was going to be all right.

  Unless she is just telling you that so you don't lose it, his inner voice said.

  Another woman entered the room, a short, heavyset bleached blonde. She also wore green scrubs, and she carried a flatscreen. Without preamble, she said, "I'm Dr. West. Some time yesterday afternoon you had a small CVA — a stroke. There were no clots or major bleeders apparent on the CAT and MEG brain scans, and the cause is idiopathic — that means we don't know what caused it. Your vital signs are normal, your blood pressure, respiration, and pulse are all fine, and your blood chemistry is within normal limits. Aside from the CVA, everything is great. You have what we think is a transient hemiplegia or hemiparesis, and we expect full resolution of that. You following me?"

  Gridley nodded, not wanting to hear his own voice.

  "Good. You'll be here for a day or two, then we'll let you go home. Physical therapy starts this afternoon. Somebody will come in and show you some exercises."

  The doctor glanced at her watch. "Got to run. I'll check in on you later, with a bunch of medical students. People will come and go, draw blood, give you meds. Try to get some rest."

  Dr. West handed the flatscreen to Rowena and left.

  Get some rest?

  Yeah, right. Part of his brain had exploded and he was supposed to rest? No way. Not gonna happen. He didn't want to just lie there and worry about it, either, but what choice did he have? He was tubed and wired, and he wasn't going anywhere.

  Lord. How could this have happened?

  Chapter 7

  Sunday, April 3rd

  The Yews, Sussex, England

  Applewhite brought Goswell's tray and set it on the table. Vapor rose from the teapot's spout — it was a bit cool out here in the garden, but crisp and bracing. Goswell nodded. "Thank you, Applewhite."

  The butler poured a cup of tea, adding one lump of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. "More scones, sir?"

  "I think not. A telephone, if you would."

  "Certainly, milord."

  Applewhite produced a mobile from his jacket pocket before Goswell could even take a sip of the tea. He shook his head. Technology. A mixed blessing, to be sure, but fortunately, one that had served him well, financially and otherwise.

  "And what was our scientist fellow's name again?"

  "Peter Bascomb-Coombs, milord."

  "Ah, yes, of course." Goswell repeated the man's name into the phone, then held it to his ear. It rang thrice.

  "Yes, what is it?" He sounded irritated. Well, of course, these kinds of fellows always did.

  "Geoffrey Goswell here."

  "Oh. Lord Goswell." That changed his tone quick enough, eh what? "What may I do for you?"

  "Not much, my boy. I was ringing you up to see about that, ah… small matter we discussed recently over supper."

  "Ah, yes, well, it is proceeding apace, my lord. There have been a couple of minor setbacks, but I have taken care of them, and we should be back on schedule right enough."

  He was properly cautious, the scientist. Even though Peel had assured him that his mobile phone and the scientist's were both secure against eavesdroppers, Goswell hated to have things of this nature spoken aloud outside the confines of his own home.

  He nodded, then realized the man couldn't see him because this mobile didn't have cameras and whatnot connected to it. "Right, then. And those, ah, curious fellows you spoke of?"

  "They are no longer curious, my lord. They have other things to occupy their minds at the moment."

  "Very good, then. I'll ring off now."

  Applewhite appeared and took the mobile, put it away. "Will there be anything else, milord?"

  "Yes, see if you can hunt up Peel, would you? I'd like to have a word with him if he's available."

  "At once, milord."

  Applewhite departed to fetch the major. That, at least, would give Goswell time enough to sip his tea before it got cold.

  From the corner of his eye, Goswell caught a motion. He looked directly that way and saw a rabbit over in the flower bed, nibbling on some greenery. Cheeky bastard! He wasn't fifty feet away! Of course, the dratted rabbits never came out when he had his shotgun at hand; they were smart enough to know that wasn't wise. His vision was not as keen as once it was, but he could, by God, still pot a thieving rabbit at fifty feet with either barrel of his Purdey fowling piece, thank you very much. He considered calling Applewhite and telling him to collect his shotgun so that he could blast the offending rabbit but decided against it. It was too lovely a morning to ruin with shotgun noise, satisfying as it might be to teach the bunny some proper manners. Better to have the care-taker loose his dogs on the things. They seldom caught one, the dogs, but they had such fun chasing them, and the rabbits tended to clear off for a time thereafter.

  He sipped his tea. And when Peel approached, the rabbit decided to remove himself. Perhaps it somehow knew that Peel was an excellent shot with his ever-present pistol and that to stay might be unwise.

  "My lord?"

  " 'Morning, Major. Do sit down and have some tea."

  "Thank you, my lord." Peel seated himself. A decent chap, the image of his father, old Ricky. He poured himself a cup of tea, black, no sugar.

  "I've been thinking about this scientist fellow of ours."

  "Bascomb-Coombs," Peel said.

  "The very one. I've been thinking perhaps we should keep a close eye on him, if you know what I mean. He
is valuable enough, but with the things he has tucked away in his head, we wouldn't want to have a falling out, now would we?"

  "I shouldn't think a falling out is likely, my lord."

  "Well, no, hardly. But one must be diligent and prepared, what?"

  "I understand completely. As it happens, I have anticipated that you might feel this way, so I've set a watch upon our Mr. Bascomb-Coombs."

  "Have you? Excellent. You're a good lad, Peel."

  "Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your confidence in me."

  Goswell smiled and sipped at his tea. It was good to have men like Peel around, men who knew how to do things without having to be led by the hand. Men of decent breeding who wouldn't embarrass one with social blunders or rash actions. More like him, and the Empire would never have sunk so low.

  "Should Mr. Bascomb-Coombs should ever think to become a problem, my lord, we are of course prepared to deal with him in an… expedient manner."

  "Ah, well, very good, then. Have a scone."

  Peel smiled and gave him a short nod. Such a good fellow to have around. Pity about all that Irish business. Still, the regiment's loss was Goswell's gain. Would that he had another dozen like Peel. Good help was so hard to come by these days.

  "Excellent scones, my lord."

  "I'll have Applewhite tell Cook you said so."

  This is how a gentleman was supposed to breakfast. On a sunny spring day at one's country estate, on tea and good scones, in the company of decent fellows. Indeed.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  London, England

  Toni and Alex sat in a small restaurant near their hotel, having coffee and breakfast. She said, "We have a flight leaving from Heathrow at noon. I couldn't get us on the Concorde or on a direct, so we'll have to change planes at Kennedy for a cropduster to Dulles."

  Alex sipped his coffee, then said, "You could stay here. There's no need for you to kill your vacation."

  "Stay here by myself? What fun would that be?"

  "Well, this silat class you found sounds interesting."

  "Two hours in the evening. If you go, I'm going. You'll need me at work."

  He stirred his eggs around with his fork, not really interested in eating them. "Over easy," he said. "If these things had been fried any harder, you could play hockey with them."

  "I'm sorry about Jay," she said.

  "The doctor said he would be fine. Probably no lasting effects."

  "Even so."

  "I can't believe that he was injured due to something that happened in VR." Alex stared at the hard eggs.

  "You saw the reports from the Brits and the Japanese. Same thing happened to their people, and they were both poking around in the same area Jay was."

  "It still doesn't seem possible."

  "Neither does breaking the code for the Pakistani train. Whoever did that is leaps and bounds ahead of us. They know things we don't."

  "There's a cheery thought."

  She looked at him. He seemed terribly glum. "Something else on your mind, Alex?"

  He prodded the eggs a final time, then put his fork down. "Well, yeah. I didn't want to bother you with it."

  "Go ahead, bother me. What?"

  "I got a notice from my ex-wife's lawyers on an e-fax this morning."

  "And…?"

  "Megan is suing for total custody of Susan."

  "Oh, no."

  "Oh, yeah. Maybe I shouldn't have decked her new boyfriend."

  "You said she was planning to do it before that."

  "Yes. But that probably didn't help. Or that I said if he slept over again with Susie in the house, I'd throw an adultery charge at her."

  "You were angry."

  "Uh-huh. And stupid. She's not a bad woman, it's just that she knows how to get under my skin."

  "Don't make excuses for her. She's a bitch."

  He smiled. "Unfortunately, she's a bitch who is the mother of my only child, and she wants to take my daughter away. To have that bearded teacher become Daddy instead."

  "What did your lawyer say?"

  "What lawyers always say. Don't worry, he'll handle it, Megan won't win."

  She reached across the table and took his hand. "It'll work out. You're too good a person; any judge will see that."

  He smiled again, turned his hand up and squeezed hers. "Thanks. I love you."

  "That's why I'm here."

  She had loved Alex for a long time, and even though he could sometimes be exasperating, with the way he bottled up his emotions and the way he tried to shield her from things, in the grand cosmic scheme of things, these were minor problems. They'd get them worked out, eventually. She was sure of it.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Despite his resolve to get to bed early, the depth of the night found John Howard standing in a parking lot outside the Luxor Hotel and Casino, staring into the sky. He'd just taken a long midnight walk. A crisp, dry wind blew and whirled among the cars, stirring dust. The parking lot was surrounded by palm trees and other vegetation not native to this area. The Nevada summers were hot enough to convince the trees they could thrive — as long as they were watered — but the palms looked somehow uncomfortable as they stood around the edges of the concrete, swaying in the breeze, as if they knew they didn't belong here.

  From the apex of the giant black pyramid that was the Luxor, a tight ring of spotlights, focused into one large ray, beamed straight up into the night. The heat from the laserlike column that shot up was intense enough that it sucked air and dust into itself, shoving it heavenward in a fountain of photons. Night had to watch Las Vegas from a distance; the city didn't allow the dark to come in.

  Howard observed the boiling light beam. A moth that ventured too close to that white column would find itself roasted and blown halfway to the moon real quick.

  There was something incredibly decadent about the whole city of Las Vegas, and the Luxor was a good example of it. More than four thousand rooms, at least half a dozen theme restaurants, a casino that never shut down, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, plus a boat voyage to the Land of the Dead, right in the atrium. It was ancient Egypt by way of Walt Disney, and for a dollar, you could tug on the arm of an Egyptian deity and take a chance on the big payoff. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets….

  He had gone in and looked around and been amazed, but also overwhelmed, by it all. Here outside the massive structure, whose entrance was marked by a giant obelisk that shamed Cleopatra's Needle, and guarded by a sphinx in much better repair than the big one in Egypt, Howard got a sense of how truly rich the United States was. A nation that could produce such places as this, designed for leisure, for entertainment, for the millions who could afford to come and play here, well, that said a lot about such a country. He could hardly blame the owners, whose goal was to separate suckers from their money. They had done a great job. But as attractive and over the top as it was, there was something… repellent about it at the same time.

  Las Vegas called to the party-loving hearts in people, the carpe diem, grasshopper, be-here-now-and-devil-take-tomorrow psyches. But it also called to the dark side, the desperate, the greedy, the addicted. It was plastic and neon and all that was cheap and shoddy about America. But it was also fun.

  Howard laughed and began the hike back toward his own motel room. Getting to be a philosopher in your old age, eh, John? Next thing you know, you'll be sitting in a dark room contemplating your navel.

  He laughed again. Well, maybe not just yet.

  Sunday, April 3rd

  Stonewall Flat, Nevada

  Ruzhyo awoke from a troubled sleep, coming alert all at once as he had learned to do years ago in Spetsnaz. He listened but heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes, he got up, went to the bathroom, then walked to the door of the trailer and opened it. Naked, he looked into the desert.

  The night was clear, and stars beyond counting hung in the sky, hard, glittery pinpoints. A breeze blew and stirred the
scrub and sand, but there was nothing else moving. No signs of life.

  He rubbed at his chin. He had not shaved in several days, and perhaps it was time to do so.

  A moment later, he closed the door. Something was wrong. Danger lurked outside his door. Even though he could not see nor hear it, he knew it was there.

  He sighed. Now it was time to take the guns out and make ready. There were other things to check, too, preparations he had made when first he arrived. If Death had come to claim him at last, he would not feel sorrow, but if he lost the battle, he would do so trying his best to win. It was rusty and not used of late, but all he had left was his craft. He would display it as best he could.

  Ruzhyo went back to the bathroom. He would wash his face and shave, then he would get dressed and make his preparations for war.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday, April 3rd

  London, England

  Michaels and Toni were checking out of the hotel to catch a taxi to the airport when the desk clerk said, "It might be a good idea if you rang your air carrier, sir."

  "Oh"

  "Yes, sir. We've just gotten word that there's been something of a problem with flight schedules out of Heathrow. And out of Gatwick, as well, I'm afraid."

  The clerk, as it turned out, was a master of understatement. Michaels's attempts to connect with British Airways were unsuccessful. All incoming lines, he was told by a recording, were temporarily busy, and would he please try again later?

  While he was doing just that, Toni caught him by the arm and pulled him over to a television set in the hotel pub. The BBC had broken into regular programming for a special bulletin: Apparently nearly all the computer systems at the world's largest airports had gone bonkers. These included not only the ticketing and reservations computers but the flight control systems and auto-nav landing beacons as well. A quick check showed problems in Los Angeles, New York, Dallas — Fort Worth, Denver, Sydney, Auckland, Jakarta, New Delhi, Hong Kong, Moscow, Paris, and London. Passenger air travel at major terminals around the world had been brought to a virtual halt in a matter of minutes. Airline personnel were trying to manage, but without computers, the process was next to impossible. In many places, you couldn't buy a ticket or get a seat assignment. If you could, there wasn't likely to be plane waiting — assuming you could find the proper gate — and if you did find a plane, it wasn't going anywhere any time soon.