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  Max glanced past his body at the upper landing, saw that Magazine Man had slipped a hand under his baggy shirt, and fired again before he could pull whatever the hell he was reaching for.

  There was another flat thud from his gun muzzle, another explosion of crimson, and Magazine Man went down clutching his chest.

  Blackburn knew he'd only gained a brief reprieve, and struggled to a sitting position. The three men he'd overcome couldn't have been too far ahead of the rest of his attackers. If they'd stayed in contact with them — which was likely — the others would be coming through the door at any moment.

  His situation was going to get worse, much worse, once they did.

  He needed to move fast.

  Max got to his feet, grasping the rail with one hand to support his weight. His ankle and shoulder wailed from their injuries. He looked up and down the basement corridor into which he'd fallen, saw large double doors perhaps ten or fifteen feet over to his right, and made a snap decision to see where they led.

  He boosted himself off the rail with a small gasp of exertion, reached his goal with a few limping steps.

  Suddenly there was a loud crash — the stairwell door flying open behind him.

  Then footsteps.

  Banging down the stairs.

  Max felt a thrill of renewed urgency. It wasn't hard to visualize the newcomers' reactions when they saw what he'd done to their friends. They would not be pleased, to say the least.

  He pushed the whole length of his body against the metal lock bar, and the doors opened out. Weak daylight flooded over him. Ahead was a loading ramp that rose to a short alley lined with Dumpsters. A delivery truck was parked at the curb at the mouth of the alley. The word "New Bridge Linens" painted across its flank in English, a delivery man on the driver's side of the cab.

  Max paused. Saw that the delivery man's head was craned so he could peer out the passenger window. Saw the expression of menacing scrutiny on his features. And realized he'd been about to go running straight toward his opponents' getaway vehicle.

  The delivery man turned toward his door, threw it open, and emerged from the truck, hurrying around its front grille toward the alley. Max could tell at a glance that he was enormous, and did not feel like having to take him on. In the best of conditions it would be a tough fight, and he was far from at his best right now. His gun upraised in his right hand, he withdrew into the doorway, grabbed the lock bar with his left hand, and hauled back on it, praying he could find another way out before his pursuers overtook him—

  Exquisite pain sliced through his right arm all at once. It jerked into the air as if snagged on a fishing line, jerked out of his control, the semi-auto flying from his fingers. A harsh breath escaped Max's lips as he glanced incredulously down at himself and saw that something had caught onto him below the elbow, tearing through his jacket sleeve, actually sinking into his flesh — a kind of metal grappling hook at the end of a thin chain, what he believed was a goddamned martial arts weapon the Chinese called a flying claw. The man grasping its handle ring, his stare devoid of mercy, could have been Oakley's twin.

  The double doors flung wide open behind Max. With his peripheral vision he saw the bulking figure of the man move up on his left.

  He desperately gripped the tautened chain with his good hand and struggled to tear it loose, but the claw wasn't coming out, the claw had gouged too deeply into his arm, the claw was buried inside him.

  My God, who are these guys? he thought, his blood streaming thickly from his wound, dripping over the chain to the floor. The man at the other end of the weapon holding onto it like someone engaged in a deadly tug of war. Who—?

  Before he could finish asking himself the question, the driver's massive hand swung out at his temple and the world exploded into blinding whiteness and then went black.

  Chapter Eight

  NEW YORK CITY/PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 19, 2000

  FROM THE WALL: STREET JOURNAL:

  Industry Focus: Roger

  Gordian's Growing, Failing Monstrosity

  BY REYNOLD ARMITAGE

  There is drama in the numbers: by its own accounting estimates UpLink's earnings have fallen 18 % in the past year, the largest slide in its third consecutive quarter of decline. Its stock prices continue to drop at an even more precipitous rate, having closed the week by falling $15.4656 to $45.7854 a share on Big Board composite volume of 100 million shares, a decline of 25 %. As a result of these losses the corporation's market value has plunged by about $9 billion, considerably below even the gloomiest of analysts' predictions and raising new questions about whether the high-tech giant can support its heavy investment in a global "personal communications satellite" network — one requiring the launch of about 50 LEOs and 40 gate way stations around the world, for a total investment of over $3 billion over the next five years.

  There is drama in the numbers, but the entire story is more complicated than they reveal upon first examination. Certainly the defense and communications operations at the heart of Roger Gordian's past success desperately need to have the causes of their ill health diagnosed and remedied. But to completely understand the forces bringing down his parent company, one must look at the poor track records of its spawn. To offer but a few examples: the lackluster performance of UpLink's specialty automotive subsidiary, the chronic profit drain of its medical devices and power generation divisions, and the recent Dow losses suffered by its computer hardware and software offshoots due almost entirely to Gordian's imperious and unreasonable decree against the sale of cryptographic technology to emerging overseas markets. Indeed, the catalog of failures and borderline failures for what had been one of America's leading companies seems endless.

  Unease runs deep among investors, who fear that Roger Gordian has created a patchwork monster, a multi-limbed aberration whose lifeblood is being diverted away from its corporate center to sustain its unwieldy reach. To be blunt, as UpLink's once highly valued stock continues to lose ground, it becomes less critical to ask whether its problems are due to hubris, inattention, or simple bad judgment on the part of its executives, and fitting to state the obvious bottom line — its board has failed to uphold its basic fiduciary responsibility to shareholders, namely guaranteeing a premium return on their investments.

  Let us pause here to consider an image of cojoined or 4 'Siamese" twins— better yet, make them triplets — their bodies connected by an implacable tube of flesh, nerves, and intertwined blood vessels. In the cradle, they coo and embrace. As young adolescents they plan for a future that seems a bright, infinite frontier.

  But adulthood brings change and discord. One of them grows to enjoy composing gentle romantic poetry. Another's great pleasures are drinking and arm-wrestling in rowdy taverns. The third simply likes to fish in the sun. Miscreated, mismatched, and miserable, they try to reach some lifestyle accommodation, equally dividing their time between preferred pursuits, but their basic incompatibility of nature causes all three to fail.

  The poet cannot write because the long nights in hard bars make soft, lyrical thoughts impossible, and because he suffers hangovers from the alcohol flowing through their common bloodstream. The prodigal grows depressed and contrary while his versifying brother struggles to focus on the intricacies of rhyme and meter. Their constant arguing exhausts the fisherman, so that he merely sleeps away his mornings by the stream, and his rod frequently drops from his fingers to be dragged off into the water by a darting bass or trout, gone with a splash.

  Eventually the three brothers wane and perish. The cause stated on their death certificates? One does not know the medical term, but perhaps it might rightly be called overdiversification.

  What can be done to spare UpLink from a similar demise? For answers we might contrast the untenable generalism of its expansion to the cautious, focused growth of Monolith Technologies….

  Although it wasn't yet time for the reception to conclude, Marcus Caine was feeling bored and stuffy-headed in th
e packed United Nations chamber. From his place at the dais, he sat staring past exotic floral arrangements at a profusion of television cameras, cables, floodlights, and microphone booms, all manipulated by a crew of scurrying technicians. Behind him was a large collapsible backdrop showing the U. N. symbol, a globe viewed from the North Pole and surrounded by olive branches. Because this was a UNICEF event, there was the added touch of a woman holding a young child in the center of the globe. Caine's wife, Odielle, sat quietly at his right, her face thin and clamped. On either side of them were officers of the organization's Executive Board and high-ranking members of its parent body, the Economic and Social Council. Below him, rows of interpreters in headsets were translating their insipid, windy speeches into six languages.

  As the current speaker droned away about Caine's philanthropic largesse, he absently glanced down the length of the table at Arcadia Foxcroft, Lady Arcadia, his connection to the Secretariat, and the woman who had arranged the ongoing event. Wanting to stop his mind from drifting off entirely, he stared at her, made her his fixed point of concentration. It wasn't hard. She had the sort of face one would expect to see on a fashion model's head-shot — exciting, glamorous, provocative. Her peach-colored dress accented a spectacular figure. Lively blue eyes flashing, delicate lips parting over perfect white teeth, she was having a conversation with the fellow next to her, laughing at something he'd said. Though he couldn't hear the laughter from his seat, Caine was very familiar with the sound of it.

  Somehow it always made him think of sharpened glass.

  Caine watched her. A man-killer, Arcadia. And aware of it, as were all women of her type. She brushed back a wisp of auburn hair, revealing one of the diamond earrings that he'd bought for a small fortune at Harry Winston's and given her while they were in bed the previous night. He had dropped them between her thighs after they made love, and she had found that tremendously arousing. As she'd put them on, and then slid on top of him, groaning breathlessly, awakening him to delight again, he'd wondered how many other sexual dalliances she was having even while they conducted their affair, how many other partners were lavishing her with expensive gifts. Doubtless quite a few. Which was all right. Bad girl, Arcadia. He had his fair share of her, and thought it was only sporting to let the rest of the boys have theirs.

  Besides, he liked to imagine her engaging in hidden, illicit acts out of his presence… just as he thrived on the tension of having his wife and mistress seated in the same room, rubbing elbows, making small talk, secrets running between them like unseen trip wires.

  Caine was dimly aware that another speaker had taken the microphone. A famous Hollywood actress who had married a New York congressional leader, semi-retired from the big screen, moved out to East Hampton, damped her incandescent beauty behind scholarly wire glasses, and become a dedicated spokeswoman for children's causes. Caine wished he'd dated her when the chance had presented itself some years back. Now she was expressing her admiration of his professional standards, his accomplishments in wedding the mass media to computer technology, his inroads into new Asian cable television markets. She raised a chuckle from the crowd with a line that used the word "gizmo," shifted her tone to one of sober concern, and last but not least, praised his unflinching commitment to the Children, capital C. Thanks to Marcus Caine, she concluded wryly, it was truly becoming a small world after all.

  Throughout the speech Caine kept his eyes on Arcadia, watching her flirtatious interaction with the dignitary beside her. He understood her quite well; indeed he and she were alike in a great many ways. Born in Argentina, the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy German expatriate and his one-time maid, she had been raised by her mother without paternal involvement or financial assistance, and was turning tricks in the streets of Buenos Aires before she was twelve. A decade and several wealthy clients later, having taught herself the manners and forms of sophistication, she slept her way into England's green and pleasant bowers, married a sputtering old lord who was ripe for the grave, secured his inheritance, and thus guaranteed her place in elegant High Society — make that capital H, capital S, please. She was a poseur, plain and simple. An urchin who had snuck into the ball and charmed her way into favor with the invited guests. No wonder her every gesture seemed an exaggeration. As if she constantly needed to prove herself to herself.

  Yes, Caine understood her. As he sat among U. N. appointees chosen for their social status and connections, graduates of elite schools, men and women whose bloodlines and fortunes could be traced back centuries, pampered exquisites who were little more than walking family crests, how could he not? They were to the manor born. His father had been a sales executive who retired with a moderate pension after an undistinguished and psychologically anesthetizing career. His mother had taught third grade until she became pregnant with him and settled into being a housewife. Caine himself had been a good student throughout his youth, and attended Harvard for two years on a merit scholarship — but it had been withdrawn in his fourth semester when he'd gotten into some difficulties, and he'd never obtained his degree. Had he not fostered several important friendships before his expulsion he'd have been finished even before entering the race.

  The fine ladies and gents in his company would have been astonished, completely astonished, if they knew what he thought of them, how contemptuous he was of them….

  A flurry of movement to Caine's immediate right, near the podium, suddenly intruded on his thoughts. He straightened in his chair, breaking his attention away from Lady Arcadia. The speaker presently delivering an encomium to his humanitarianism was Amnon Jafari, Executive Secretary ECOSOC, and he seemed about to wrap things up. A group of dark-suited men had appeared from behind the collapsible wall with a six-foot-long blow-up of Caine's endowment check to UNICEF — three million dollars, which he'd promised to double once it was matched by donations from other wealthy individuals. The mock check was backed with plywood, and there were two members of the group holding it at each end.

  The Secretary's voice was a deep tenor, and its volume grew as he ended his speech, expressing his gratitude to Caine with a final burst of enthusiasm. Caine heard his name boom from Jafari's lips to the acoustical drop ceiling, and then carry across the chamber to the VIP floor and public galleries. Applause crashed through the room like thunder.

  It was time for him to accept the accolades. He would enjoy standing before the cameras while trying to outdo the pompous verbosity of his hosts.

  He rose, went to the podium, and clasped Jafari's right hand in both his own. Then the Secretary stepped aside and Caine turned to face the crowd, the oversized reproduction of his check making a splendid prop behind him. He began his comments by thanking the roster of U. N. officials responsible for the event, speaking without reference to notes or the Teleprompter — Caine's eidetic memory was one of his strongest assets.

  "Yes, I am honored to be here," he said when he was through rattling off names. Flashbulbs popped, cameras dollied in for close-ups. "But more than anything, I am grateful for the opportunity to stand before you today with a challenge. As many of you know, I have long been committed to extending the global reach of interactive electronic media, and especially Internet technology — for it is my belief that they are the modern magic that can unite the inhabitants and governments of Planet Earth and truly make us one, the tools that will bring about our next evolution as a species. Cyberspace allows us all, young and old, rich and poor, the great and the humble, to meet on a level field. A field with ever-expanding horizons and limitless potential."

  He paused for some scattered handclaps, glanced over his wife's head at Lady Arcadia. She met his gaze and smiled at him, her lower lip tucked alluringly between her front teeth.

  "Yet as we take our first steps into the infant twenty-first century, we must proceed boldly rather than tentatively to assure that none are denied access to this dynamic realm of information and knowledge. Those of us who have been blessed with lives of material comfort are obliged to share
the rewards we have enjoyed. Listen up and listen well: It is time to dedicate ourselves to guiding and educating the children, so that they too may grow without limitation, and attain new and fulfilling horizons. Time for each of us extend a hand, and pledge a portion of our wealth to bringing them technology that will immeasurably improve their lives. It is a hard fact that advancement requires money. Schoolroom computers, high-speed DSL modems, Internet connections — none of these come free. From Bahrain to Barbados, from Afghanistan to Antigua, from the industrial capitals of Europe to the emerging nations of West Africa, the youngest and least fortunate of us must be guaranteed access…."

  Caine went on in that vein for perhaps ten more minutes, and then decided to quit before he talked himself hoarse. His standing ovation was punctuated with cheers and bravos. He noticed that Odielle's clapping was rather feeble and halfhearted, and that her pinched expression seemed even tighter than it had been all morning — could it be she'd seen him exchange intimate glances with Arcadia, even knew something about his trysts with her? The thought made him tingle with a kind of giddy excitement.

  But later for that. The show wasn't over yet, not until his Southeast Asian business associates — his benefactors, as they would have preferred to be considered — saw him run through his greatest hits. Doubtless, they would be watching and listening for them in front of their television screens.

  Caine stood quietly until the crowd subsided, then announced that he would be taking a few questions from the press corps.

  Predictably, the first one shouted at him had nothing whatsoever to do with his gift to UNICEF, or his challenge to the rich, or his crusade to put the deprived youngsters of the world on-line.

  "Mr. Caine, as you know, the Morrison-Fiore bill will be signed into law the day after tomorrow." Caine recognized the reporter from the network newscasts; he had a scoop of dyed brown hair and an alliterative name. "Could you please give us your thoughts about that, and also about the fact that Roger Gordian is expected to simultaneously hold a press conference in Washington to declare his continuing opposition to the President's relaxed encryption policies."