Part 14 (2/2)

Rusty nodded, and began Djuru One Djuru One.

It was the simplest of the dances, but from it, everything more complex arose. A metaphor for life, she had come to realize.

Thursday, September 30th, 12:30 p.m. Quantico The Selkie bought a c.o.ke, sweet-and-sour chicken, and sticky rice from the Chinese place the target sometimes rode his trike to for lunch. It was a warm day, a little breeze keeping the humidity bearable, and she sat at one of the small white wrought-iron tables just outside the restaurant. She wore a baggy gray T-s.h.i.+rt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sungla.s.ses. The wig she affected was brunette, and even with most of it stuffed under the cap, was enough to add to her changed appearance so that she didn't look much like anybody the target had ever seen.

There he came on the raked three-wheeler, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck reflecting the hazy suns.h.i.+ne.

She opened the cardboard containers and dumped the chicken and rice together onto a paper plate. She stirred the combination with the split-apart-throw-away chopsticks, allowed the sauce to soak into the rice. There were a dozen other diners outside enjoying their lunches and the day, and she did not make eye contact with any of them, or the target.

The target parked the trike, pulled his gloves and helmet off and hung them on the handlebar, then walked into the restaurant. His legs were tight, pumped from the ride. The spandex shorts hid little an interested viewer might want to look at. And it was interesting. She was not a nun, though she put s.e.x aside when she was working. Mora Sullivan could roll and break beds if she felt like it; the Selkie could not afford the risk.

It had not always been that way. Once, early in her career, she had picked up a target in a bar. He'd been a good-looking man, and she'd gone with him to his hotel and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter.

When he fell into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she had taken a silenced .22 pistol from her purse and shot him twice in the back of the head.

He'd never known what hit him, and at the time, she'd felt pleased with herself. She had made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to do so than making love to a pa.s.sionate woman, falling asleep, and never waking up.

It had been foolish, what she had done. She had left hair and fluids at the murder scene, had been seen by hotel staff, even though she had been in disguise. Nothing had come of it--it was years past, the file long since buried--but it had been stupid. Another time, another place, and the target here might be fun to romp around with, but she was not willing to risk capture to be sentimental.

She ate the chicken. She'd had better. Had worse, too.

Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.

The Selkie smiled.

Friday, October 1st, 7 a.m. Kiev Kiev had several decent restaurants, but the breakfast was catered in a private suite at the new Hilton hotel, not far from the banks of the beautiful Dnieper, in a site formerly occupied by a theater and row of shops. Unlike a public restaurant, such a suite could be--and had been--swept for electronic listening devices. The sixth-floor windows could be--and were--rigged with simple vibrators that would defeat a hidden laser reader aimed at them from half a block away. The food servers had been dismissed, the doors locked, the secrets thus kept among the players. Not that anybody would likely be spying upon them. n.o.body outside this room had a real clue as to what was going on inside it. But one erred on the side of caution, always.

Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quant.i.ties, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.

They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldn't have expected coffee this good in such a place.

”You all have your new transfer numbers?” Plekhanov asked.

There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.

”Yes,” they said simultaneously.

Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inconsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.

Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.

Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once they'd been. . . .

”Comrade Plekhanov?” the woman said.

”Yes?” This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called ”comrade” in a long time--not in the way she meant the word.

”There has been some . . . difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are pa.s.sed.”

”Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool.” That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. He'd retired as a major before going into politics.

”You are also also a Cossack, Yemelyan.” Khomyakov said. a Cossack, Yemelyan.” Khomyakov said.

”That is how I know,” Razin said. ”Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged.” is how I know,” Razin said. ”Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged.”

Plekhanov looked at the woman. ”Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an . . . accident, Ludmilla?”

She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. ”He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary.”

”Death is final,” Razin said.

”Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful.” it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful.”

”And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him.”

The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.

”Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet?” Khomyakov said.

Razin snorted.

Plekhanov raised an eyebrow at her.

”Bulavin is fond of both liquor and women,” Khomyakov said. ”He has been discreet, careful to keep his activities in these areas confined to those which would not irritate his union members if they found out. Not too much drinking in public, the occasional fling with a secretary. Men are men, and not bothered by such things. Perhaps we could supply him a woman willing to . . . doctor his liquor and engage in activities his members--and his wife--would find less than . . . tasteful? There are many possibilities along these lines. And our woman would, of course, have an excellent holographic camera.”

Razin said, ”Pah! You would put him in bed with a boy? A sheep? This is a woman's answer to everything! If it moves, screw it!”

”Better, perhaps, than a man's answer--if it moves, kill it,” she said. She smiled.

Plekhanov liked both her response and her solution. Brutes could be found anywhere; subtlety was more of a prize. A live enemy in your pocket was sometimes better than a dead one in the ground. Sometimes.

Well, at least he knew who the new President of Ukraine was going to be.

Thursday, September 30th, 11 p.m. Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

”I bet you've never seen anybody get killed, have you, Scout?”

The little dog wagged his tail, momentarily diverted from his sniffing and peeing. When it didn't seem as if the comment would lead to a command, he resumed his work.

In her old-woman disguise, the Selkie moved toward the target's condo. She had decided to do it tonight. The target was still awake, a bit late for him, but his reading light was on, and it was going to be simple, clean, in and out. By the time anybody knew he was dead, she would be home and Phyllis Markham would have vanished forever.

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