Part 19 (1/2)
”Huh?”
”Go on, ask me.”
”Okay, what is the most important thing about-”
”Timing!” she said, cutting in.
He smiled. ”Got it.”
”You will, you will. Practice makes perfect. Now, again. Punch.”
He stepped in, and threw another right, harder this time, and braced with his left hand.
She blocked it and demonstrated the counter. ”Good,” she said. ”Again.”
This was going well. Maybe the kris kris was lucky in love. Wouldn't that be nice? was lucky in love. Wouldn't that be nice?
Chapter Twenty-Four.
Tuesday, January 11th, 9:50 a.m. Bombay, India Jay Gridley walked into the small storefront tobacco shop to the jingle of a spring-mounted warning bell on the door frame. The bell tinkled again as the door closed behind him with a solid chunk chunk! The smoke shop was not far from Government House, on one of the danker streets facing Back Bay. The time was late 1890's, and the British Raj was still in full sway; Bombay was, of course, Indian, but the English flag draped heavily over the city, as it did the entire country.
Rule Brittania.
Inside, the shop was dark and hazy with fragrant blue smoke. The man behind the counter was also dark, a native, dressed in a white s.h.i.+rt and summer suit, and the smell of his blended pipe tobacco hung sweet and heavy in the still air. He took another puff from his heavy, curved briar, and added that smoke to the already abundant cloud.
A month-old copy of the London Times London Times lay upon the counter next to a large gla.s.s jar full of cheap cigars, a small wooden box of strike-anywhere matches, and a metal tray of cedar lighting sticks. lay upon the counter next to a large gla.s.s jar full of cheap cigars, a small wooden box of strike-anywhere matches, and a metal tray of cedar lighting sticks.
Jay himself wore a white linen suit and a tan planter's hat. He nodded at the shopkeeper. ”You have other newspapers?” He waved at the Times Times.
”Yes, sir, we have them in the back, next to the humidor,” the man said, in that singsong lilt of a native Indian who'd learned English only as an adult. He exhaled smoke with the words.
Jay touched his hat brim and moved to the shelves to the left of the counter, next to the closed gla.s.s door that led into the humidor room where the good tobacco and cigars were kept.
He glanced at the papers. There was The Strand The Strand, the New York Times New York Times, and something from Hong Kong in Chinese. Not what he was looking for-ah, there it was. The Delhi Ledger The Delhi Ledger, a small publication put out in English that sold mostly to expatriate Brits homesick for King and country. Or was it Queen and country? Sure, must be Victoria, it being the Victorian age and all. He ought to know his English history better, he supposed.
He thumbed through the cheap newsprint and smudged the ink, getting it on his fingers. Well, at least that was a nice touch.
Ah, there it was. The reference he had been trying to run down. The article was ostensibly about Danes come to visit India, but there in the fluffy travel piece was the name he wanted: The Frihedsakse Frihedsakse.
Once upon a time, Jay would have thought it was odd to find a bit of information about Denmark in an Indian infonet, but not anymore. Information was like dust; it blew around in the wind and wound up in places you'd never think it would. The logical place to start hunting for information on a Danish terrorist organization would be in Denmark, or at least in the Scandinavian countries, and certainly he had combed through those nets with the best search engines and squeekbots Net Force had, but he'd come up empty. So he'd widened his search, and this was the first real hit he'd had. Time was pa.s.sing-it had been a week without any real leads-and while it had been quiet, there was no guarantee it would stay that way. He took the paper to the front, paid for it, and went out into the Indian afternoon. It was overcast. What time of year was it? Monsoon season? He was getting slack in his old age. There was a time when such a detail would never have gotten past his scenario research, even if he'd been in a hurry. Oh, well. Things changed. While it was still important to look good, getting the job done counted for more.
Tuesday, January 11th, 10:15 a.m. Blackloun, New South Wales, Australia Jay had switched from his tropical linens into an Abercrombie & Fitch khaki outfit, shorts and a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, complete with stout walking shoes and a pinned-up Australian bush hat. His next stop was a small library in Blacktown, just north and west of Sydney. It was the middle of summer, and warm, and the library was not air-conditioned, even though he'd picked a contemporary time to run his scenario.
Not a bad transition for a couple minutes' work.
”Can I help you, sir?” the librarian asked. Jay loved Australian accents. He used them for secondary characters all the time.
”Yes, ma'am, I'm looking for this periodical.” He put a slip of paper onto the woman's desk. She put on her reading gla.s.ses and looked at it.
”Oh, right. In the magazine section, go past the record kiosk, on your left, about halfway down the rack.”
”Thank you, ma'am.”
”You're American, right?”
”Yes, ma'am.”
”Nice to make your acquaintance then.”
Jay smiled, tipped his hat, then headed for the magazine racks. This was perhaps a little more time-consuming than a non-VR search, but if he couldn't have fun, why bother?
Tuesday, January 11th, 10:30 a.m.. Rangoon, Burma Jay found a mention of Frihedsakse Frihedsakse in a backline infonet connected to a major s.h.i.+pping company. Not much, just an unconfirmed rumor, connected to the sinking of an oil tanker. Well. Great avalanches from little s...o...b..a.l.l.s sometimes grew. He gathered the information in and moved on. in a backline infonet connected to a major s.h.i.+pping company. Not much, just an unconfirmed rumor, connected to the sinking of an oil tanker. Well. Great avalanches from little s...o...b..a.l.l.s sometimes grew. He gathered the information in and moved on.
Tuesday, January 11th, 10:40 a.m. Johannesburg, South Africa In a police station in Boksburg, a man arrested for stealing a car had been searched. There had been nothing in the arrestee's wallet save a business card, upon the back of which was the handwritten word Frihedsakse Frihedsakse. Next to the word was an old-style internet-provider ID number. The IP probably wasn't active, but that didn't matter. If it had ever been active, there were ways to trace it.
A quick check of the dates on the information showed that it had been in the police system for five months. A pix of the card had a day and time stamp on it as verification of the item's log into the evidence locker at the central storage vault in Johannesburg.
Jay collected the card. He grinned. These terrorists didn't know who they were messing with. He was Jay Gridley, the man who had run the mad Russian programmer to ground. These balrogs didn't have a prayer.
Tuesday, January 11th, 10:50 a.m. Kobe, j.a.pan At a beef ranch in Kobe, somebody had broken in and stolen, of all things, a case of beer, which was to be fed to the cattle. Investigating policemen had no clues, save one: Scrawled on the wall next to ten cases of beer that had been left behind was the word Frihedsakse Frihedsakse in kanji. in kanji.
Jay made note of that.
So it went, a tiny bit here, an even smaller bit there. This was sometimes the way of computer sievework. You strained slowly, but very fine. If you did it right, you might come up with a bunch of pieces so small that none of them would mean anything but, puzzled together, you might have something. Jay was gathering his ducks. When he had enough of them, he would put them into a row. And when he had enough ducks in a neat row, he would get some answers. And then?
Well, we'll just see, won't we? I got your fried s.e.x right here, pal...
Tuesday, January 11th, 11:15 a.m. Miami Beach, Florida Platt strolled along one of the touristy streets near the ca.n.a.l, enjoying the seventy-degree weather. Around him, people walked, dressed in all the bright colors of the rainbow, plus a bunch of colors not found anywhere naturally. Old, young, white, black, domestic, foreign, Miami Beach was always cookin', there was always action. It might be snowin' like a sonofab.i.t.c.h up north, in Was.h.i.+ngton or New York City, and still be practically summer down here in the land of sin.
Life was sure grand when you could just pick up and go to where you could walk around in a T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts in the middle of the winter.
Platt ambled along, not going anywhere in particular, just strolling, soaking up a few minutes of the warm suns.h.i.+ne before he had to go back into his room and plug into the net.
He watched a black girl in a tank top and short shorts stride by, and smiled at her big and tight backside after she pa.s.sed. Fine-lookin' woman.