Net Force - Tom Clancy [34]
The acid was very strong. But to be certain, the Snake had hammered out all of the dead mans teeth, and the American Winters had sprinkled these teeth one by one over the side of a ferry to Staten Island, interspersed with handfuls of popcorn he had thrown to the seagulls that followed the ferry.
The FBI disguises were likewise no more. The IDs and clothes had been burned and the ashes flushed away; the badges had been pounded to flat scrap and put into a metal-recycler station. The cars plates had been switched back, the automobile itself returned to the agency from which it had been rented with more fake identification. The guns had been wiped clean, packaged, marked Rock Samples, then mailed to a large post office box rented to a nonexistent person in Tucson, Arizona, where they would sit until the rental expired or the post office tried to find the box holder, whichever occurred first, and months away in any case. Disposable items, all.
Such a ruse would not work again-the Genaloni organization would now be alerted. But it was not necessary.
It was remotely possible that the bodyguards might be offered pictures of the real agents Ruzhyo and Zmeya had impersonated, but it was most unlikely. Genalonis suspicion and natural distrust of the authorities would be enhanced, and he would not turn to them for aid in finding his man even if he did believe them, which he would not. The crime boss would not pursue the matter with the federal authorities, and they, in turn, having other things to do, would quickly forget about it.
The FBI would think Genaloni had killed one of his own. And Genaloni would think the FBI was out to get him. The former was incorrect, but the latter was now true. Genaloni, according to the research Plekhanov had supplied, was not a patient man. He would likely do something rash. And if he did not, then Ruzhyo would do it for him-or at least it would seem so.
Giving ones enemy something else about which to worry was an old but still useful device. Plekhanov knew history well, and he was a master manipulator. A good man to have on ones side in a conflict. A bad man to have as an opponent.
There were other small things Ruzhyo and his crew could do to further harass both Net Force and the criminal family they had set upon each other, small things, but each adding a bit more to the load.
Sooner or later, even the strongest camel will collapse under one more additional straw added to its load.
It was Ruzhyos job to supply the straws.
Sunday, September 19th, 2:30 a.m. Kiev
John Howard was just a little peeved at the CIA station chief. Morgan Hunter was maybe forty-five, hair gone gray, but still in pretty good shape, to judge from the fit of his suit and the way he moved. And hed been a Company man for twenty-odd years, had worked in Chile, done a stint in Beirut, then in Moscow after the breakup, before landing here. So he ought to know his business.
Im sorry, Colonel, but what can I say? None of our contacts among the local radicals have squat on this, outside of the original reports. We havent been able to run it down.
The clock is ticking, Mr. Hunter.
They were in the small conference room in the sub-basement, a room Howard had been given for his operation. There were landline phones, computers, printers, television monitors and other such impedimenta on the tables and walls.
The CIA man gave him a superior smile. I am aware of that, Colonel. We wound the clock, so we know. As you might recall, we brought it to your agencys attention in the first place. An agency