Net Force - Tom Clancy [65]
I present myself before the Creator in the beginning-
The left foot came in, next to and slightly in front of the right foot, knees bent, hands moved to the left side, by the hip, palms down, left over right.
I present myself to the best of my ability in the knowledge of the Art-
The hands came up and out together as in supplication, palms up, almost as if holding a book. The right hand folded into a fist, the left hand wrapped around the right, both came back toward the chest.
I ask to receive from the Creator all those things which I do not see-
Another book-reading move, open hands coming back to cover the eyes.
-to engrave upon my heart-
The hands pressed together in namaste, the classic praying gesture, and touched the chest over the heart.
-until the end.
And the final move, a repeat of the second, the palm-down block by the left hip.
Do your djuru, please, she said.
Rusty nodded, and began 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 Coke, 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-shirt and very loose black cotton pants, a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. 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 didnt 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 sunshine.
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 sex 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. Hed been a good-looking man, and shed 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.
Hed never known what hit him, and at the time, shed 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 passionate 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. Shed had better. Had worse, too.
Was today the day? She glanced at the target where he stood in line to order.
The Selkie smiled.
21
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