Net Force - Tom Clancy [8]
From his vantage point in the corner office on the sixth floor of the Computer Wing of the Science Building-formerly, and briefly, the Military Headquarters Building-he had a good view. Here was the new downtown bridge over the Sunzha River; way over there, the massive Makhachkala Pipelines, delivering their ever-more-precious black fluid to the waiting tankers on the Caspian Sea. Just there, the remains of the barracks where Tolstoy had served as a young soldier. And there, in the distance, the Sunzha Range of the mighty Caucasus.
As cities went, this one was not bad. It was hardly a village-nearly half the population of the entire country lived here-but even so, at less than three quarters of a million people, it was not an overly large city. And in a beautiful country it was.
Oil was still the lubricant that ran Groznys economy, though it was running out, bleeding away faster than it could have been replaced by ten thousand dinosaurs dying and instantly rotting each day-a thing even Steven Spielberg and all his movie magic could not provide. The flare stacks at the refinery ran day and night, spewing fire and smoke into the skies, but in the not-too-distant future those fiery towers would go dark. Chechnya needed a new base for its economy. A base that he, Vladimir Plekhanov, was going to provide. For even though he had been born a Russian, he was as much Chechen as any man
The sound of his computers telephonic program interrupted Plekhanovs musings upon his Grand Plan. He turned away from the window, walked to the door of his office and smiled at his secretary, Sasha. He then closed the door quietly but firmly before turning to his state-of-the-art workstation. Computer, sound dampers on.
The machine hummed and obeyed the vox command. Dampers on, it said.
Plekhanov nodded at the machine, as if it could see and understand his gesture. It could not-but he could have programmed it to do so had he wished.
Yes? he said in English. There was no visual mode on this line, nor would he have wished for one. Of course, the communication was secure-as secure as the best Russian military encryption program could make it. Plekhanov knew this because he himself had written the program under contract to the Russian Army, and there was no one likely to hear this communication remotely capable of breaking it. Perhaps some of the Net Force operatives might, but they would be otherwise occupied just at the moment. He smiled. Still, he spoke English because Sasha had not two words of that language; nor did anybody likely to be passing by.
The job is done, said the voice from thousands of kilometers away. It was Mikhayl, amusing himself by using the name Ruzhyo-thus, Mikhayl the Rifle. A violent man, but loyal, and most adept. The proper tool for the mission.
Good. I expected no less. Any problems?
Nicholas unexpectedly decided to retire.
How unfortunate, Plekhanov said. He was a good employee.
Yes.
Very well. You are moving into the new quarters?
Yes.
Even though the link was encrypted, old habits died hard. Their Spetznaz days were long past, but still deeply ingrained. Plekhanov knew that the hiding place was San Francisco, so there was no need to say it aloud. Should some nascent mathematical computer genius manage to miraculously obtain a recording of this conversation-and even more miraculously, decode it-what would he have? An innocuous dialogue between two unidentified men, bounced off so many satellites and through so many relays as to be untraceable, filled with generalities so bland as to mean nothing. A job? Someone named Nicholas retiring? A move? There was nothing there.
Well. Continue as planned. I will contact you when further work is required. He hesitated a moment, then realized one more thing needed to be said. Communism was dead and rightfully so, but the workers still needed approbation to feel a sense of accomplishment. A good manager knew this. You did well, Plekhanov said. I am pleased.
Thank you.
That ended the