The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [95]
“I thought you blew that off, Van. You and your big fat boss can’t afford to rent any big fat private jet for your big fat shindig in Virginia.”
“I just found a friend who will loan me his big fat jet.”
“Oh,” Hickok concluded. “So that would be different.”
“Now I need some guy who can fly a Boeing Business Jet, from the ground, with that little joystick.”
Hickok chuckled richly. “Hey, you just found your man!”
“Can you pick me up at Dulles tonight? I’ve got to stop by my apartment on the way to the Vault.”
“What, you mean right now? I’ve gotta drive some more? I just got here! I broke speed laws in fifteen states!”
“I get in at nine,” Van said. “If you’re still busy, bring Fawn with you.”
Hickok slapped his cell phone shut with a flat plastic clack.
Van’s flight arrived late due to weather. Hickok was waiting, and he stared right past him.
Van tapped Hickok’s shoulder.
“Whoa! Van! Where’s the beard?”
Van shrugged.
Hickok squinted. “You gotta do something serious about that long-ass hair now, Professor. You look like the jumbo version of the Little Dutch Boy.”
Hickok hated leaving his Humvee parked outside Van’s Washington apartment. The Humvee was a military super-jeep, but Hickok, with a Southern-boy pride in his wheels, hated the thought of its paint job ever coming to harm.
“I can’t believe you live around here,” Hickok groused. “There’s hookers around here. There’s crack gangs!”
“I’m a security expert,” said Van. He avoided a splatter of vomit on his stairs.
“Like what, so that makes my car safer?”
Van pulled his keys. But the door of his apartment opened at a touch. “Oh, Lord,” he blurted.
The lamp was lit. Van looked around. Nothing obvious was missing. There wasn’t much in the apartment to lose.
The keyboard of his Linux machine had been pried open.
“They’re still in here!” Hickok said tautly.
The door of Van’s bathroom swung out. A stranger stepped out with a gun. Van was astounded. When leveled at his own chest, the black barrel of a pistol looked as cavernous as a garage.
Van had no idea who this intruder was, but he instantly recognized the handgun as a seven-shot, all-electronic, Australian-made O’Dwyer VLE. A really nice gun. A great gun. A real beauty.
How could he get killed by some device that he had once taken apart with his own hands?
“Yo, Fred!” said Hickok, his deep voice squeaking just a little. “Long time no see!”
“Reach for the sky,” Fred ordered.
Hickok only laughed. “I’m not packing any heat. You’re packing heat in here, Fred?”
“I’m on assignment,” Fred said defensively.
“You have any idea who you’re aiming to shoot here? This guy is from the National Security Council! Dr. Derek Vandeveer, this would be Mr. Federico Gonzales. Old war buddy of mine.”
Gonzales scowled. “Why the hell did you have to tell this chump my name?”
“We’re supposed to be all on one side in the War on Terror, aren’t we? You let me know if you changed sides, Fred.”
“Nope,” said Fred. He kept the pistol steady, though, and he spoke from the side of his mustached lip. “You might as well come out now, kid.”
A second burglar emerged from Van’s bathroom. He was tall, stooped, and thin as whipcord. He wore black-rimmed glasses, and had a military haircut. The “jarhead” look. Brown fringe on top, white sidewalls all around.
The second burglar carried a black plastic impact-resistant toolbox in one big hand.
“Hey, you guys are AFOCI,” Van realized, recognizing the hardware.
“No, sir, I’m William C. Wimberley.”
“But that’s an AFOCI toolbox,” Van insisted. “I helped to vet that thing.”
“Air Force Office of Cyber Investigation,” Hickok clarified. “The AFOCI boys are in and out of the professor’s office all the time.”
“We’re not AFOCI,” said Gonzales. “I heard of ’em, though.”
“We’re Cyberspace Force,” said Wimberley.
“Okay, maybe he’s in Cyberspace,” said Gonzales hastily. “That doesn’t mean I have to be in any damn Cyberspace.”
“You just installed an AFOCI keyboard bug inside my Linux box,” said Van, staring at Wimberley.
“Okay, yeah, fine,” Wimberley told him. “Maybe I did that. Why should