Читать книгу Zero Option - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.

“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.

“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”

“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”

“That would have been nice.”

Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”

“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”

“Girl has to look after the priorities.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”

“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.

Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his spine.

“I don’t give a damn if you die now, or in a couple of hours, Belasko. I’d prefer you stayed alive long enough to answer some questions, but just give me the option.”

Bolan remained still. He calculated the odds and decided he needed to wait. The carry-on slung from his shoulder would hamper his movements, so any action against the gunman would have to come later. For the time being the Executioner did what he was told.

“A car is going to stop right here,” the gunman said. “We climb in. You keep both hands where I can see them. Bag on your lap.”

The car rolled into view, a Dodge Intrepid, swinging in to pull up directly in front of Bolan. The insistent prod of the gun warned the Executioner that his captor meant business. Bolan opened the rear door and slid inside the car, moving across to sit directly behind the dark bulk of the driver. The man with the gun moved quickly, crowding in against Bolan, pulling the door shut with his free hand.

“Let’s go,” he said to the driver.

The car eased away from the pickup point and pulled into the lane of traffic heading away from the airport. The soldier felt an experienced hand move over his body, checking for weapons. The gunman found nothing. The cell phone Bolan carried was plucked from his pocket and tossed to the floor of the car. Satisfied, the gunman pulled back from his captive, making space between them. He kept the muzzle of his pistol, a .45-caliber Glock 21, pointed in Bolan’s direction.

“You make yourself hard to find, Mr. Belasko,” the gunman remarked. “Almost missed you back there. Makes me figure this isn’t something new to you.”

Bolan didn’t reply. He decided to let the other man do the talking if that was what he wanted.

“I prefer to deal with professionals,” the man went on. “Get yourself a damned civilian, and they’re likely to fall apart once you show them a gun. You know what I mean? Hell, sure you do.”

Still no response from Bolan. The Executioner was making an evaluation. Making sense of the armed pickup. His mind clicked through the elements of the situation. This had been done professionally. Quick, clean, with little chance for even Bolan to react. The transition to the car had been timed to the second, making these men something more than street hoods. No, these guys were…Bolan recalled something Jack Grimaldi had said about the men who had confronted him and Jess Buchanan, something about their having military training. Precise, practiced execution of their maneuver. Even in his injured condition the Stony Man flier had been able to recall the way his attackers had operated, and Bolan accepted Grimaldi’s assessment. The man was too much of a professional himself to have made a mistake.

“Don’t say much, do you, friend? Suit yourself. There’ll be time to talk once we hit base. Plenty of time. And incentives.” The gunman chuckled to himself. “Like whether you want to stay alive.”

Bolan fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man had a close haircut. Near to the skull. Even from where he was sitting Bolan could see enough of the driver’s neck and shoulders to know he was looking at a big man. The guy was into weight training and body development with a vengeance. He sat behind the wheel as if he were at attention. Bolan realized why the military imagery kept coming to mind.

The car swung around a vehicle ahead, the driver having decided to speed up.

“Hey, ease off the gas pedal, Buchinsky. Remember what the man said. Low profile. Don’t attract attention. Remember? Piss off the enemy in this town and the mothers give you a speeding ticket and ask all kinds of questions.”

“And the answers would have to be pretty damned good to explain asshole back there.”

“No need to insult our guest,” the gunman said. “He could turn out to be important.”

“Looks like a shit nobody to me,” Buchinsky said. “Give you odds he won’t have a thing to tell us. Waste of time picking him up. We should dump him in the Potomac right now.”

“Just do what I tell you, Buchinsky.”

Buchinsky muttered to himself, flexing his massive shoulders.

Bolan watched the city slip by. He wasn’t certain where they were. Buchinsky was ducking and diving, moving about the road system with ease. Taking side roads and sometimes seeming to double back on himself. The trip lasted almost twenty minutes. Then Buchinsky slowed and rolled the car down a ramp that led to a basement parking area beneath a large office building that displayed For Rent signs on the outside. As the car cruised across the parking area, Bolan glanced out the side window. The place was deserted except for a couple of cars standing near an access door at the far end. Buchinsky parked near the other vehicles.

The gunman climbed out and walked around to Bolan’s side. He opened the door and indicated for him to get out. The soldier dropped his bag on the seat and stepped out.

“Stay here and keep an eye out. We don’t want any surprises,” the gunman said to the driver.

“Suits me,” Buchinsky said.

The gunman guided Bolan to the access door. They went through and found themselves confronted by stairs and an elevator door.

“Elevator,” the gunman said.

Bolan pushed the button and heard the elevator start its descent. The door opened and he stepped in with the gunman close behind. Once they were inside, the soldier was instructed to push the button for the eighth floor.

THE LARGE OFFICE SUITE held a desk and a few plastic chairs. Three men stood at the room’s wide windows, looking out through the glass at the rainy night. They turned as Bolan and his escort entered the office.

“This him?”

Bolan had already identified the speaker. He was exactly as Grimaldi had described, from his physical size down to the bruise on his left cheek. He moved away from the others, his gaze fixed on Bolan, checking him out and making a swift assessment of the Executioner.

“He say anything?”

The gunman shook his head. He stood a few feet back from Bolan, the handgun held steady, making no concessions even though they were no longer alone.

The blond man paused in front of Bolan, his hands clasped at his back.

“You know why you’re here, Belasko?”

“Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“Questions. You’ve been asking questions. At the charter strip. Talking to the gate man. Then the car-rental agency. Now why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Why would I?”

“Maybe you’re looking for someone. Same as us. Douglas Buchanan? Or maybe you know where he is and your job is looking out for him.”

“Sounds more likely,” one of the other men said.

Bolan glanced across at him. He had a cut lip that looked very sore. Jack again.

“Ask him if he knows where Buchanan is.”

“Fair question.”

Bolan remained silent.

“So what’s the answer?”

The blond man’s lips tightened against his teeth. He sucked in his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the gunman who had brought Bolan in. The Executioner picked up the sound of rustling clothing, heard the gunman grunt and knew that a blow was being aimed at him from behind.

Bolan held for the briefest of moments, then bent at the waist, felt the rush of air as the gunman’s swing passed over his shoulder, then lunged upright. He saw the gunman’s arm blur into view as it passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He made a grab for it, twisting and jerking down so that the arm was brought across the top of his shoulder. Pushing to his full height, Bolan snatched the Glock from his adversary’s fingers, then yanked down hard on the man’s arm with enough force to break the bone. The gunman’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly when the muzzle of the Glock was jabbed against his chest and a .45 round drilled through his heart. The moment he pulled the trigger, Bolan dropped to a crouch, the Glock tracking in on his next target.

A lean guy, sporting a blue sport coat over a tan shirt, hauled a handgun from a hip holster. He raised the weapon in a two-handed grip, seeking Bolan, but the Executioner had already changed position and his newly acquired pistol fired first. The .45 slug caught Blue Coat in the throat, taking away a large chunk of flesh. The wounded gunner flopped backward, striking the window behind him. The glass bowed slightly under the impact, then threw the dying man facedown on the carpet.

Bolan had already located his next target, seeing Blue Coat’s partner clawing for his own weapon. He placed two .45 slugs in the guy’s lower torso, driving him to the floor in a spray of blood and a lot of pain. A third shot to the head put him out of his misery.

The blond man had already moved, turning, ducking as he lunged for the door. He went through a fraction of a second before Bolan could track and fire, and by the time the Executioner cleared the door the corridor beyond was empty.

Bolan made for the door that gained him entrance to the stairs. He went down fast, conscious of his partial exposure, yet knowing he had to get clear of the building before possible reinforcements showed up. He had no way of knowing if the blond man had additional backup, and he didn’t want to find out.

He hit the fourth-floor landing. As he turned to take the next flight of stairs, the access door was banged open and a pair of armed men rushed onto the landing. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the stairs without catching a bullet in the back. He spun, reaching out with his left hand. He put his palm over the closest face and pushed hard, ramming the guy’s skull against the concrete wall. The man gave a grunt of pain, slumping to his knees, gun falling from his hand. The second guy eyed Bolan, then made the mistake of checking out his partner. The soldier saw the guy’s hesitation, as slight as it was, and took his chance. It was, as always, seizing the moment, and turning it to his advantage. He turned fast, coming around from the right. Bolan’s forearm struck the guy’s gun hand, knocking it up and back. Maintaining his sweep, Bolan stiff armed his left fist into the guy’s throat, hard, feeling flesh and cartilage cave in. As the guy began to choke, Bolan grabbed his gun arm and twisted, until the joint snapped. The guy screamed, a harsh, ugly sound due to his crushed throat, and dropped his gun, which fell into Bolan’s waiting hand.

The other gunner had started to climb to his feet, clawing his fallen weapon from the floor. His eyes were searching the area immediately behind him as he completed his stand. The last thing he saw was the raised gun in Bolan’s fist, then the world blew up in his face as the weapon was triggered twice, putting both slugs into the guy’s head. The impact knocked him back against the wall and he hung for a moment, surprise etched across his face. Then he slid down the wall, leaving behind a trail of bloody debris. As he hit the floor he gently toppled face forward.

Bolan bent over the corpse and picked up the fallen handgun—another Glock 21. He slipped it into a pocket, then frisked the guy for any extra magazines he carried. He also located the guy’s wallet and pocketed it for future reference.

The other man was on his knees, close to unconscious, his shattered arm hanging limply at his side. He was making harsh choking sounds as he struggled for air. He offered no resistance when Bolan searched him for spare magazines for the Glock. Two more went into the soldier’s pocket.

Before he moved on Bolan ejected the magazine from the pistol he was using and snapped in a fresh one, making sure the weapon was ready to go.

Bolan took the final flights of stairs until he reached the basement level. He eased the door open a fraction and peered through.

The Intrepid was in the same place, with Buchinsky waiting beside it. The man was upright, taking his job seriously, his pistol in his right hand, held against the side of his leg, out of sight but ready for use. Bolan scanned the surrounding area. There was no cover between the doorway and the Intrepid. Bolan double-checked, then shoved the door wide open so that it swung back against the wall with a hard bang.

Buchinsky snapped his head around at the noise, his right hand bringing his weapon up as he dropped to a shooter’s stance, left hand following to brace the butt of the Glock.

Bolan had stepped immediately to the right of the door, his own weapon tracking his intended target. The moment he had the guy in his sights, the soldier pulled the trigger twice, and put both slugs over Buchinsky’s heart. The enemy gunner took a faltering step forward, losing coordination, and slumped to his knees. He leaned sideways, the Intrepid’s fender holding him upright. The gun dropped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete. Bolan had closed the gap by this time, and he stepped up to where the man lay. He went through Buchinsky’s pockets until he located the vehicle’s keys.

He opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then the cell phone from the floor of the car. Sliding in behind the wheel, Bolan inserted the key and fired up the powerful engine. He released the brake and shifted into reverse, spinning the wheel so that the Intrepid moved in a wide circle. As the car moved, Buchinsky toppled facedown on the concrete, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Bolan drove out of the basement and onto the street, memorizing the name of the building’s rental agent before he drove away.

It took him a few minutes to establish his whereabouts. Bolan swung the car across the street and made a U-turn, then picked up the signs that would lead him to the main highway out of D.C. and back to Stony Man. He made a quick call to Price to cancel his ride.

His only immediate regret was the blond man’s escape. There was a strong connection between the man, Jess Buchanan and her uncle. Bolan was about to make it his business to find out just what that connection was. He would have questions when he got back to the Farm.

“HE GOT AWAY, Colonel. There’s no other way of saying it. He took out my guys and got away. I only got away myself by a hair. Sorry, sir, I let you down.”

“These things happen, Ryan, so don’t get paranoid over it.”

“What next, Colonel?”

“Get yourself organized. I’ll arrange cleanup for the casualties. It might be necessary for you to call in and see Senator Stahl. He could have some information for you.”

“On my way, sir.”

Colonel Orin Stengard replaced the receiver and took a breath, collecting his thoughts.

He crossed the room, staring out through the window, watching the rain falling from a slate-gray sky. The weather suited his mood at that moment. He wasn’t angry, rather more disappointed that the capture of the man from Nassau had failed. Stengard didn’t like surprises and the way this stranger had appeared on the scene, checking out what had happened at the Buchanan charter company and then going to the car-rental agency, suggested he was more than just an acquaintance of the Buchanan woman. The way he had handled himself when taken by Ryan’s men seemed to confirm he knew what he was doing.

Stengard crossed to his desk and picked up the phone. He punched in a number, hearing it click its way through a series of distant secure lines before it rang at the other end. He heard six rings before it was picked up.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing that’s about to wipe us out. I need you to do some checking. My people have identified an individual asking questions in Nassau. We picked him up when he touched down at Dulles. He was taken for questioning but he got away, taking out the snatch team in the process.”

“Security agent? FBI?”

“It’s why I’m calling. We don’t know. All we have is a name. Mike Belasko. See what you can find out and get back to me. I need to know if this man has backup. The last thing I need at this point are agents crawling all over us.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Stengard made a second call.

“Eric, have you had any more problems with Randolph?”

“Only what I told you last time. Why?”

“There’s someone asking questions. Digging into the Buchanan thing on Nassau. He killed some of Ryan’s men when they took him for questioning. Right at this point we know nothing about his background. I’ve just spoken to Beringer and asked him to run a check on the man. It occurred to me that Randolph might have put him on our case. Got him to do some rooting for information he can use against us.”

“Damn. I wouldn’t put it past Randolph. It’s something that old bastard would do. Hire someone to check out his suspicions. Let me go and talk to him. If the old coot won’t play ball, you can have your people take him out. How does that sound?”

“Sounds exactly what I’d say if our roles were reversed.”

“Randolph always goes to his club midmorning. I’ll catch him there.”

“Do it, Eric. Let’s brush off these annoying flies so we can concentrate on the important things.”

SENATOR ERIC STAHL confronted Senator Vernon Randolph in the quiet of his private club. Stahl was a member himself, and this wasn’t the first time the pair had faced off. Stahl was aware of how serious a threat Randolph was. Stahl had made the decision to remove him, regardless of the senior politician’s decision. There was something about Randolph that unsettled him. In essence Randolph was too much of an honest man. He didn’t make it obvious; he didn’t preach, nor did he try to press his views on others. Yet his standing in the Washington environment was unmatched.

Seated across from Randolph, Stahl felt the older man’s blue eyes fixed on him. Randolph’s gaze was unflinching.

“Eric, we have had this conversation before. Too many times. I am not interested in your proposal.”

“From someone who admits to being a patriot I find your reaction disappointing.”

“Why? Because I refuse to advocate your policies? Destabilizing the elected government of the country? Agitation. Almost an invitation to an armed uprising.”

“Go out and ask anyone on the streets, Vernon. Ask them what they feel about the way the government has sold this country down the river. Weakened it. Taken away our right to freedom and the true spirit of the American way.”

“That kind of rhetoric only appeals to the lowest intellect, Eric. Is that how you expect to gather your supporters? Where are you going to find them? In the gutters, the downtown bars and lap-dancing parlors?”

“Might work, too.” Stahl grinned, trying to lighten the moment. “Vernon, we shouldn’t be arguing like this. At a time like this we should be joining forces, not playing word games.”

Randolph allowed himself a gentle smile.

“Eric, I mean every word I say. Please don’t get confused. I despise your intentions, your policies, the people you associate with. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re in bed with Orin Stengard. He’s your military clone. A warmonger who would bomb any country that dared to defy him. The man is a throwback to the 1950s. A different time and a different army. He should have been retired years ago. Thank God the man doesn’t have his finger on the button.”

“Be careful what you say about my friends, Vernon. I might have to send Orin to see you one dark night.”

Senator Vernon Randolph ignored the implicit threat. He leaned back in the deep armchair and studied Stahl.

“Eric, you’re either very stupid or extremely arrogant. I’d have to choose the latter. Not that it makes all that much difference. What you’re considering is ridiculous in the extreme. And do you honestly believe I’m going to sit back and pretend I don’t know what you intend to do?”

Stahl smiled. “Vernon, I realize you’re a man of high principle. I’ve always admired that part of your character. But I have to say in this instance it might not be the wisest choice. It could turn out to be unhealthy to say the least.”

“Don’t try to frighten me, Eric. I’ve been in politics too long to worry over words. And at my age threats tend to add a little spice to a life that’s run for a long time.”

“Playing the hero doesn’t suit you, Vernon. Believe me, you wouldn’t like what I could do to you.”

“I intend to go ahead with the investigation I’ve been considering. You have something to hide. You’re searching for Doug Buchanan. and you have an unhealthy interest in the Zero project. I’m going to drag it all out of the shadows and into the spotlight. The moment I have solid proof I’ll take it to the President. You have my word on that.”

“All right, Vernon. However you want it,” Stahl said and turned to leave.

“Eric,” Randolph said, “do your worst, and to hell with your damned games.”

“A neat analogy,” Stahl replied. “Just remember that games all have one thing in common. A winner and a loser. And you know well enough, Vernon, I hate to lose.”

“THE EQUATION CAN’T be that difficult to grasp,” Stahl said. “If Doug Buchanan is out there looking for some kind of sanctuary, there’s only one man he’ll look for.”

He paused, savoring the moment, his triumph over every man in the room. He was still surprised at the revelation that had come to him on his return from confronting Senator Randolph.

“Senator, don’t play fucking games,” Cal Ryan said. “And pardon my language.”

“No, you’re right, Mr. Ryan. Excuse my indulgence. The man we need to locate is Saul Kaplan. Find Kaplan, and Buchanan won’t be far away.”

“What’s the connection?” Ryan asked.

“Kaplan brought Buchanan into the Zero project, chose him as the man who would inherit Zero as his savior.”

“You mean Buchanan is the guy who gets to sit in the control seat?”

“Exactly. He was chosen because he has all the military skills, is a man with a strong moral sense of right and wrong and he has terminal cancer.”

“We playing games again? They were going to put a dying man in charge of Zero?”

“Two reasons, Mr. Ryan. Buchanan was aware that on his own he would have been dead in a couple of years, but once he became part of Zero, his biological functions, including his immune system, would be taken over by the machine. It would replace his natural bodily awareness and integrate it into the biocouch. Zero’s capabilities are far in advance of anything in existence. You can appreciate why I want it under our control, Mr. Ryan. Our control alone.”

“I’m starting to, Senator.”

“With Zero in our hands, there won’t be a nation that would dare to even think about threatening the U.S. We would be in total control of the nation and have the ability to make our enemies toe the line. If they refuse, Zero could be used to make them see sense.”

“The ultimate authority.”

Stahl smiled. “Zero tolerance, Mr. Ryan. Zero tolerance.”

“Can we be certain Buchanan will head for Kaplan?”

“I believe he will. Buchanan has no one else to turn to. The Zero project was hit by an unknown force. Destroyed. No one is certain by whom. We suspect foreign interference. Regimes who see the threat Zero would pose to them. Which is why we need the project up and running. To counter such threats. If we bring Zero fully online, anyone contemplating a strike against the U.S. is going to know they would be under Zero’s scrutiny. To answer your question, Buchanan is a man out in the cold. Who can he trust? He’ll understand his position and he’ll know he’s a wanted man. Saul Kaplan was his mentor, the one man he knows he’ll always be able to turn to. If Buchanan calls, Kaplan will help him.”

“Where do we find Kaplan?”

“Right now we don’t know where he is. Kaplan vanished from his university post weeks ago. Just took off. It could be he’s heard from Buchanan in the past few days and the pair have arranged some meeting. We have to follow it up.”

Stahl slid a folder across the desk. Picking it up, Ryan flicked through the data sheets.

“Everything there is on file about Saul Kaplan. Use it and find him. We need them both alive. Kaplan has knowledge about Zero we can use.”

Ryan nodded. He gestured to his team and they followed him from the room, leaving Stahl alone. He remained seated for a while, then stood and crossed the room. He lingered at the window, watching Ryan and his people as they climbed into their vehicles. Stahl stayed there until the cars had driven out of sight. He made his way to the desk in a corner of the room, picked up his phone, punching in a number sequence.

“Are you available, Orin? Good. Where? That’s fine. An hour?”

STAHL ARRIVED ten minutes early, which gave his security team time to check out the area around the meeting place. It paid to be careful. A man in Stahl’s position needed to be cautious. He knew he had enemies. There was no point in making it too easy for them.

His team came back to report the area was clear. They climbed back in their car, and Stahl made his way down to the canal. Even though his car was some distance away, he knew his security men would have him in their sight.

The water was flat, not a ripple breaking the surface. Birds sang in the distance, calling to their mates. Stahl took a breath, allowing himself a moment of calm.

There was no doubt, he told himself, America was a beautiful country. It had everything a man could ever want or need. It was worth defending from those who looked at it through envious eyes. Terrorists, religious fanatics, countries who saw America as their adversary. The do-gooders and the liberals, even in America itself, who wanted to weaken it from within. The government legislators. The Communist sympathizers. The list was long. The threats came from abroad and from within America’s own borders. Between them they would turn America into a soft target, with no military to speak of and the defense system pared down to the bone to appease the overwhelming lobby of pacifists and downright cowards. It was sometimes hard for Stahl to believe that America had been built by far-seeing, hardy pioneers, men and women who had crossed the primitive continent, creating the strongest, richest nation in the world. They had done it from scratch, using their bare hands and their burning desire to be free. In the end they had done just that. It had taken decades, spilled blood and the bones of the dead who littered a hundred dusty trails, but they had achieved a miracle.

And now, if it was left to the spineless administration, America would be weakened further, prey to any rogue nation that decided she was ripe for the plucking. There was talk of cutting back on defense, weakening the country’s armed forces, taking the nation’s protection out of the hands of the military. And there were too few politicians with the backbone to stand up in defense of those cutbacks. The Zero Option was ready and waiting, the ultimate weapon. In Stahl’s eyes, even if the current administration brought it online, it would step back from utilizing the weapon’s potential. Stahl would not hesitate to make the world fully aware of Zero and what it could do. His first act, once he was installed in the White House, would be a practical demonstration of Zero’s capabilities. There was nothing like a hard strike to show the world America meant business. And a hard strike was what Stahl intended. Then the world could look on and see that the new American government meant what it said.

Stahl’s hands were shaking as he plucked a cigarette from his silver case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, of smoke, letting the effect calm him. Just thinking about the enormity of his scheme unsettled him. Once he embarked on it there would be no turning aside. It would have to be seen through to the end. There was no doubt that there would be a global outcry. Condemnation. Accusing fingers aimed at America.

But what could they do?

With Zero online and able to target anyone, what could they do?

Damn them all!

America needed a hard man at the helm. Someone not afraid to take on the bitchers and the whiners and the appeasers, a man who could tell the enemies of the U.S. to go to hell, because the country had the best, the finest, the most deadly weapon under its control. Once Stahl had Zero in his camp, he could bargain his way into the White House and show the American people he wasn’t fooling. And when he had the administration firmly manned by his people and the military under the command of Orin Stengard, then it would be the turn of the global community to see that America had turned the corner and was really back as the strongest nation on Earth.

Stahl flicked ash from his cigarette and watched it fall into the water at his feet. He felt a little better after his internal rant. Sometimes his bitter feelings got the better of him, and it proved therapeutic when he gave vent to them.

He heard footsteps close by. Stahl turned and saw Orin Stengard walking toward him. He was in civilian clothing. Sharply creased slacks and an expensive leather jacket over a pale cream shirt.

“Eric,” Stengard said by way of greeting. “You made this meeting sound urgent.”

“I wouldn’t have asked to see you if it hadn’t been.”

“So?”

“I was correct. Randolph has been making more of his threatening noises. I offered him the chance to join us, but he turned the offer down point-blank.”

“Is it bluster, or does he actually know something?”

“I think he’s starting to became suspicious. You know what he’s like. He’s worked out you and I are close. He also knows about Buchanan being alive.”

“How the hell did he find out about that?”

“Not from me. Look, Orin, that old bastard has been around for a long time. He has contacts all over, a finger in every department of the administration and the military. He’s a one-man CIA. He’s done favors for so many people you couldn’t read the list on a long weekend. That man has survived so many changes of government it’s worth a fucking medal.”

“All right. So what does he want? A payoff? In on the deal? What?”

“I’ll tell you what his intentions are, Orin, and believe me I know what I’m saying. Randolph wants to take us down. The man is a dinosaur. He has principles and morals. He doesn’t have enough at the moment, but the minute he does he’ll take his findings to the President and spill beans all over the fucking Oval Office carpet.”

Stengard ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He looked down at his highly polished leather shoes, cleared his throat, then looked out along the peaceful canal.

“We get rid of him, then. No ifs or buts. Senator Randolph has reached the end of an exceptional life in politics. It comes to us all, Eric. None of us is immortal. You have any problems with Randolph’s imminent demise?”

“Do I look like a man with a problem?”

“To be honest, Eric, yes, you do. You need to learn how to relax. Tension never won any battles. Go with the flow. See the problem, work it out and send in the troops.”

This time Stahl had to laugh.

“I have to hand it to you, Orin. Here we are getting ready to make a hostile takeover for the government of the United States. We have teams of covert mercenaries on the loose. A fully armed orbiting weapons platform over our heads just waiting to be switched on. And all you can say is ‘Relax.’ How the hell did you get where you are in the military?”

“By following my instincts. Letting the other poor idiots run around and get sweaty. Watching them work their butts off so they were old men before forty. I waited and listened, and took the chances they were too scared to tackle. They fell behind while I moved up the promotion ladder. And before you say it, yes, it was as easy as that. The military and politics are not so unalike. We plot and connive. Cultivate our allies and get rid of our enemies. Build up a store of favors we can call in. Make sure you always have your back to the wall and an eye out for the main chance.” Stengard turned so he had Stahl full face. “After that little speech I think we both should watch the other. After all, Eric, aren’t we after the same thing? Total power? High positions and control of the most awesome piece of hardware ever conceived? Tell me, Eric, do you still trust me?”

“If I told you, it would place me at a disadvantage.”

“Spoken like a true politician.”

“Can I leave you to deal with Randolph?” Stengard nodded. He turned to make his way back to his car, Stahl at his side. He had his door open before he spoke again.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Belasko? Mike Belasko?”

Stahl shook his head.

“Name doesn’t mean a thing. Should it?”

“No. Forget I asked. You’ll not hear it again.”

AS HE WAS DRIVEN back to his own office, Stahl wondered briefly who Mike Belasko was. The name occupied him for a few minutes as he tried to make a connection. When he failed he dismissed it sat back in the comfortable leather seat, watching the Washington landscape flash by.

If things went as planned and they gained control of Zero everything he saw outside the car, as the old saying went, would be his. It was a pleasing thought.