The Cold Cash War 5 страница

“Clancy, give me a pad and pencil.”

They appeared magically. No aide is complete without those tools. Tidwell scribbled something quickly on the top sheet, ripped it from the pad, and folded it twice.

“Give this to Mr. Yamada.”

Clancy nodded and took the note, stashing the pad and pencil as he went.

Everything was ready now. With relatively few adaptations, a lecture assembly had been converted into an arena. As he was talking to Clancy, Tidwell had been testing the platform surface. It was smooth sanded wood, unvarnished and solid. He considered taking off his boots for better traction, but discarded the idea. He’d rather have the extra weight on his feet for the fight-increased impact and all that.

Kumo sat at the rear center of the platform, overseeing the proceedings as always. Then Clancy vaulted back onto the platform, his errand complete. Deliberately he strode across the platform and took a position beside Kumo on the side closest Tidwell. Kumo glared, but did not challenge the move.

Tidwell suppressed a smile. Score one for Clancy. This was not a class exercise and Kumo was not an impartial instructor. It was a duel, and the seconds were now in position. One thing was sure-if he ever took a contract to take on the devil, he wanted Clancy guarding his flanks.

But now there was work to be done. For the first time, he focused his attention on Aki, meeting his enemy’s gaze directly. Aki was standing at the far end of the platform, relaxed and poised, eyes dead. The eyes showed neither fear nor anger. They simply watched, appraised, analyzed, and gave nothing in return. Tidwell realized that he was looking into a mirror, into the eyes of a killer. He realized it, accepted it, and put it out of his mind. He was ready.

He raised an eyebrow in question. Aki saw and gave a fractional nod of his head, more an acknowledgement than a bow, and the duel began.

Tidwell took one slow step forward and stopped, watching. Aki moved with leisurely grace into a wide, straddle-legged stance, and waited, watching.

Check! Aki was going to force Tidwell into making the opening move. He was putting his faith in his defense, in his ability to weather any attack Tidwell could throw at him and survive to finish the bout before his opponent could recover. However the duel went, it would be over quickly. Once Tidwell committed himself to an attack, it would either succeed or he would be dead.

Tidwell broke the tableau, moving diagonally to his right leisurely, almost sauntering. As he approached the edge of the platform he stopped, studied his opponent, then repeated the process, moving diagonally to the left. Aki stood unmoving, watching.

To an unschooled eye, it would appear almost as if Tidwell were an art connoisseur, viewing a statue from various angles. To the people watching, it was Aki’s challenge. He was saying, “Pick your attack, pick your angle. I will stop you and kill you.”

Finally Tidwell heaved a visible sigh. The decision was made. He moved slowly to the center of the platform, paused, considering Aki, then placed his hands behind his back and began moving toward him head-on. Theatrically he came, step by step, a study in slow motion. The question now was how close? How close would Aki let him come before launching a counterattack? Could he bait Aki into striking first? Committing first?

Ten feet separated them. Step. Seven feet. Step.

Tidwell’s right fist flashed out, whipping wide for a back-knuckle strike to Aki’s temple, a killing blow. In the same instant, Aki exploded into action, left arm coming up to block the strike, right fist driving out for a smashing punch to Tidwell’s solar plexus. Then in midheartbeat, the pattern changed. Tidwell’s left hand flashed out and the sun glinted off the blade of a stiletto lancing for the center of Aki’s chest. Aki’s counter-punch changed and his right arm snapped down to parry the knife-thrust.

Instead of catching Tidwell’s forearm, the block came down on the raised knife point as the weapon was pivoted in midthrust to meet the counter. The point plunged into the forearm, hitting bone, and Tidwell ripped the arm open, drawing the knife back toward him. As his arm came back, Tidwell jerked his knee up, slamming it into the wounded arm, then straightened the leg, snapping the toe of his boot into the wound for a third hit as Aki jerked backward, splintering the bone and sending his opponent off balance. Aki reeled back in agony, then caught his balance and tried to take a good position, even though his right arm would no longer respond to his will. His eyes glinted hard now, a tiger at bay.

Tidwell bounded backward, away from his injured foe and backpedaled to the far end of the platform. As Aki moved to follow, he pegged the knife into the platform at his feet, dropped to one knee, and held his arms out from his body at shoulder height.

“Aki! Stop!”

Aki paused, puzzled.

“Stop and listen!”

Suspiciously, Aki retreated slowly to the far end of the platform, putting distance between himself and Tidwell, but he listened.

“Mr. Yamada! Will you read aloud the note I passed you before the fight began.”

Mr. Yamada rose slowly from his seat with the other company officials, unfolded the note, and read:

“I will strike Aki’s right forearm two to four times, then try to stop the fight.”

He sat down and a murmur rippled through the force.

“The point of the fight was to determine if I was qualified to lead this force in battle. At this point I have shown that not only can I strike your champion repeatedly, but that I can predict his moves in advance. This will be my function as your commander, to guide you against an enemy I know and can predict, giving maximum effectiveness to your skills. Having demonstrated this ability, I wish to end this duel if my opponent agrees. I only hope he embraces the same philosophy I do-that if given a choice, I will not waste lives. I will not kill or sacrifice my men needlessly. That is the way of the martial arts, and the way of the mercenary. Aki! Do you agree with me that the duel is over?”

Their eyes met for a long moment. Then slowly Aki drew himself up and bowed.

Kumo sprang to his feet, his face livid. He barked an order at Aki. Still in the bow, Aki raised his head and looked at Kumo, then at Tidwell, then back at Kumo, and shook his head.

Clancy tensed, his hand going to his waistband. Tidwell caught his eyes and shook his head in a firm negative.

Kumo screamed a phrase in Japanese at Aki, then snatched the sword from his sash and started across the platform at Tidwell.

Tidwell watched coldly as the sensei took three steps toward him, then stood up. As he did, the leg he had been kneeling on flashed forward and kicked the knife like a placekicker going for an extra point. The point snapped off and the knife somersaulted forward, plunging hilt-deep into the chest of the charging swordsman. Kumo stopped, went to one knee, tried to rise, then the sword slipped from his grasp and he fell. For several minutes there was silence. Then Tidwell turned to address his force.

“A great man has died here today. Training is canceled for the rest of the day that we might honor his memory. Assembly will be at 0600 hours tomorrow to receive your new orders. Dismissed.”

In silence, the force rose and began to disperse. Tidwell turned to view the body again. Aki was kneeling before his fallen sensei. In silence Tidwell picked up the sword, removed the scabbard from Kumo’s sash and resheathed the weapon. He stared at the body for another moment, then turned and handed the sword to Aki. Their eyes met, then Tidwell bowed and turned away.

“Jesus Christ, Steve. Have you ever used that placekick stunt before? In combat?”

“Three times before. This is the second time it worked.”

“I saw it but I still don’t believe it. If I ever mouth off about your knives again, you can use one of them on me.”

“Yeah, right. Say, can you be sure someone takes care of Aki’s arm? I just want to go off and get drunk right now.”

“Sure thing, Steve. Oh, someone wants to talk to you.”

“Later, huh? I’m not up to it right now.”

“It’s the straw bosses.”

Clancy jerked a thumb toward the row of company officials.

“Oh!”

Tidwell turned and started wearily toward the men because they were his employers and he was a mercenary.

“Willard?”

“Yeah, last night.” Eddie Bush was visibly shaken as he lit a cigarette.

“I just got the call from Personnel. They got him in a movie theater.”

“I’ll tell the troops. Damn! You think they’ll be more careful.”

“I know what you mean. He wasn’t even on the ’kill list’.”

“No, I mean I thought he’d be more careful. On the ’kill list’ or not, anyone who wears a kill-suit is fair game. They’re asking for trouble, all of them. They shouldn’t be surprised when it finds them.”

“Hell, Pete. I wear a kill-suit. So does half the corporation staff now. It’s a style, a fad, a status symbol.”

“Well, I don’t think that people are taking it seriously enough.” Pete ground out his own cigarette viciously.

“Haven’t we lost enough people already without playing games with the assassin teams?”

“Most of those were on the first day. It was kind of sudden, you know.”

“The hell it was. There were memos and meetings going around for over a month. Did you ever get an accurate count of how many we lost the first day?”

“Seventeen, with six near misses. I guess nobody really stopped to think it through.”

“That’s what I mean about people not taking it seriously. Who came up with this crackpot scheme anyway?”

Bush made a face.

“As near as I can tell we did, but damned if I know why.”

“There’s some solid talk going around that it was an under-the-table agreement between the corporation hierarchies to weed out some of the management deadwood.”

“The ’forced retirement’ bit? Yeah, I’ve heard that, but I don’t believe it. Corporations pull some pretty sleazy moves when it comes to personnel management, but I can’t believe they’d sink that low. Three years on half-pay would really be rough. I’m not sure I could take it. Oh well, I suppose it could be worse. They could be using real bullets.”

“That’s happened, too,” Pete retorted.

“It was in the rules at the start. After four shots with the quartz-beams, the assassin can use live ammo. If the players don’t turn on their kill-suits, it’s their own fault.”

“Is yours turned on now?”

Eddie ran a hand inside his jacket to check the controls.

“It sure is.”

“But you had to check to be sure.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Besides, I wasn’t talking about those kills. I was talking about the others. Did you hear what happened to Brumbolt?”

“Just a few rumors.”

“They shot him down. With live ammo and real blood. You know why? Because he went to the theater the same night as a couple execs from his old department. They swear they didn’t even know he was going to be there. In fact, they haven’t even talked to him since he was ‘killed’ and went on half-pay, all according to the rules. The assassins who spotted him thought he was trying to pass some notes or something, and cut him down in the parking lot. That’s the kind of real-kill I’m talking about.”

Eddie pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

“I haven’t heard about that. That’s weird. It’s like... like...”

“Like we were in a war-that’s what I’ve been trying to say. The big question is, what are we going to do about it?”

Eddie stiffened, his features hardening into a mask.

“Are we going to get into that again, Pete?”

“You’re damn right we are. I mean, we are still on a team to submit recommendations, aren’t we?”

“Only until we can be reassigned. The project is dead, Pete.”

“But...”

“But nothing! It’s dead! Marcus has already submitted his recommendations and they’ve been accepted. The corporation has already sunk a hunk of money into the new weapons, and they won’t be looking for new ways to raise costs.”

“Eddie...”

“So we are going to sit down and shut up because I don’t want to make an ass of myself backing a set of recommendations that won’t be followed.”

“That’s the part I don’t buy. I think we’ll be making bigger fools of ourselves if after spending all this time and money on our team, we don’t come up with anything.”

“But the cost...”

“Cost, hell. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years with this corporation, it’s that there’s always money to be had for a good idea.”

“And if there’s one thing you haven’t learned, it’s when to keep your mouth shut. If you had, then I’d be answering to you instead of you to me. In theory you’re right, but we’re dealing with reality, and like it or not, that’s the way it is. Now I’m telling you to back down!”

The two men glared at each other for several moments; then Pete forced a deep breath.

“Tell you what, Eddie. I’ll make you a deal-no, hear me out. I’ve got something in my car that I think will change your mind. If it doesn’t, then I’ll shut up and go along.”

Eddie considered him for a moment.

“All right, bring it in. But I honestly can’t think of anything you can come up with that will change my mind.”

“You’ll have to come with me. It’s too bulky to bring in.”

“Okay, anything to get this thing settled.”

He rose, and the two men headed out into the executive corridor. Stepping onto the conveyor, they rode along in silence for several minutes. Finally Eddie cleared his throat.

“Sorry about blowing up in there, Pete. I guess I just don’t understand why you’re fighting this so hard. There’ll be other assignments.”

“For you maybe. Oh, turn here, I’m parked on the street. Rolled in a little late and the exec lot was full.”

“Okay, but what was that you were saying?”

“Hmm? Oh! Just that I’m not sure how many more assignments will get thrown my way.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Hell, don’t worry. From what I can see in the meetings, a lot of the decision makers know who you are. That idea you had for using a dummy terrorist group to explain the shootings was a stroke of genius. It really saved our bacon when it came to dealing with the authorities.”

“But it didn’t go out with my name on it. Oh, out this door.”

“Yeah. That was a bad deal. Well, it didn’t go out with my name on it either. But don’t worry. The people who count know it was your idea. You’ll get other assignments. Say, where’s your car?”

“Up the block a bit. Can you honestly say you think I’m going to get another assignment from a corporate vp?”

“Well, maybe not directly, but if I get one, you can bet you’ll be one of the cornerstones of the team. That much I can...”

The bullet took him in the center of the chest. It was the first time Pete had seen the effects of one of the exploding bullets. Eddie Bush kind of blew up, pieces of his body splashing over the sidewalk. There was no doubt he was dead before he hit the pavement.

Pete waved a hand at the assassin on the roof across the street even though he couldn’t see him, then stooped over the body. Moving quickly, he reached inside Eddie’s jacket and switched the killsuit controls to the “off” position. Then he stood and smiled down at the corpse.

Wha’dya know, another terrible accident. And Ed Bush wasn’t even on the “kill list.” Well, it was a risk he ran, wearing a kill-suit. It was only a matter of time before someone took him up on it. Terrible he had forgotten to turn his suit on.

Still smiling, he turned and ran back into the building to report the horrible incident.

Mausier smiled as he read the latest information request on the board. Someone was trying to find out how their security was breached. A hefty sum was being offered as well as immunity from prosecution.

Obviously this client was not as knowledgeable in the field of industrial espionage as Mausier. He briefly considered not even posting the offer, but then decided to go ahead with it. His field agents needed a good laugh once in a while.

Mausier constantly daydreamed about secret agents crawling through the darkness, picking locks, climbing fences, bribing guards, and taking pictures in the dark with mini-cameras hidden in belt buckles. He daydreamed, but he knew it wasn’t real. This client had apparently not learned to differentiate reality from daydreams. Agents didn’t climb fences, they walked in through the main gate or the employment office-that is, if they walked in at all. A hefty number of his most successful clients were call girls or waitresses. Most of the information holders would be astounded to learn the grateful little girl they impressed with a one-hundred-dollar tip was actually making three times their annual salary.

Secretaries, janitors, and shipping/receiving clerks were all potential key agents, if they weren’t already actively engaged in it. But the field was not limited to the “little people.” Many of his clients were high-placed trusted executives who felt that seventy thousand dollars a year wasn’t enough to make ends meet. Mausier didn’t feel this was strange. In fact, his own years in the corporate world convinced him that many of the white-collar spies were driven to it because of the financial pressures of maintaining a social front equal to or better than their job rating. It was a source of vague amusement to him that many executives turned to industrial espionage to be able to afford to keep up with other executives who were already supplementing their incomes as spies.

There were still a few sneak thief spies in the business, but it was unlikely they would disclose their methods either. It would only mean they would have to work around tighter security on their next job.

His whining client was not likely to get an answer to his information request even though the corporate world was crawling with agents. Mausier smiled. In his opinion after years of watching the business, the most successful agents were auditors.

His smile faded as he turned to his doodlescreen. The project was becoming almost an obsession, claiming increasing portions of his time and concentration. The Brazil workspace was so full he could no longer display all items on the screen simultaneously. He thought he had the answer now, but so much of the pattern still didn’t make sense.

The screen flickered and displayed a list of names. These were people employed by the nine corporations who had died recently. He sorted them by corporation, then chronologically. There was a pattern here. On one specific day there had been a surge of deaths in the two corporations listed for the Brazilian location. Within a matter of weeks it had spread to the other names on the list, with the exception of Japan. Japan was a misfit in many ways, but he put it out of his mind temporarily and focused on the others.

He tapped the keys, and a series of articles from newspapers and magazines began to display themselves on the screen. Each would show twice for thirty seconds-first the full article, then the portions Mausier had highlighted for summary display.

He watched them idly as they flashed past. He didn’t buy the terrorist group story. In all his reading and study, he could not detect a similar increase in deaths in any corporation outside his list of nine-well, eight. He might have been willing to believe the theory of randomly picked target corporations had he not already been studying them as a unit. As it was, it was too pat to be a coincidence. His eight corporations were the only ones to be randomly picked by a mysterious terrorist group? Bullshit. This was a new development of something that had been going on before.

He interrupted the display to reference an information request from the U. S. government that had gone unanswered for more than a month. They were asking for any and all information about the terrorist group, and offering a price that was well beyond tempting. Nobody answered.

The closest anyone had come to catching a member was one nut with a bomb. Although he swore up and down he was a member of that mystical group, investigation discovered he was working alone with a bomb he had built in his basement. Even the newspapers conceded he was probably a loner who was trying to cash in on the international publicity generated by the hunt for the elusive assassins.

Nobody could get a solid lead no matter what price was offered. That was what gave Mausier his first clue. There was only one time before he had known of when all levels of information hunters, governmental and free lance, had come up empty-handed. That was the aftermath of the Russo-Chinese War, when the C-Block sealed itself up and began buying but never selling information. The only possible explanation was the terrorist group was a front manned by and covered for by the C-Block. After all, wasn’t it their inquiries that initially alerted him to the tie-in between the nine-no, eight-corporations?

But there his logic fell apart. Why were they doing it? To infiltrate the corporate structure with their own people? If so, why did they request personnel listings? Wouldn’t they know who they were sending in?

He put it out of his mind for the moment and keyed for another display. Japan. During the time period in question, there had only been one death in the Japanese companies under surveillance, and that was of old age.

An article from a martial arts magazine eulogized the passing of an old sensei who had retired from teaching to take over some obscure physical fitness program for Japanese industry. That couldn’t possibly tie in with the other items-or could it?

Mausier wished for a moment that someone would put in a request for the coroner’s report on the old man’s death so he could see if it was actually available, but he shrugged it off as wishful thinking. It never occurred to him to request the information himself. That would be cheating! He’d work with the pieces as they were given to him.

Why had Japan escaped the notice of the assassins? In fact, from watching the information requests, they seemed to have escaped the notice of the other eight corporations. The only one requesting information on them was the C-Block. Were they unrelated to the puzzle, or were they in fact the people behind the assassins?

Mausier shook his head in bewilderment and keyed for another display. An article flashed on the screen. It was an account of the death of a corporate executive, Edward Bush, at the hands of one of the terrorist assassins. This held particular interest for Mausier, as Bush had been one of his clients.

According to the article, the incident had not been unlike a score of others. A long-range sniper working in broad daylight picked him off on the sidewalk in front of his office and escaped without a clue.

The pattern was so repetitious Mausier could almost sing it in his sleep.

He was willing to accept it as an unfortunate coincidence. Bush had been a buying, not a selling client, so it was unlikely that his death was linked in any way to his dealings with Mausier. Still, there was something afoot.

Bush’s own corporation had submitted an information request for details surrounding his death. What made it strange was that they had not made any similar requests regarding any of their other executives killed by snipers. Bush had not been particularly high-ranked in the corporation. Why the sudden interest in his demise?

There was still another curious coincidence connected with Bush’s death. The C-Block was also requesting details. They hadn’t requested details on any of the corporate deaths until now. Clearly there was something strange about the killing, but what? Was it Bush or the manner of his death? If Mausier’s theory about the C-Block team of assassins was correct, would they know all about the incident already? Maybe it was the Japanese after all. Those damn Japanese! Where did they fit into it all? Did they fit in at all?

Mausier suddenly became aware of sounds in the outer office and realized his employees were arriving. He hastily turned off his doodlescreen and began composing himself for the day’s routine.

As he did, however, he made a mental note to himself. He was going to go out at noon. For years he had seesawed back and forth trying to weigh necessity against childish romanticizing, but now he had made up his mind. He was going to buy a gun. Whatever was going on, the game was being played for high stakes and he was sitting on too much information to ignore the potential danger in his position.

The cliff was as foreboding as ever; the straw dummies waited passively at the base. Still, Tidwell realized his interest was at a peak as he sat waiting with Clancy for the next group to appear. The two mercenaries were perched on the lip of the cliff, dangling their legs idly, about five meters to the left of the trail.

They came, five of them darting silently from tree to tree like spirits. As they approached the cliff, the leader, a swarthy man in his thirties, held up his hand in a signal. The group froze, and he signaled one of the team forward. Tidwell smiled as a girl in her mid-twenties slung her rifle and dropped to her stomach, sliding forward to peer over the cliff. The leader knew damn well what was down there because he had run the course hundreds of times before, but he was playing it by the book and officially it was a new situation to be scouted.

The girl completed her survey, then slid backward for several meters before she rose to a half-crouch. Her hands flashed in a quick series of signals to the leader. Clancy nudged Tidwell, who smiled again, this time from flattered pleasure. Since he had taken over, the entire force had begun using his habit of sign language. It was a high compliment. The only trouble was that they had become proficient with it and had elaborated on his basic vocabulary to a point where he now sometimes had trouble following the signals as they flashed back and forth.

The leader made his decision. With a few abrupt gestures from him, the other three of the team, two men and a woman, slung their rifles and darted forward, diving full-speed off the cliff to confront their luckless “victims” below. The leader and the scout remained topside.

The two observing mercenaries straightened unconsciously. This was something new. The leader apparently had a new trick up his sleeve.

As his teammates sprinted forward, the leader reached over his shoulder and fished a coil of rope out of his pack. It was a black, lightweight silk line, with heavy knots tied in it every two feet for climbing. He located and grasped one end, tossing the coil to the scout. She caught it and flipped it over the cliff, while the leader secured his end around a small tree with a quick-release knot. This done, he faded back along the trail about ten meters to cover the rear, while the scout unslung her rifle and eased up to the edge of the cliff ready to cover her teammates below.

Clancy punched Tidwell’s shoulder delightedly and flashed him a thumbs-up signal. Tidwell nodded in agreement. It was a sweet move. Now the three attackers below had an easy, secure route back out as well as cover fire if anything went wrong.

Tidwell felt like crowing. The reorganization of the force was working better than he would have dared hope. The whole thing had been a ridiculously simple three-step process. First, there had been a questionnaire asking eight questions: Which four people in the force would you most like to team with? Why? Who would you be least willing to team with? Why? Who would you be most willing to follow as a leader? Why? Who would you be least willing to follow as a leader? Why?

The next step was to pass the data through the computers a few times. Two jobs were done simultaneously: first, the five-man teams were established along the lines of preference stated by the individuals; second, the deadwood and misfits were weeded out to be sent back to other jobs in the corporate structure.

The final step was to pull various members of the teams for special accelerated training in the more specialized skills necessary in a fighting unit. He had had to argue with Clancy a little on this point, but had finally won. Clancy had felt the existing specialists should be seeded through the teams to round out the requirements regardless of preference lines, but Tidwell’s inescapable logic was that in combat, you’re better off with a mediocre machine gunner you trust and can work with than an expert machine gunner you wouldn’t turn your back on.

From then on, the teams were inseparable. They bunked together, trained together, went on leave together; in short, they became a family. In fact, several of the teams had formed along family lines with mother, father, and offspring all on the same team, though frequently the leadership went to one of the offspring.

It was a weird, unorthodox way to organize an army, but it was bearing fruit. The teams were tightknit and smooth running and highly prone to coming up with their own solutions to the tactical problems Tidwell was constantly inventing for them. It was beyond a doubt the finest fighting force Tidwell had ever been associated with.

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