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mention Alex’s own boss at the FBI-and supposedly get some rest, too. That last part sure wasn’t going to happen.
        He shook his head. About the time you thought you were in control, life sure had a way of setting you straight. Think you’re in charge, pal ? Here, chew on this: Your immediate superior just got murdered, probably by the Mob, you just got promoted, and tomorrow, a presentation to the most powerful man in the world will probably make or break your career. How does that make you feel ?
        “Like shit,” Michaels said aloud.
        A traffic cop nearby said, “Excuse me?”
        “Nothing,” Michaels said.
        He headed for his car.
        “Home, Commander?” his driver said.
         Commander .
        The driver already knew about the promotion. Well. One thing was certain. Michaels was damn sure going to use that promotion to take care of this business. Steve Day was his friend.
        Wrong. Day had been his friend. Michaels wasn’t going home, no matter how tired he was.
        “No. To the office.”

3

        
         Wednesday, September 8th, 11:19 a.m. Grozny, Chechnya
        Vladimir Plekhanov wiped some of the ever-present dust from the inside of his window and looked down upon the city. Despite the installation of air conditioners and weekly visits from a cleaning woman, there seemed always to be a layer of powder everywhere, fine as talcum, but much darker. Of course, the dust was just dirt now. He remembered a time when much of it had been soot from the crematoriums, the remains of soldiers, civilians and invading Russians. That was a long time ago, almost twenty years, but as he grew older he spent perhaps more time in his room of old memories than he should. Well. Even though he had much to live for yet, and a most rewarding future in mind, he was sixty and should be allowed a glance backward from time to time, yes?
        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 Grozny’s 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 computer’s telephonic program interrupted Plekhanov’s 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