Net Force Read Online Free Page B

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 conversation.
        Plekhanov leaned back in his chair. The Grand Plan was progressing exactly as he had intended. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, it had begun small, but by the time it was done, it would be vast and unstoppable.
        He pushed the intercom buzzer on his desk. A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. He pushed the button again. Still no response. He sighed. The intercom was broken again. If he wanted tea, he would have to go and tell Sasha. He was on the way to being the most powerful man in the world and he had to work in an office wherein the simplest devices were in need of repair. He shook his head. That was going to change.
        And that would be but the smallest of changes…
        
         Wednesday, September 8th, 7:17 a.m. Washington, D.C .
        Alexander Michaels had felt better. As his chauffeur maneuvered the car toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he shuffled through the hardcopy printouts yet again, ordering his thoughts as best he could. The town car was bracketed fore and aft by bodyguard vehicles, governmental-gray cars whose drivers and passengers carried enough hardware to sustain a small war. The protocols were pretty clear about what must be done in the event of a high-level federal assassination. The genesis of these protective measures went all the way back to Lincoln. Most people didn’t realize that the murdered President had not been the sole target of Booth and his fellow plotters.
        Michaels had been to the White House several times, although always as a backup to Steve Day, never on the hot seat himself. And he had every scrap of information the FBI had on the assassination on tap, all duplicated on a small disk capable of holding gigabytes of material, nestled inside a coded plastic case, ready to load into the White House’s Secure System. Should