David Dun - Unacceptable Risk

"We figure in the U.S. there are eighty-five million com puters in businesses and about that many in homes. Using these techniques with the right research, we guess they could get as many as fifty million computers. It would do at least one hundred billion dollars in damage and send the stock market plummeting."

Jacob went on to describe how the virus would systematically destroy a computer system, step by step, and the tech niques it would employ. Sam got the idea quickly and, in fact, had imagined such things himself, just never with Jacob's morbid precision.

"So the upshot," Jacob concluded, "is that a good virus would in the end go through a comprehensive erase routine while it was showing the operator a virus protection screen that indicated an ongoing virus scrub-you feel good while they sodomize your computer. In about a third of the ma chines we examined, the motherboard would also become inoperable."

"So, they really could kill hardware that would take days or weeks to replace?"

"Afraid so."

In the end, though, Sam suspected that it was really the killing of people that Gaudet intended. The computers would be a means to that end.

He took a minute to call Jill's boy, Chet, to talk about fishing, the girl next door, the next big asteroid to pass Earth, the latest German gun, and what they might do next summer on the camping trip. It was good to think about everybody being around next summer.

"I like to work alone," Gaudet said.

"We just burned down Northern Lights," Trotsky said in a rare display of impertinence. "These people aren't dummies. Stealth and brains won't be enough."

"I don't disagree. We will need more bodies. We need Raval almost as much as we need Bowden and the journals. And I'd really like to get Sam out of the game, for once and for all. If I find Bowden, I may find Sam and end that part of the matter. Raval, who knows? The aunt's gotten us nowhere. I suppose the journals are priority one. I watched Bowden's face when I had the girl. He'd trade that journal for the girl. And I'd bet the stuff about the sponge is true. But where are the journals? Cornell University? Maybe. That's the ques tion."

Trotsky nodded and sat back.

They were in the Waldorf-Astoria. Gaudet liked traditional places such as this. All the furnishings were quality, even if older, and in the restaurants downstairs the service was ri diculously attentive. It seemed there were as many waiters as patrons. He and Trotsky dressed as a couple of ugly old women when they went to the restaurants. Normally, they used room service and only Trotsky had to play the part.

"If we are correct and Bowden will come to New York, how many associates could we use here?"

"We can't use the men involved in Cordyceps. Can we?"

"No. We can't compromise that."

"I'll make the calls."

"You have almost no accent. I need for you to do something else as well."

Although Gaudet had spent almost all his life as a con tract killer, he had taken care to acquire or steal legitimate business interests and now had a small empire. Trotsky and a man who worked for Trotsky did all the day-to-day management.

Gaudet had been listening in when Trotsky, claiming to be a journalist, phoned the assistant to Bowden's editor at his publishing house. Before the call Gaudet had done his homework and had found out that a writer-usually-would know his editor better than anyone else at the publishing company. If it was a senior editor, such as Rebecca Toussant, then she would have an assistant. These helpers often knew more than they were supposed to tell. In this case the young woman, Sherry Montgomery, had stuck to the script but sounded nervous at the name Michael Bowden. The denial that she knew anything of Michael Bowden's whereabouts was casual and studied, so there was no way to be certain that they were expecting a visit from Bowden. But in Gaudet's mind it was a reasonable bet. He had heard something in that young woman's voice, and when he played the tapes, he heard it again.

Gaudet then contacted a literary agent and explained that he was a French journalist researching the American publish ing scene. After a half hour or so of interviewing the agent, Gaudet learned that if a big author like Bowden came to New York, there might be a book signing at the downtown Barnes amp; Noble. Such arrangements were normally made months in advance but could be made on much shorter notice if the number of books that could be sold were significant.

Trotsky called the community events person at the mid- town Manhattan Barnes amp; Noble and advised them that he had it on good authority that Michael Bowden was coming to New York and might do a signing. The lady reported that she knew nothing of any such signing but would check with the publisher. Trotsky explained that he would call back if they would be so kind as to check out the rumored signing. Next Gaudet had Trotsky make a similar call to a New York Times reporter at the arts desk, who also promised to check out the story.

The next day Trotsky called Rebecca Toussant's assistant.

"We understand that Bowden's signing is on the twenty- second."

"I don't know anything about a signing. People keep talk ing about it… but I don't know… but he won't be here until… Well, if he were to come… Actually, I really don't know anything about Mr. Bowden's schedule. We haven't heard from him in weeks."

"Well, I appreciate that. He is from the Amazon."

"He certainly is."

"Well, thanks anyway and good day."

Trotsky had done well. Clearly, Bowden was due in New York and the girl even knew when. That meant Sam would be around. And Gaudet would be waiting.

Sam walked through La Guardia International Airport on his way to the taxi, having flown in from LA. Using his cell phone he called Jill.

"We have a new problem," she started right out. "The CIA wants, and I quote, 'to know why the hell you sent the SDECE to investigate a report of a plot on the U.S.' "

"What are you talking about?"

"Apparently, the Turks have a guy who thought he had seen Gaudet. According to the CIA, the reports from Turkey indicated that the informant really didn't know much. Also they suspected he had been severely tortured and under those circumstances they were just as happy to have us do the ini tial interview. If it turned out there was something there, they could come along after the guy was cleaned up. I guess the Turks plugged his testicles into a wall socket, among other tricks. Figuring that since we were working Gaudet, and with the low priority and the torture and whatnot, it would be fine if we went. Only we didn't go and somehow the French did. There were pissed-off phone calls between the Turks and the CIA and Figgy Meeks right in the middle of it. The Feds are a little reluctant to criticize Figgy, since he was one of their own and they sent him to us. So they've decided they're pissed at us."

"Get me Figgy," Sam said, doing a slow burn.

"I thought of that. He's waiting for our call. He's at the French place in the UN."

After a few rings Figgy picked up. "Figgy, this is Sam," Jill said.

"Figgy, what are you doing to me?"

"Well, I made a tactical error. The French were right near Turkey and, well, I figured-"

"I don't believe this. You took a call at my office from the CIA?"

"Well, yeah. I was in the office and Jill was taking a snooze, and, hell, I was one of them."

"That's the last call you're taking. You called your French buddies and sent them and then you gave them the imprimatur of the CIA. I can't believe this. I'm speechless."

"I won't make that mistake again. It just seemed efficient. They said he knew very little. It isn't like it was a big-deal interview. And if it was, Alfawd is dead."