Jerome Preisler - Net Force--Attack Protocol

He pictured her out there, the waves crashing at her feet in the darkness. And then unwillingly, he thought of two ravens in flight.

His hand went to the small tattoo behind his ear, a symbolic wheel of ancient origin.

It was exactly 1:40 a.m.

At one forty-two, the Mihail Kogălniceanu swarm came within twenty miles of the village of Baneasa, its Monarch drone making first contact with the renegade hedgehogs at Janus Base. Seconds later, it absorbed their AI into the hive mind, making them its own, placing them under its full control.

Camp Turzii’s swarm, meanwhile, was nearing its destination over Rosalvea.

Separated by hundreds of miles, the drones were ready to strike.

7

New York City, United States

Stepping from the shower onto the bathroom tiles, Sergei Cosa looked down at himself with a fair measure of satisfaction. His pectorals layered with thick slabs of muscle, his abdomen flat and rippled, he was as sturdy and hardbodied at fifty-seven as he’d been in his midtwenties. Father Time, with his scythe and hourglass, might be an implacable adversary, but Cosa’s conscientious diet and rigorous weight-lifting program had thus far kept the Old One’s cruel cuts to a minimum.

Now he donned a lightweight Turkish morning robe, stepped into his leather slippers, tossed a fresh towel over his shoulders, and went over to stand by the sink, carefully studying his reflection in the mirror. With his high, blunt cheekbones, full black hair, and prominent ridge of brow, Cosa conformed to the classic East Baltic phenotype—and proudly so. He was a nationalist to his core and held a powerful contempt for those who would live in a homogenized contemporary society, all genetic and cultural heritage thrown into the blender. Though a proud and dedicated Russian, he took equal pride in his Romanian lineage...in having the blood of Dacian warriors in his veins. His ancestors had lived in the Carpathian mountains since prehistoric times, fighting off Alexander the Great, the Celts, and the Gallic Boii in succession, driving their armies from the steppes to make the Danube run red.

Yes, Sergei Cosa was proud of his familial steel, proud of the strength and endurance of his line. His long diplomatic sojourn in New York had only reinforced that feeling, while increasing his disdain for America’s soft, boneless cultural stew. It was, in his view, too weak to stand the test of centuries.

Still, he enjoyed certain aspects of the city. There was an energy. A pulse. And, for those of status, an unparalleled luxury. Even during last summer’s cyberattack, with the rest of Manhattan dark, there had been no power outages here on prestigious Beekman Place...at least none affecting the high-rise where he occupied a large duplex condominium with wraparound windows overlooking the river to the east, and the United Nations complex to the south.

Rubbing a hand over his dark growth of beard, Cosa ran the tap, lathered up with his shaving brush, reached for his straight razor, and applied the blade to his cheeks with short, deft strokes. The water was warm, the light above the mirror bright and even.

He had almost finished shaving when he heard the faint ringing of his landline through the bathroom door. Then the voice of his housekeeper, Edelle, answering the call.

Turning from the sink, he dabbed off his face with his towel and went out into the hallway. Graceful and light-footed for a man of his imposing frame, he moved quietly over the hardwood floor in his slippered feet.

The living room was open and expansive, its antique lamps and Impressionist canvases orbiting a hand-knotted Persian carpet, silk-cushioned sectional couch, and a custom, gold-ornamented walnut cocktail table.

Edelle stood by the circular table holding out a cordless handset.

“Mr. Cosa,” she said, “it is your cousin.”

Precisely on time , he thought. Dependability was one of the baseline traits that made Grigor an outstanding agent. Elite even within the SVR. The same had been true of Anton Ciobanu, which was why he was chosen to plant the bomb at the U.S. president’s rally in Zuccotti Park. But Ciobanu was dead, killed by the Americans. Grigor, on the other hand, continued operating at will in the shadows. A product of Ivan Mori’s multigenerational breeding program—a science-city child—his inborn aptitudes, education, and wide range of skill sets put him in a category of his own.

As he strode across the carpet, Cosa noticed Edelle was looking out his southeast windows toward the East River, a contemplative expression on her face. He glanced in that direction and saw the lights of the newly repaired and reopened Brooklyn Bridge twinkling in the night like strings of crystalline beads. Three months ago, he had stood at the same windows, watching gray smoke spiral up from a burning police helicopter into a cloudless blue sky. The aircraft had been caught in the suspension cables like a winged insect in a spiderweb.

There had been more smoke, ash, and airborne grit to the south from the explosions at Zuccotti Park, where the president had announced the formation of her Net Force; Cosa could still recall the downtown area fading into the haze like a desert mirage.

Hours after the explosions, Ciobanu was tracked down by law enforcement. But for all the thousands of news reports about what happened that day, Cosa had never seen one that asked whether the same man who planted the explosive charge near the president’s podium was also responsible for bombing the office building across the street. He was sure America’s investigative agencies—including Net Force—were pursuing answers to that unresolved question in secret...

But Cosa was one of the small handful of people on earth who knew of Grigor’s role as accomplice.

Now he took the phone from Edelle and looked closely at her face.

“What troubles your thoughts?” he asked.

She shrugged a little. “I have served you here for many years,” she said. “Everything is going to change.”

He looked at her in silence.

“Be soothed, mamǎ ,” he said after a moment. “Change simply means we are alive. Come what may, you are under my steady protection.”

Edelle smiled, giving him a small nod. Then she turned and left the room without another word.

Cosa waited until she was out of sight to raise the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Grigor asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes. I was speaking to my servant. She is Magyar. My childhood sitter could have been her double.” He paused. “Okay, talk. And watch what you say.”

“Always,” Grigor said. “I’ve taken care of the bird, ‘cousin.’”

Cosa was silent. It had been a long day, and he’d planned an early bedtime. But his weariness was suddenly gone.

“When was this done?” he said.

“Earlier tonight. Outside his New Jersey nest.”

“And where is he now?”

“Packed in marinade,” Grigor said. “Well and thoroughly, I might add.”

Cosa thought a moment. “This is excellent news. We should talk in person.”

“Sure,” Grigor said. “When?”

Cosa glanced at his wristwatch. It was 7:00 p.m. There was no reason to wait. The call had energized him.

“Tonight.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, why not?” Cosa said. “I’ll see you in an hour. You know the place.”

He disconnected. Deep in thought, he stood holding the phone for a long moment after the call ended. Then he put it down on the cocktail table and turned back toward the windows, staring out into the night.

Russia’s ascent was finally coming. The pandemic of a few years back had crippled her economically. And she was still struggling to recover while the irresponsible Chinese skated past the consequences. Change simply means we are alive. Cosa believed that to his core. Master chess players, his people in Moscow had taken the long view even as they endured dreadful sickness and hardship.