S. Swann - Zimmerman's Algorithm

ZIMMERMAN'S ALGORITHM

THE THEFT—

It began on a deserted interstate in Virginia. The entire operation took less than twelve minutes. The result-one supercomputer hijacked, one highway patrolman dead. . .

THE STING—

Washington, DC. Police Detective Gideon Malcolm had been given a tip about the stolen Daedalus supercomputer. Yet no one was willing to give him the backup he needed to check it out. So Gideon turned to the one person he knew he could count on, his brother, FBI Agent Raphael Malcolm. Together they set up their stakeout. When no one showed, they went in to check out the seemingly abandoned warehouse-and stumbled into the midst of a deadly ambush. . .

THE PAYBACK—

Now Gideon wanted answers, and he wasn't going to stop until someone paid for what had happened to him and Rafe. But the powers that be were equally determined to force Gideon-and the world-to forget this covert operation gone totally wrong. Yet Gideon refused to be blackmailed, threatened, or bought off. And what began with a stolen computer led him to the trail of a mysterious woman. Dr. Zimmerman, whom everyone seemed intent on finding. For Zimmerman's knowledge could compromise not only U.S. security but that of every nation in the world!

"WATCH MY BACK."

"Sure thing," Raphael whispered in a puff of fog.

Raphael crouched down next to Gideon so he could cover the garage as his bother slipped under the door. Raphael rolled in after him, standing up and covering what was visible of the garage with his automatic. Gideon started inching along the left wall, down the corridor toward the main room. Raphael followed. Each step brought more of the garage into view as Gideon swept his flashlight beam back and forth. Gideon felt his breath catch the moment the Daedalus came into view.

The thing was actually here!

He could hear Raphael saying something, and from the tone, his brother was more surprised than he was. Raphael had taken a few steps away from the wall, toward the machine. Gideon took a half step to follow him—

A spotlight blasted from the left side of the garage. Raphael's shadow stretched all the way to the Daedalus. Raphael was past the corner, near the center of the floor. Raphael, washed in white light, spun around, bringing his automatic to bear. He yelled at the people behind the light, "FBI, free—"

A dull thudding sound filled the room, the noise like an air hammer striking mud. Gideon's instincts took over and he hugged the corner, reaching around and firing at the spotlight. . .

ZIMMERMAN'S

ALGORITHM

S. Andrew Swann

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014 ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM SHEILA E. GILBERT PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2000 by Steven Swiniarski.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Bob Warner.

DAW Book Collectors No. 1142.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. First Printing, January 2000 1234 5 6789

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES —MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

For Truffles

ZIMMERMAN'S ALGORITHM

LyAKSANDRO Volynskji stood in the parking lot of an abandoned Howard Johnson's, facing the nearby Interstate, watching the passing headlights slice out cones of swirling snow. His breath fogged as he wrapped a heavy leather coat around himself. The fleece-lined coat was the only example of Western decadence he'd allowed himself since coming into the U.S. back in November. Tonight he was glad he had bought it. After all the years he had spent in Tunis, he was not prepared for American winters, especially in upstate New York.

He leaned against anew Dodge pickup, the only vehicle in the parking lot. With the exception of the tracks left by the truck, the lot was a virgin field of snow.

Volynskji was on his third cigarette when the minivan he was waiting for pulled off the interstate, headlights illuminating Volynskji and his pickup. It drove into the abandoned lot, tires tossing up sheets of snow. It stopped facing him.

Volynskji tossed his cigarette aside.

The door slid open on the side of the van and a trio of silhouettes walked in front of the headlights. "Mr. Smith?" asked the one in the middle.

Volynskji nodded and said, "Colonel Ramon."

Ramon gestured to the van and the headlights dimmed.

The three men Volynskji faced were all middle-aged, and all wore overcoats over dark suits. They dressed as if they wore some sort of uniform—unlike Volynskji who wore jeans, flannel shirt, and leather bomber jacket and generally tried to blend into the rustic setting he found himself in. These men looked out of place here, and Volynskji wondered if it was the best course of action to utilize them.

"I understand you require consultants in a security matter," Colonel Ramon spoke with a flat Midwestern accent despite the fact—Volynskji knew—that he had lived his entire life in El Salvador, until a few years ago when the Salvadoran government became a little too serious abort investigating the excesses of the eighties.

Volynskji reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a brown envelope and handed it to Colonel Ramon. "A bank draft for an account in Costa Rica."

Colonel Ramon took the envelope and opened it. He tried to hide his reaction, but Volynskji saw his eyes widen slightly.

"That is half," Volynskji said. "The balance will be on delivery."

"What do you want delivered?"

"A mainframe computer, a special one."

"The catch is?"

Volynskji smiled. "The current owners may not want to part with it."

The truck from Infinity Microsystems rode the Interstate alone and unhurried. It sliced through the Virginia night, rarely putting more than five miles per hour between itself and the speed limit. It was a customized Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler, painted the black and cobalt blue of the IMS logo. The trailer's roof was stainless steel, and had a few more vents than was usual.

Colonel Ramon knew that the truck was unique, and its cargo nearly so.

The Colonel sat in the cab of a more conventional Mack truck parked in the on-ramp's breakdown lane. It had been idling there for about ten minutes with its lights off before the Peterbilt passed.

Fifteen seconds after the Peterbilt passed by in front of them, the driver pulled it out onto the Interstate, following.

The Colonel looked ahead, at the brake lights of the Peterbilt's trailer. He watched the mile markers by the side of the road and after the third one passed, he picked up a walkie-talkie that sat on the seat next to him and said, "Now!"

About half a mile ahead of the Peterbilt, another Mack truck pulled out, angled across all four lanes, and screeched to a halt on the icy pavement. The Colonel could hear the Peterbilt braking even though they were a hundred yards back. For a moment he worried that they might collide—like the Peterbilt's driver, he wanted no harm to come to the contents of the trailer. Fortunately, the driver kept control of his vehicle.

When the Peterbilt reached a complete stop, Colonel Ramon's Mack angled in behind it to prevent it from backing away.

Colonel Ramon pulled a ski mask down over his face while the rear door of the other Mack flew open to disgorge a half-dozen men with similar masks, black military fatigues, and M-16 rifles.

The Colonel calmly stepped out of the cab, ignoring the Peterbilt's revving engine, the sound of breaking glass, and the short burst of gunfire as the team secured the cab of the Peterbilt.

There was one security guard on duty with the driver, and he was never really an issue. The Colonel briskly walked through a cloud of diesel fumes toward the trailer on his own truck.