Islands in the Net

There was noise in the lobby. Laura glanced through the open door of the office and past the front desk. A woman in uniform had just pushed through the lobby door from outside.

A. black woman. Short hair, military blouse, big leather gun belt, cowboy hat in her hand. A Texas Ranger.

"Oh, Jesus, the Rangers are here," Laura said.

Emily nodded, her eyes wide. "I'm loggin' off, I know you have your hands full.

"Okay, bye." Laura hung up. She hurried past the desk into the lobby. A blond man in civvies followed the Ranger into the Lodge. He wore a charcoal-gray tailored suit vented at the waist, wide, flamboyant tie in computer-paisley.... He had dark glasses and had a suitcase terminal in his hand. The

Vie

"I'm Laura Webster," Laura told the Ranger. "The Lodge coordinator." She offered her hand. The Ranger ignored it, giving her a look of blank hostility.

The Vie

Laura's hand, and smiled sweetly. He was very handsome, with an almost feminine look-high Slavic cheekbones, a long, smooth swoop of blond hair over one ear, a film-star mole dotting his right cheekbone. He released her hand reluc- tantly, as if tempted to kiss it. "Sorry to greet you in such circumstances, Ms. Webster. I am Voroshilov. This is my local liaison, Captain Baster. "

"Baxter," the Ranger said.

"You witnessed the attack, I understand," Voroshilov said.

"Yes.'

"Excellent. I must interview you." He paused and touched a small stud on the corner of his dark glasses. A long fiber- optic cord trailed from the earpiece down into the vest of his suit. Laura saw now that the sunglasses were videocams, the new bit-mapped kind with a million little pixel lenses. He was filming her. "The terms of the Vie

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Investigations under the convention have global priority over the laws of your nation and state."

Laura nodded, barely following this burst of rote. She had heard it all before, on television shows. TV thrillers were very big on the Vie

Voroshilov. "

Voroshilov lifted his head. "What an interesting smell. I do admire regional cooking."

Laura started. "Can I offer you something?"

"Some mint tea would be very fine. Oh, just tea, if you have no mint."

"Something for you, Captain Baxter?"

Baxter glared. "Where was he killed?"

"My husband can help you with that...." She touched her watchphone. "David?"

David looked into the lobby through the dining room door.

He saw the police, turned, and shot some quick, urgent border-Spanish over his shoulder at the staff. All Laura caught was los Rinches, the Rangers, but chairs scraped and Mrs.

Delrosario appeared in a hung.

Laura made introductions. Voroshilov turned the intimidat- ing videoglasses on everyone in turn.. They were creepy- looking things-at a certain angle Laura could see a fine-etched golden spiderwebbing in the opaque lenses. No moving parts.

David left with the Ranger.

Laura found herself sipping tea with the Vie

"Thank you, Comrade."

Voroshilov lifted his videoglasses with a practiced gesture, favoring her with a long stare from velvety blue pop-star eyes. "You're a Marxist?"

"Economic democrat," Laura said. Voroshilov rolled his eyes in brief involuntary derision and set the glasses back onto his nose. "Have you heard from the F.A.C.T. before today?"

"Never," Laura said. "Never heard of them."

"The statement makes no mention of the groups from

Europe and Singapore."

"I don't think they knew the others were here," Laura said. "We-Rizome, I mean-we were very careful on security. Ms.

Emerson, our security person, can tell you more about that."

Voroshilov smiled. "The American notion of `careful security.'

I'm touched." He paused. "Why are you involved in this? It's not your business."

"It is now," Laura said. "Who is this F.A.C.T.? Can you help us against them?"

"They don't exist," Voroshilov said. "Oh, they did once.

Years ago. All those millions your American government spent, little groups here, little groups there. Ugly little spin- offs from the Old Cold Days. But F.A.C.T. is just a front now, a fairy story. F.A.C.T. is a mask the data havens hide behind to shoot at each other." He made a pistol-pointing gesture. "Like the old Red Brigades, pop-pop-pop against

NATO. Angolan UNITA, pop-pop-pop against the Cubans."

He smiled. "So here we are, yes, we sit in these nice chairs, we drink this nice tea like civilized people. Because you stepped into the rubbish left over because your grandfather didn't like mine. "

"What do you plan to do?"

"I ought to scold you," Voroshilov said. "But I'm going to scold your ex-CIA commissar upstairs. And my Ranger friend will scold too. My Ranger friend doesn't care for the nasty mess you make of the nice reputation of Texas." He flipped up the screen of his terminal and keyed in commands.

"You saw the flying drone that did the shooting."

"Yes.'

"Tell me if you see it here."

Images flashed by, four-second bursts of nicely shaded computer graphics. Stubby-winged aircraft with blind fuse- lages-no cockpit, they were radio controlled. Some were spattered in camouflage. Others showed ID numbers in sten- ciled Cyrillic or Hebrew. "No, not like that," Laura said.

Voroshilov shrugged and touched the keys. Odder-looking craft appeared: two little blimps. Then a skeletal thing, like a collision between a helicopter and a child's tricycle. Then a kind of double-rotored golfball. Then an orange peanut. "Hold it," Laura said.

Voroshilov froze the image. "That's it," Laura said. "That landing gear-like a barbecue pit." She stared at it. The narrow waist of the peanut had two broad counterrotating helicopter blades. "When the blades move, they catch the light, and it looks like a saucer," she said aloud. "A flying saucer with big bumps on the top and the bottom."

Voroshilov examined the screen. "You saw a Canadair

CL-227 VTOL RPV. Vertical Take-Off and Landing, Re- motely Piloted Vehicle. It has a range of thirty miles-miles, what a silly measurement. He typed a note on his

Cyrillic keyboard. "It was probably launched somewhere on this island by the assassins... or perhaps from a ship. Easy to launch, this thing. No runway."

"The one I saw was a different color. Bare metal, I think. "

"And equipped with a machine gun," Voroshilov said.

"Not standard issue. But an old craft. like this has been on the black arms markets for many, many years. Cheap to buy if you have the contacts."

"Then you can't trace the owners?"

He looked at her pityingly.

Voroshilov's watchphone beeped. It was the Ranger. "I'm out here on the walkway," she said. "I have one of the slugs. "

"Let me guess," Voroshilov said. "Standard NATO 35

millimeter. "

"Affirmative, yes."

"Think of those millions and millions of unfired NATO

bullets," mused Voroshilov. "Too many even for the African market, eh? An unfired bullet has a kind of evil pressure in it, don't you think? Something in it wants to be fired...." He . paused, his blank lenses fixed on Laura. "You're not following me."