with subtle murals, the surroundings were bare and undecorated. The floor had the dusty
scent of old concrete and ozone. Where mahogany doors should have led the way to opulent suites and apartments, there were yawning open
frames walled off by ragged sheets of industrial polythene.
Hermann gave him a quizzical look. "This is not right."
"No," admitted Namir. "Proceed. And stay alert."
"Company," snapped Barrett, raising his arm. A group of four more thugs sprinted into view from along one of the radial corridors, each of them
armed with a heavy rifle.
"Take them," said Namir.
Barrett's right arm came apart on expanding frames, the plating folding back, the hand turning aside to allow the mechanism within to emerge;
he tugged an ammunition belt from a hopper in his backpack, swiftly slotting it into the feed maw on the base of the reconfigured limb. From
the wrist emerged the triple-head barrel of a minigun. The muzzles spun into a blur, and with a sound like the buzz of a heavy electric
generator, the cyberweapon ejected a gout of yellow fire and a storm of bullets. Grinning, Barrett panned the cannon across the corridor,
ripping through the flimsy flakboard the guards used for cover, tearing into them, blowing craters in the surface of the unfinished concrete.
"Advance! Kontarsky's rooms are just ahead." Namir surged forward, and the others went with him. Reaching the space where the grand suite
should have been, the Israeli reached up and tore aside a curtain of plastic.
Inside there was only another echoing, half-built space. Festoons of cables hung from the ceiling or snaked across the floor from drumlike power
cells; the room was hotter that the corridor outside, blood-warm and dry.
"What the hell ...?" Barrett scanned the room, his scarred face souring. "This is the wrong goddamn place! He's not here ... nobody is here!"
"Negative," insisted Hermann. "This is the correct location. Kontarsky should be in this room. We saw the thermographic scans ..."
"Why would six men guard nothing?" Namir demanded. He stalked across the open space, his footfalls echoing. Something about the
dimensions of the room seemed off; in front of the windows that looked out onto the Moscow dawn, there were long glassy panes arranged in a
barrier, running wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The power cords ran to connectors, and as Namir came close, he felt a steady surge of warmth
radiating from them.
"White," he said to the air. "Go to thermal. Target the thirteenth floor. Tell me what you see."
"I have three unit indicators" came the reply from the sniper. "Silver, Blue, Green. Multiple unidentified targets same locationHe paused, a
note of confusion entering his tone. "Youre in the room with them ..."
"No," Namir growled, reaching down to grab a bunch of the cables. "We are not." He gave the cables a violent yank and they tore free from the
glass, spitting sparks. The glass panes shimmered and went transparent as power bled out of them.
Hardesty's gasp of surprise was transmitted over the open channel. "What the hell...? Silver, all unidentified targets have vanished. Repeat,
vanished."
"They were never here," Hermann said aloud. "The panels. They were some form of thermal blind, projecting a decoy image."
"Real smart," muttered Barrett. "So where is this creep really hidin' out?"
"Find him " demanded Namir.
Saxon nodded distractedly, and glanced around the marble lobby. It was gloomy in here, the only light a weak morning glow through the fan
shaped windows above the high front doors. Aside from Federova, the area was deserted.
He glanced back to find the Russian woman down on one knee, rifling through the pockets of one of the men she had just killed. A gasp escaped
the guard's mouth as she turned him over, a last breath leaving his lungs as she shifted the body.
"If the target's not on thirteen, then he's got to be on a different floor, shielded from thermographic scan." Saxon gave
scent of old concrete and ozone. Where mahogany doors should have led the way to opulent suites and apartments, there were yawning open
frames walled off by ragged sheets of industrial polythene.
Hermann gave him a quizzical look. "This is not right."
"No," admitted Namir. "Proceed. And stay alert."
"Company," snapped Barrett, raising his arm. A group of four more thugs sprinted into view from along one of the radial corridors, each of them
armed with a heavy rifle.
"Take them," said Namir.
Barrett's right arm came apart on expanding frames, the plating folding back, the hand turning aside to allow the mechanism within to emerge;
he tugged an ammunition belt from a hopper in his backpack, swiftly slotting it into the feed maw on the base of the reconfigured limb. From
the wrist emerged the triple-head barrel of a minigun. The muzzles spun into a blur, and with a sound like the buzz of a heavy electric
generator, the cyberweapon ejected a gout of yellow fire and a storm of bullets. Grinning, Barrett panned the cannon across the corridor,
ripping through the flimsy flakboard the guards used for cover, tearing into them, blowing craters in the surface of the unfinished concrete.
"Advance! Kontarsky's rooms are just ahead." Namir surged forward, and the others went with him. Reaching the space where the grand suite
should have been, the Israeli reached up and tore aside a curtain of plastic.
Inside there was only another echoing, half-built space. Festoons of cables hung from the ceiling or snaked across the floor from drumlike power
cells; the room was hotter that the corridor outside, blood-warm and dry.
"What the hell ...?" Barrett scanned the room, his scarred face souring. "This is the wrong goddamn place! He's not here ... nobody is here!"
"Negative," insisted Hermann. "This is the correct location. Kontarsky should be in this room. We saw the thermographic scans ..."
"Why would six men guard nothing?" Namir demanded. He stalked across the open space, his footfalls echoing. Something about the
dimensions of the room seemed off; in front of the windows that looked out onto the Moscow dawn, there were long glassy panes arranged in a
barrier, running wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The power cords ran to connectors, and as Namir came close, he felt a steady surge of warmth
radiating from them.
"White," he said to the air. "Go to thermal. Target the thirteenth floor. Tell me what you see."
"I have three unit indicators" came the reply from the sniper. "Silver, Blue, Green. Multiple unidentified targets same locationHe paused, a
note of confusion entering his tone. "Youre in the room with them ..."
"No," Namir growled, reaching down to grab a bunch of the cables. "We are not." He gave the cables a violent yank and they tore free from the
glass, spitting sparks. The glass panes shimmered and went transparent as power bled out of them.
Hardesty's gasp of surprise was transmitted over the open channel. "What the hell...? Silver, all unidentified targets have vanished. Repeat,
vanished."
"They were never here," Hermann said aloud. "The panels. They were some form of thermal blind, projecting a decoy image."
"Real smart," muttered Barrett. "So where is this creep really hidin' out?"
"Find him " demanded Namir.
Saxon nodded distractedly, and glanced around the marble lobby. It was gloomy in here, the only light a weak morning glow through the fan
shaped windows above the high front doors. Aside from Federova, the area was deserted.
He glanced back to find the Russian woman down on one knee, rifling through the pockets of one of the men she had just killed. A gasp escaped
the guard's mouth as she turned him over, a last breath leaving his lungs as she shifted the body.
"If the target's not on thirteen, then he's got to be on a different floor, shielded from thermographic scan." Saxon gave
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