Extreme Faction by Trevor Scott Page A

Oregon area. Computers mostly. But companies hire him to accompany them overseas, where they are trying to establish new companies or overseas subsidiaries. You may have heard about the computer chips he safeguarded from German and Hungarian companies over a year ago.”
    â€œHe did that?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHe’s not a damn intellectual idealist is he?” the president asked.
    Malone smiled. “Not really, sir. Adams was a trapper in Oregon in his youth. He spent his summers guiding canoe trips deep into Canada. He’s more of an outdoorsman than an intellectual. During the Iran-Iraq War he was on the ground behind enemy lines checking for chemical weapons use. He’s tough and can handle anything that comes his way.”
    The president appeared reassured. “Very well. You’ve sold me, but will he help us out?”
    â€œYou’re the president. If you want, you can reinstate his commission.” The director smiled.
    The president laughed. “Let’s not start by pissing him off. Just ask your man, O’Neill, if he’ll help us out. Give him whatever he needs. Let him lead if it’ll make him happy. And find that chemical weapon from Johnston Island.”
    â€œYes, sir. I’ll make it happen. And we’ll find the bomb.” The director left, and the other council members followed him out the door.

13
    ODESSA, UKRAINE
    It was just a few hours away from the start of the third and last day of the Odessa Agricultural Conference. MacCarty and Swanson had ordered a western-style breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Both had tried the continental version for three days, with hard bread, salami, and numerous cheeses, and had found it difficult to stomach those things so early in the morning. So on the last day, they decided to deviate from the normal menu and force the hotel to their needs. They would eat bacon and eggs with fresh orange juice. At least that’s what they hoped the waitress had understood.
    MacCarty sipped a cup of Turkish coffee. “Have you seen Jake Adams lately?” he asked Swanson.
    His assistant shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know why you’re paying him. He hasn’t done a thing for us.” Swanson drained the last of his coffee and waived for a waitress to bring more, but the woman seemed to ignore him.
    â€œI think he’ll pay off eventually,” MacCarty said. “When we start negotiating a deal for our new plant, he’ll become indispensable.”
    â€œMaybe.” Swanson said. He had always been the one MacCarty depended on. Now this outsider was the one who would move the company forward to new markets. Become indispensable. He thought about the night before at the bar, where he met with the man he never saw, yet had managed to get a description from the bartender. It had been such a rush. Dangerous, but exciting. Why would anyone pay for so little information? It made no sense. Nor did Yuri Tvchenko’s death. The same could be said for their company wanting to deal with such an unstable, backwards country. He looked around him and saw America in the 50s. Low tech. Shit. No tech.
    â—
    Back in the kitchen, a dark young man in a white chef’s outfit swept through and checked the order sheets. Most of the slips had been sitting there, unattended, for ten minutes. It was the young man’s first day on the job. First hours actually. Each slip had a number on it corresponding with a table in the dining area. He verified the table number, double checked it to be sure, and then told the head chef he would like to try this one.
    Reluctantly, the head chef agreed. He had baking to attend to. And besides, he had had it with special requests from ungrateful foreigners. The Japanese had wanted one thing, the Norwegians something else. Now the Americans. Let the new kid handle it.
    The new young cook pulled a slab of back bacon from a refrigerator, dropped it to the cutting board,