Man O' War, стр. 17

In his mind he ran through the list of suspects suggested by his hands after the Graamler had been discovered. Deutcher? Mars? Could it be CME? Could it? Or even someone within his own government? Possibly Carri, running some end game tied to a personal agenda to which Hawkes had no clue?

Getting up out of his chair, the ambassador took the bomb and crossed the room to his wardrobe. Pulling open the hand-carved wooden doors on the handsome oak piece, he slid the device back into his inner vest pocket. It was deactivated, it had spent most of the day there . . . it would be as safe there as anywhere else.

The bomb was not the problem. The real problem that worried Hawkes was what to do next.

So, he asked himself, whom do I alert? Someone tell me who it is I'm supposed to trust . . . whom I can call that I can be certain isn't working for whoever just tried to kill me. And even after I think of those who might be on my side . . . what about their staff, the connections leading away from them? Who out there is so secure that no one within the range of their voice can possibly be tainted?

It was the curse of playing the civil service game, one he had lived with for a long time: Who do you trust? No matter how secure an organization might be—no matter how respected or honorable or reliable—if you had just one enemy within it somewhere, or at some level it housed a single person who could be bought . . .

The ambassador knew how that game was played. He had turned plenty of people against their own kind in his time—it was his job. Office politics . . . any kind of politics. Hawkes knew how pitifully few dollars it took to buy men's souls. He had authorized too many of the receipts not to know. More than once, he had laughed out loud at how little effort, how few lies it took to blind people to facts they knew to be true simply by playing on fears they were too weak to ignore. It was only part of the reason he had kept people at arm's length since he had left the service—since he had entered the corps and become a creature of government.

But now he was on the receiving end, and it was damned uncomfortable. Certainly he had been there before . . . but not like he was after finding a bomb in his own home. That was a change in the usual rules. That was different.

Hawkes was not even sure he could trust his own workers. The Graamler had not rolled under the 4 X 4 and jumped up onto the axle. Someone planted it there. And that someone had either snuck across the miles of his ranch unseen, did his work and then slithered back out again—or he had no need to sneak because he lived there.

Like I said before, laughed the cynical voice in his head, bet you wish you had more friends now, eh?

Aww, God, shut up, he told himself, chasing away his depression. Leave me alone. I like things just fine this way. This is who I am.

Then, glancing down at the dark form sleeping soundly on the floor, Hawkes whispered, "Besides, I have all the friends I need right here."

The ambassador's gaze stayed fixed on the dog.

Poor Dizzy, he thought. Twelve years old already. How much longer will you even be with me?

Then what will you do? came the cynical side of his brain. Then what?

Before Hawkes could answer himself, a deafening roar thundered through his house.

7

DISRAELI BOUNDED UP FROM THE FLOOR, HIS BARK NERVOUS and frightened. Hawkes staggered back to his feet, feeling somewhat the same. He had not even made it across his room before another explosion tore loose somewhere outside. This one went off much closer, blowing out the glass door to his raised porch and taking out the closest window. Flying glass filled the air. Shards embedded themselves in the walls and the ceiling, bounced off furniture, and rained down on the ambassador and his dog.

Hawkes slapped the retriever in the rump, aiming him for the door as he shouted, "Run, Dizzy! Run for it!"

Hawkes pulled open his nightstand drawer and grabbed out the old Ingram M-10 that had been there since he had come back from the war. A sudden memory flashed through his head that the weapon had not been cleaned since before he left for Australia. He reached into the drawer and grabbed the ammunition clips that always sat there with it, rammed one home, and shoved the rest into his pockets, casting aside the worry that the scaled-down submachine gun might be too dirty to fire. He had other things to worry about.

Who's doing this? he wondered, making his way to the door. This is twice. Twice someone's gotten over the fences: around the radar and the sensors. Past the guards. When the government had first insisted that he accept such elaborate protections, he had scoffed. Now he wished he had demanded twice as many.

"Who the hell are you people?" he shouted, taking the stairs two at a time down to the first floor. "And what the hell do you want with me?!"

Gunfire rang from the outside. Screams followed. Another explosion sounded and suddenly the ranch's power failed. Instantly the main house went black. Hawkes slowed his descent unconsciously, unsure in the dark of the number of stairs. The same heavy weapons he had heard before barked again. A hard line of terrible thuds slammed into the wood-and-stone walls of Hawkes's home, punching jagged holes close by, and filling the room with splinters and pebbles.

Over the din, Hawkes could hear the voices of the ranch's workers: some were shouting, barking orders; others were confused, lost—dying.

They're killing