Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,14

to the area of Solo, Java, from Bali, sometime in the mid-1800s. As a mercenary, he would likely have been employed by the local ruler.”

He handed her the blade, and she took it and touched it to her forehead, a gesture of respect her guru had taught her. She noticed him nod in approval at her gesture.

The sheath was an informal one, the comers rounded, the wood a light color with a couple of darker splotches, and the shaft was covered with a plain tube of reddish copper.

“This is your favorite? Out of all these? Why?”

He nodded, as if expecting the question. “Because it’s a working weapon. It was never worn in the sash of a maharaja, but belonged to a professional warrior. It probably saw duty on the field of battle, and as such, it is full of fighting spirit. Might just be my imagination, but I can feel its power every time I touch it.”

“Too bad it’s in the museum’s collection,” she said. He glanced away from her. “Actually, it’s on loan to them.” He grinned.

She shook her head and returned his smile. Of course.

It did have the feel of a fighting instrument in her hand. Krises were stabbing weapons, with a pistol-shaped grip, this one angled slightly inward, pointed where a thrust, if it hit a torso, would drive it into the body’s center, where it would likely find a major organ. The waves would gouge a wider cut as it went in, and allow more blood to flow when it came back out. They were ceremonial weapons and cultural artifacts these days, but you could skewer an enemy just as well with one now as you could two hundred years ago, human anatomy not having changed much in the past couple million years.

Her own weapon had been used at least once that way that she knew of—she had seen John Howard take down a gunman who would have killed him, had she not thrown him the kris in time.

Remembering John reminded her of her days at Net Force, though, and she did not want to travel that path right now.

“I have trained with knives, but not the kris proper,” she said.

“I know some of the methods,” he said. “I’ll show you, if you want.”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“Over here, look at these, a matched pair ...”

She went along to see. She was enjoying herself here, despite all that had happened. Yes, sooner or later, she was going to have to go home. But, like Scarlett O’Hara, she could worry about that another day ...

5

Saturday, June 4th

Seattle, Washington

Luther Ventura sat in the Koffee Me! store in the mall near the new entrance to Underground Seattle, holding a triple espresso. The textured cardboard sleeve around the paper cup allowed just enough heat to warm his hands slightly as he inhaled the fragrant vapor wafting up from the fluid. The brew smelled bitter, and it was as dark as a pedophile’s sins.

He inhaled the scent, connecting to it as a wine expert might enjoy the aroma of a great vintage.

When he was ready, Ventura sipped the espresso, let the hot liquid swirl around his mouth a bit, then swallowed it.

Ah.

When he drank or ate, that was what he did. He didn’t read the paper, he didn’t watch television, he didn’t split his attention—well, save for the basic Condition Orange he always maintained in public, but he had been doing that for so long it was almost a reflex. After twenty-five years of practice, you didn’t have to think about that consciously. You automatically sat with your back to the wall. You checked the entrances and exits of any building into which you went. You knew what kind of construction the building was, which walls you could smash through, which ones would likely stop a bullet. You were always aware of what was going on around you, tuned into the currents of who came and who left, alert for any small sign that danger might be casting a glare in your direction. You expanded your consciousness, relied on all your senses, including your hunches, tuned out nothing, but allowed yourself enough quiet that you could experience the total reality of the place where you were. Zanshin, the swordplayers called it. The Zen of being in the moment, no matter where you were and what you were doing, of being and not merely doing. To Ventura’s mind, this was all unthinking and basic, absolutely necessary to a man who wanted to stay