Quantico by Greg Bear Read Free Book Online Page A

answer in the negative. Something would have to be done and he would likely be at the tip of the spear going in. ‘Not until we know all there is to know,’ he said.
    ‘There could be an opportune moment,’ Levine said. ‘That is, if what the guys in town have found out is true—about them being Tombers.’
    ‘Do tell,’ Griff said.
    ‘It is likely the women and children will all go to Easter services at the church, and that could be a good time to find Chambers home alone, or at most with his eldest son inattendance. He insists on piety but I’ve never heard of his entering a church, not since he was a kid. He needs to be top dog wherever he stands, and that includes before God.’
    ‘No way we’re going in at Easter,’ Griff said. ‘Besides, people in town are alerted. We can’t afford to wait.’
    Levine smiled. ‘You’re in luck. Tombers are Julians. They believe Easter comes before the date commonly observed by you goyim . They’re eleven days off. The Gregorian calendar is the work of the devil, you know.’
    ‘Scout’s honor?’ Griff asked. He was looking through the scope now. A Coleman lantern had been slung on a beam inside the porch overhang and the two women were setting up folding chairs.
    ‘For them, Good Friday is tomorrow.’
    Then, down in the valley, the old man finally came out and stood watching the twilight. His face was clear in the bright white glow of the lantern: an aquiline, craggy profile. The old man appeared thoughtful. For a moment, Griff thought he might be watching them.
    Rebecca folded her arms. ‘Just the kind of fellow to need a microbial incubator.’
    Griff set the digital cameras humming and backed away. ‘Is that him?’ he asked Levine.
    Levine peered. ‘I hope I look that good when I’m his age.’
    ‘Whenever you’re sure, Jacob.’
    Levine spent a few more seconds on the binoculars. ‘It’s him,’ he said.

CHAPTER SIX
Quantico
    William Griffin jogged across the lawn to join the group of nine students standing in front of the Biograph theater, on the edge of Hogantown and just across Hoover Road from the towering dorms and walkways and the squat tan bulk of the Academy.
    ‘All right, listen up,’ Pete Farrow called out. The recruits—two women and seven men: two blacks, one Asian, one Middle-Eastern, five shades of white—stopped talking and assumed parade rest. Compared to the instructor they were a motley bunch, spread over the range of physical specimens: plump and skinny, tall and short, dark-haired and light.
    Farrow walked along the loose line. ‘All right, agents, this is it. Today, you will be using equipment worth about two hundred thousand dollars. Try not to break it. Only about twenty percent of our field offices have all this stuff. It is rare. It is valuable. But it is the future—and you will get used to it.
    ‘If you are a sadist, you are shit out of luck. Some of this new stuff threatens to turn you bloody-minded SOBs into kinder, gentler peace officers.’ Farrow winked in the general direction of William Griffin. ‘Out on the street, if you do this right, nobody has to die. Though I do expect a few sprained ankles and wrenched necks, and we have been known to break arms and even legs. Understood?’
    The class nodded in unison.
    Three men in gray suits passed behind the students andentered the Bank of Hogantown. They were carrying bagged sandwiches from the Pastime Deli. One turned and said, ‘Farrow’s litter. What do you think? Blood in the gutters?’ The others flashed evil smiles and pushed through the swinging glass doors.
    William watched Jane Rowland scratch her ribs under her suit coat and the white FBI Academy golf-style shirt. His underwear itched, too. Something about the diagnostic sensors embedded in the bulletproof weave or the fluid piping that smoothly wrapped around the torso.
    Medium-sized piles of equipment lay at their feet. They would soon put on masks and special network jackets. More weight, more