by Tom Clancy
There it is, Fisher thought. “What if I told you I might be able to help?”
“You? Hah! I’m a dreamer, not an idiot. Anyone who dresses like that and carries the weapons you carry is more like my father than me.”
“You should know better than to make broad assumptions, Doctor. Sometimes you have to do a little bad to do a lot of good. Hear me out.”
Lucchesi wagged his head from side to side, thinking, then said, “Why not?”
LEAVING out names and places and the specifics of 738 Arsenal, Fisher outlined his goal: help stop a massive arms deal from taking place and round up some of the world’s most dangerous terrorists. “It’s probably not quite what you had in mind,” Fisher said, “but as you’re fond of Americanisms, what you’ve got here is lemons.”
Lucchesi smiled. “So I should make lemonade.”
Fisher nodded.
“How do I know you’re not lying to me?”
Fisher made a snap decision. He holstered his SC, took off his Trident goggles, and removed his balaclava. He looked Lucchesi in the eye. “I’m not lying.”
Lucchesi held his gaze for a long ten seconds. “No, you’re not, are you?”
“The kind of people you’re worried about would’ve stopped talking a long time ago.”
“I will trust your word on that. So these weapons . . . They are bad?”
“Very. And the people who want them are worse.”
Lucchesi considered this for a few moments, then stood up, ran his hands through his disheveled hair, and said, “What do you need?”
“AJAX?” Lucchesi said after Fisher explained what he needed. “I abandoned that months ago.”
“We didn’t.”
“Too many bugs. We couldn’t get it to work with enough chipset brands.”
“Define ‘work.’ ”
“There were too many variables in the maintenance protocols. The bots would find their way to the correct location, then get stuck in a feedback loop. Even the simplest maintenance tasks crashed them.”
“What if they only had one task?”
“Wait a moment. . . . You said, ‘We didn’t.’ What does that mean?”
“We built our own version of Ajax. But we ran into a problem.”
Lucchesi smiled. “Ah, the fail-safe code. That’s what you came here for. They refuse any execute commands you give them?”
“Right.”
“What is this one task you want them to do?”
“Use whatever internal communication hardware and software they come across to send out a burst transmission.”
“Like GPS coordinates, perhaps?” Lucchesi was smiling more often now, warming to his new task. At Fisher’s nod, he rubbed his hands together. “Interesting . . . So you essentially want them to phone home. What kinds of hardware?”
“Laptops, desktops, cell phones, PDAs, GPS devices—anything that communicates electronically.”
“Which is everything nowadays, yes? Oh, this is wonderful!” Lucchesi shook his finger at Fisher. “You see, this is the problem with scientists. We tend to overthink problems. Often, instead of reducing, we add. . . . You have schematics for me? Code?”
“I can get it. But that doesn’t solve our problem—the line of code we need was confiscated along with everything else.”
“Hah! One line of code—what was it, six or seven thousand characters long?”
“Four.”
“Four!” Lucchesi waved his hand dismissively. “I can write that in a few hours. Come on, come on. Get me the data. I want to play!”
IT took several exchanges on the OPSAT before Grimsdóttir accepted the unusual course Fisher had chosen and acquiesced. When the schematics and code finally appeared in the OPSAT’s download folder, attached was a note from Grim:You’re mellowing in your old age.
While Fisher had been communicating with Grim, Lucchesi had trotted off to a nearby file cabinet, retrieved a fifteen-inch MacBook Pro, and returned to the platform’s central conference table.
Fisher asked, “I thought you said—”
“They found it. There’s not a file left on it, but we don’t need those, do we? What media does that gadget accept?” Lucchesi asked.
“You name it.”
Lucchesi fished into his pants pocket, pulled out a 16 GB microSD card, and tossed it to Fisher, who inserted it into the OPSAT’s multiport and began the download process. Fisher sat down at the conference table.
“So you took quite a risk, yes?” Lucchesi asked.
“How so?”
“I assume men in your business aren’t encouraged to ask for anything. Plus, you’ve shown yourself to me. I could identify you—I won’t, of course, but I could.”
Fisher found himself liking Lucchesi. The man was a pure scientist, a man without guise or ulterior motive. Fisher rarely met such people in his line of work. Outside his own environment Lucchesi was probably socially maladroit. In his element he was perceptive and amiable.
“I know you won’t,” Fisher replied, keeping any inflection from his voice.
“So these weapons and these men . . . What happens once you’ve tracked them?”
“Bad things.”
“Ah, the good kind of bad things.”
“Right.”
The OPSAT beeped. Fisher removed the microSD card and handed it to Lucchesi, who plugged it into an adaptor, and then into the MacBook’s USB port.
For ten minutes Lucchesi stared at the screen, scrolling, pausing, typing random notes, until finally he looked up. “Very elegant. Your people did this?”
“More or less.”
“I’m impressed. And they got the bots to work—all but the execute command?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need one more thing. That person you were talking to on the other end of your device . . . They have access to databases? The Internet?”
Fisher smiled. “You have no idea.”
ON its face, Lucchesi’s request was daunting: He needed the specifications of every piece of hardware that matched their parameters and had been manufactured in the last decade. When Fisher put the question to Grimsdóttir, she simply typed back:What format?
Fisher put the question to Lucchesi.
“XML spreadsheet should do nicely.”
An hour later the OPSAT chimed again. Fisher read the screen, then looked up at Lucchesi. “Done.”
“You’re joking with me.”
“No. Give me the card.”
Grimsdóttir’s data took up two gigabytes of space on the microSD card. Lucchesi spent a few minutes scanning the spreadsheet, then shook his head in wonder. “Amazing. You have a powerful friend there. Okay, I’ll get started. There’s a break room off the second-tier catwalk. Would you mind terribly much making coffee?”
“Twist my arm,” Fisher said, then got up.
LUCCHESI was as good as his word. Three hours after he started, he gave the keyboard a final, definitive tap, then pushed away from the conference table with a heavy sigh. “Done. Can your people run the simulation?”
While Lucchesi went to the bathroom, Fisher plugged the microSD card into the OPSAT and uploaded the code to Grimsdóttir. She replied:Team already called in; standby. Ninety minutes to run sim.
Fisher and Lucchesi passed the time talking. It was, Fisher decided, one of the most surreal missions he’d conducted: He infiltrates a high-tech nanotechnology laboratory, finds it abandoned except for the chief scientist, who is sitting alone in the dark, dejected after being financially cut off by Daddy, and now they are sitting together, like old friends, over coffee.
The OPSAT chimed again. Fisher read the screen, smiled, then turned it so Lucchesi could see the message:Sims complete. Green across the boards.
Lucchesi clapped his hands once, stood up, did a victory lap around the conference table, then shook Fisher’s hand and sat down again. He leaned across the table, his eyes wide. “So what now?”
“I go do my job and you . . . You’re broke?”
; “Broke?” Lucchesi chuckled. “No, no. I sold a few patents here and there—Apple, HP, Kodak . . . Miniaturization processes. Very rudimentary, but profitable.”
“Enough to restart—”
“No, not enough for that. But enough that I can take some time and gather my thoughts. Can you at least let me know whether Ajax worked as designed?”
“That I can do.”
“I have a villa in Tuscany. I can give you the address.” Lucchesi stopped and smiled. “I don’t suppose you people need addresses, do you?”
Fisher smiled back. “We’ll find you.”
27
ATHENS, GREECE
“YOU took a hell of a chance,” Grimsdóttir said on the LCD screen.
“I disagree,” Fisher replied. “In essence, it was agent recruitment. Lucchesi had vulnerability and I recognized it. And he struck me as a decent guy in a bad situation. Grim, that’s what case officers do.”
“But he saw your face. He knows—”
“You’re going to have to trust me on this. It isn’t a problem.”
Soon after leaving the laboratory—through the front door, with a departing wave from Lucchesi—Fisher had walked the half mile cross-country to the farmhouse, gotten in his car, and driven back to his hotel in Olbia. En route, a message from Grimsdóttir appeared on the OPSAT:Athens. 754 Afroditis, apartment 14.
Fisher boarded the first available flight the next morning and arrived at the safe house in the early afternoon.
Grimsdóttir shrugged. “I trust you. With age comes wisdom, I suppose.”
Fisher smiled. “Go to hell. What’s the latest with Aariz Qaderi?”
“Still in Grozny, but he’s moving somewhere. His entourage is there, extra bodyguards. . . . It fits his pattern.”
“As soon as you can get me the updated bots—”
“They’re already headed your way.”
“How?”
Grimsdóttir chuckled. “FedEx, if you can believe it.”
The shipment method did in fact seem incommensurate with the nature of the package, but aside from sending a Third Echelon courier with the proverbial handcuff-equipped briefcase, Grimsdóttir’s choice made the most sense.
“Be there tomorrow morning,” Grimsdóttir added.
“Where are you with Kovac?”
“He’s pushing. The German rescue workers found your car in the Rhine, but, of course, no body. Evidently most floaters in that area of the river eventually surface in the same general area. The fact that your corpse hasn’t yet has got them scratching their heads.”
“How much time can you buy me?”
“Two, maybe three days.”
Fisher considered this. “I’ll find a way to get Hansen and his team back in the field. If I do it right, it’ll keep Kovac off your back and solve another problem for us.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll let you know when it works. If it works.”
CUTTING the timing very close, Grimsdóttir’s package arrived an hour before Fisher was to depart for the airport. He had just enough time to inspect the contents. Grimsdóttir’s techs had installed the bots into six reengineered gas-grenade cartridges—two equipped with aerogel parachutes and a CO2 dispersal system, and two with the standard impact actuators—and eight SC pistol darts. In stacked pairs, the larger bots fit neatly into three miniature, partially functional cans of shaving cream, the darts into a large-barrel ballpoint pen. Satisfied, he stuffed one can of the shaving cream into his carry-on bag and two into his checked bag. The pen went into his jacket pocket. He ran down to the waiting cab.
Thirty minutes later, as the driver pulled up to the departure level’s curb, Fisher’s iPhone chimed. He checked the screen. A text message from Grimsdóttir:Grozny airport mortared this a.m. Closed to all traffic.
Our friend headed Tbilisi via ground transport.
ETA three hours. Attempting to locate destination. Will advise.
“Damn,” Fisher muttered.
“Eh?” asked the driver.
Fisher glanced at the meter, gave the driver the fare plus a tip, then told him, “Circle around.”
As they pulled out, Fisher used the iPhone’s browser to check the Lufthansa website. He punched his search—flights from Athens to Tbilisi—and got more bad news: The shortest flight was nearly eight hours and didn’t depart for five hours. Aariz Qaderi would likely be long gone before Fisher even reached Tbilisi.
After three more circuits of the airport, and three more tips, Fisher got another text message from Grim:Friend had to book Tbilisi departure with known account.
Leaving Tbilisi at 1325 hours on Turkish Airlines flight 1381 for Bucharest, Romania. Arriving Henri Coandă International Airport 1815 local.
Stand by.
Two minutes later:
Olympic Airlines flight 386 leaving Athens 1610, arriving Bucharest 1720.
With luck, he’d touch down fifty-five minutes before Qaderi. He texted back:At airport. Heading Bucharest. Keep advised.
“Attagirl, Grim,” Fisher murmured.
“Eh?” said the driver. “Again?”
“No, pull over.”
INSIDE the terminal he walked straight to the Olympic desk and booked the second-to-last seat on flight 386, then checked his bag, went through security, and found his gate. He sat down in a quiet corner, set his alarm for 3:20, then pulled his cap over his eyes and went to sleep.
AT three his iPhone trilled; the screen read UNKNOWN. He answered. Grimsdóttir said, “It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“Don’t laugh, but I’m at a pay phone.”
Fisher didn’t laugh, but the image was amusing: Anna Grimsdóttir of the NSA and Third Echelon reduced to using a pay phone to make a secure call.
“Did you dry-clean yourself?” Fisher asked, only half seriously.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the bots.”
“The six grenades will have the same range as a regular gas grenade and same hang time as an ASE. They’ll either disperse on impact or thirty seconds after the aerogel chute deploys. The darts are disperse-on-impact, too. They all rely on kinetic energy, so you have to hit a hard surface.”
“Range?”
“Variable. Remember, the Ajax bots gravitate to strong EM sources, so you’re aiming for hardware, not people. For the grenades, dispersal range is twelve to fifteen feet; for the darts, about half that. They need to be airborne for full effectiveness. Depending on the surface, when the bots hit the ground, friction will negate their EM homing: rough surfaces completely; smooth surfaces . . . it’s hard to say.”
“I’m going to need equipment. What do we have in Romania?”
“A cache in Piteşti and one in Sibiu.”
“Both too far for me to go there and get back before Qaderi lands.”
“In that at least we caught a break,” Grimsdóttir replied. “I happen to have Vesa Hytönen in Budapest doing an errand for me. He should be boarding a flight to Craiova in about ten minutes. If he hauls ass, he can get to the cache and reach Bucharest about the same time you’re touching down. I’m texting you his toss-away-cell number.”
“Been thinking about Qaderi. This can’t be his destination.”
“I agree. If he’s on his way to the auction, Bucharest is going to be a waypoint. Whoever’s running the get together would make sure the guests are clean coming in.”
“And if he never leaves the airport?” The chances of Fisher getting even the SC pistol through security were nil. He might have more luck with a dart, but without the kinetic energy supplied by the SC, would the bots disperse?
“That’s the other piece of good news. When he had to reroute from Grozny to Tbilisi, Qaderi used a different credit card to book the ticket—an account number we hacked about four months ago. He’s booked a rental car at the Bucharest airport—Europcar. We can’t count on our luck beyond that, though. He’ll change cards.”
“Then I’d better not lose him,” Fisher replied.
FISHER’S plane was ten minutes late taking off, but it caught a tailwind and made up five minutes in the air. He landed at 5:25. As soon as he was clear of the jetway he dialed Vesa Hytönen’s phone. It rang eight times but no one answered. Fisher waited five minutes, then tried again. This time Vesa picked up on the third ring.
“Is that you?” he asked Fisher.
“It’s me.” It occurred to Fisher that, in all their meetings, Vesa had never once used Fisher’s name, neither his first nor his alias surname. Another of Vesa’s idiosyncrasies. “Where are you?” Fisher asked.
“On the E70 heading south. I’ll arrive at the airport in roughly fifty minutes.”
“Hold on.” Fisher found an arrivals/departures board. Turkish Airlines flight 1381 was on time. Fisher checked his watch. Vesa would arrive ten minutes after Qaderi touched down. Fisher did the mental math: three to five minutes to deplane; five minutes to reach the Europcar desk. . . . It was unlikely Qaderi had checked baggage. Fisher asked Vesa, “Do you know where the Europcar exit is?”
“No, but I’m confident I can find it.”
“Do that. Call me when you’re here.”
FISHER spent the next forty minutes familiarizing himself with the airport, making sure he knew, backward and forward, the routes Qaderi could take from the gate to the Europcar desk. He was stopped twice by airport security, which checked his passport and boarding pass. He explained that his friend was late picking him up. At 6:20 Fisher found an arrivals board and checked flight 1381; its status read “at gate.” He strolled over to the ground-transportation area and waited.