Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  Bastien nodded. "I had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation and had seen his picture in a trade magazine. I could not imagine what CargoAirs chief engineer was doing trespassing in my home ..." he hesitated mightily, "carrying a suitcase full of cash."

  "Cash?" said Sorensen.

  "A hundred thousand euros, perhaps more. I don't know. I have not even looked at it."

  Davis realized what this implied -- that the suitcase was still at Bastien's house. The investigator-in-charge was in some serious trouble. He said, "What did Jaber want?"

  "It was very strange. He wanted me to delay the investigation, go through all the procedural movements, but get nothing done for a time. He said CargoAir needed a few days to prepare for certain matters. If I could only delay things briefly, the money would be mine."

  Sorensen asked, "You're saying CargoAir needed time to get ready for this investigation?"

  "I assumed they had shortcomings, perhaps involving records or questionable data. Jaber said he would let me know when everything was in order. At that time, I would be free to proceed as I wished with the investigation. He made it sound so very--"Bastien paused again and crossed his arms tightly, "simple."

  "And you agreed," Davis said flatly.

  "No!" Bastien insisted. "I protested. But then the other man, the smaller one, he threatened me."

  "How?" Sorensen asked.

  "I ... I don't know!" an agitated Bastien said. "He was not specific. He only said that if I went to the authorities or failed to heed Jaber's instructions, they would be back." Bastien was crumbling fast. He was pale, his gaze unfocused.

  Davis looked at Sorensen. She gave her head a subtle shake. They both knew he was done.

  The Frenchman addressed Sorensen with pleading blue eyes. "Can you please help me, mademoiselle? I have now violated their directives. Surely you can give me some kind of protection."

  "Yes," she said, "I'll arrange something. Probably the local police. But I'll have to go through proper channels."

  If the thought of police involvement bothered Bastien, it didn't show. He actually looked relieved, like Atlas free of his burden. Davis didn't like the vagueness of it all. He kept wondering what Jaber was trying to accomplish. Whatever it was, the money and intimidation proved he was serious.

  Davis prompted Sorensen by spinning a finger--let's move. She nodded.

  They gave Bastien firm instructions to stay in his office and promised to have the security man downstairs stand at his door until something better was arranged. When they left, Thierry Bastien was catatonic in his chair, staring blankly at the walls.

  They rushed down the hallway, Sorensen slightly behind. Halfway to the front of the building, she grabbed Davis by the arm and whipped him around. "Don't you ever do that again, mister!"

  Davis stood dumbstruck. "Do what?"

  "Blow my cover. If you want to use my job title for theatrical reasons, you tell me first!"

  Davis said, "It worked, didn't it?" He turned away. "Come on, we don't have time for--"

  "Jammer!" she yelled.

  Davis stopped, stared at her impatiently. Then he gave it some thought. "Okay, you're right. I'm sorry."

  She met his gaze on equal, hard terms.

  "I swear, Anna . . . never again." It was the first time he had used her real name. It did the trick.

  "All right," Sorensen said, seeming satisfied.

  They started walking again.

  "Other than that," she said, "I thought you handled Bastien pretty well."

  "You sound surprised."

  "I guess I expected a little more volume, maybe some bad words."

  "Bad words? No way. That's Navy stuff. I never worked there."

  She asked, "How much of Bastien's story do you buy?"

  "Most of it. The part about CargoAir needing extra time is rubbish, though. If an airplane manufacturer makes a design mistake or has lousy recordkeeping, they don't fix it with suitcases full of cash."

  "I don't know, Jammer. Remember, CargoAir is flush with oil money from the Middle East, Russia. In those parts of the world that's how business is done." Then she said, "What about the two guys Jaber had with him? Do you think they were the same ones we met last night?"

  "Probably. So tell me, can you really get Bastien any kind of protection?"

  "I have no idea."

  Davis glanced at her and Sorensen shrugged defensively. "What was I supposed to say?" She was nearly running to keep up with his strides. "But why would CargoAir do something like this? What could be the point of bogging down the investigation?"

  "CargoAir has orders booked for hundreds of airplanes. If they suspect there's a glitch in the flight control software, they might want time to try and isolate the problem."

  "Or," she suggested, "maybe they already know exactly what the problem is. Maybe they want a chance to erase it, put a fix in the code before anyone finds out."

  "Good point. But for us, either case results in the same endgame."

  "Which is?"

  "Just what I suggested yesterday -- ground the entire fleet."

  "Oh, sure. And how do we do that?"

  "We get details, specifics. And I know just who has them."

  He led to the receptionist's desk at the front of the building. A new woman was parked there, a dour young creature with questioning brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses.

  "Dr. Jaber!" Davis barked as he closed in.

  "Pardon?" she said.

  "Dr. Jaber -- is he in the building?"

  "I believe he left, perhaps an hour ago."

  Davis turned to Sorensen. "He's not staying at the hotel, is he?"

  She shrugged. "I've never seen him there."

  Davis turned back to the receptionist. "Where does he stay?"

  "I cannot give out such information, sir. Even to a member of--"

  Davis moved. She had said she couldn't give information -- not that she didn't have it. He circled around to the business side of her desk and opened the biggest file drawer.

  "Sir! You cannot do this!"

  Davis did it anyway. He found the personnel files, everyone with investigation credentials arranged in nice alphabetical order. He flicked through the tabs and found jaber, opened it and began scanning for a local address.

  "Laurent!" the receptionist cried.

  The lone security guard got up from his chair and started over. "Monsieur!"

  Ignoring the guard, Davis found the address and memorized it. He saw a note that suggested Jaber was staying with his aunt. He put the file back, between T and U, and said, "Thanks," adding a smile for the receptionist.

  The guard closed in.

  He was roughly Sorensen's height. Roughly Sorensen's weight. Which meant that he tipped the scales at about Jammer Davis, divided by two. And chances were, unlike Sorensen, he wasn't an Olympic-class practitioner of any martial art. Still, he had the confidence a guy gets from an embroidered security company badge and striped epaulets on his shoulders. He also had a thick belt full of accessories. A flashlight, a radio, and a couple of pouches that probably held keys and flex cuffs and maybe some pepper spray. Most conspicuously, there was no sidearm.

  The guy came to within an arm's length of Davis and put a finger in his chest. "Sir, if you persist I will have your credentials!"

  Davis looked at the guy's finger. Then he leaned forward slowly on the balls of his feet. It wasn't good posture for a fight. Wasn't good in terms of center of gravity or room to maneuver. But if they had happened to be outside, particularly any time near the middle of a day, Davis' profile would have blocked out the sun.

  Total eclipse.

  He delivered his words in his most persuasive manner -- slow and low. "And if you persist, I will put your nuts in that drawer and slam it closed so hard you'll need a crowbar to get them out."

  The guard took a step back. Then another. He pulled his weapon of choice from his belt -- the radio. Laurent was calling for backup. Davis didn't feel like waiting. He t
urned to Sorensen and said, "Let's go."

  The receptionist actually snorted. The guard stood tall, but not as tall as Davis, who strode past with Sorensen in tow. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "You both need to go up and report to the investigator-in-charge. He needs you immediately!"

  Outside, Sorensen said, "You really know how to make an impression on people."

  Davis said nothing.

  "Jammer, are you sure this is wise? We can't just go to Jaber and accuse him of shaking down the investigation. We have to get the BEA involved now, the French authorities."

  "No time."

  "But Jammer --"

  "Car!"

  They found the Fiat and climbed in. She looked at him plaintively. "Why not--"

  "Go!"

  She put the key in the ignition. "You really have that nickname because you talk too much?"

  "Yes."

  Chapter THIRTY SIX

  Mosul, Iraq

  The raid took four hours to coordinate. It was carried out by the Iraqi Army, which had taken full responsibility for such matters. The home in question had already been subject to some scrutiny in recent months, and for a short time had even been quietly monitored. In the course of that surveillance, there had never been anything suspicious, any cause for a physical breach.

  Tonight there was.

  The woman who owned the house was a second cousin to Caliph, a spinster who spent her days selling dates and figs behind a pushcart at the market. They knew going in that she was a widow, a result of the Iran-Iraq war, and that she lived with her mother, a woman of nearly ninety.

  It was almost ten in the evening when a squad of Iraqi Army regulars arrived at the front door. They didn't bother to knock. A rifle butt did the trick for entry, and six men swept from room to room, clearing as they went -- not much of a feat since there were only four rooms to deal with. The two women were rousted from their beds. Once the place had been declared secure, the captain in charge ordered a more thorough search. Soldiers began to turn over beds and shove furniture aside.

  It was a junior man who spotted the giveaway glance from the younger of the two women huddled in the corner. He saw her eyes dart toward a large bin of dates at the back of the kitchen. The bin looked heavy, but the soldier saw tracks where dust on the floor nearby had been disturbed. He gave the bin a shove and, much to his surprise, found that it moved easily. He yelled for his commander.

  The captain came at a trot. "What is it?"

  The young soldier showed him the bin, showed him how freely it moved. "It must be on wheels," he said.

  The captain called the rest of the squad over. Everyone kept their weapons trained loosely on the foot of the bin. On the officer's order, the container was pulled clear, indeed sliding easily across the hardpan floor. And there it was. They had found their spider hole.

  The entrance was three feet square, and a wooden ladder dropped down into the earth. The soldiers peered cautiously below. On closer inspection, they saw that the space was more than just a simple nook for hiding. It was a basement of sorts. At the bottom, there was little distinguishable beyond a dirt floor, but bright electric light streamed up from the passageway. The men stood stockstill, the business ends of their weapons addressed without compromise on the narrow opening. The captain listened intently but, aside from the rapid breathing of his men and a muffled wail from one of the women, he heard nothing. There was, however, a distinct smell wafting up from the pit. The rank signature of human feces.

  The captain gave his orders, pointing to one of the men. "Guard those two wenches. If either moves, shoot them both ."Then another, "Husam, go outside and get Seven Squad."

  The second unit involved in the raid had formed a perimeter outside, but the commander wanted all his firepower now that a frontal assault seemed inevitable. He knew all too well what had happened the last time, when the Americans had tangled with Caliph. The soldier ran out of the room, and minutes later came back with six more men. To explain the situation, the captain simply pointed to the gaping, silent hole.

  "I need two volunteers," the captain said. He immediately regretted it -- no one spoke up. Taking a deep breath, he checked that his weapon was on full automatic and put a foot on the ladder. "Husam, come!" he whispered sharply.

  The captain's first inclination was to go down the ladder slowly, but the tactical repercussions of that seemed negative. His eyes were locked below, yet he could still see nothing beyond a dirt floor pockmarked with footprints. Four feet from the bottom, the captain cleared the area below and jumped. He landed awkwardly and promptly fell on his butt, an incident he would later recount as a tactical rolling maneuver. Rising quickly to one knee, he scanned the room, his weapon trained and ready. It was much larger than he'd expected, perhaps eight meters square. He saw no immediate threat, but there was a single passageway, and at the end of that a closed door. Another room? he wondered.

  He waved Husam down. When he arrived, the two men stood together and tried to comprehend their surroundings. They saw furniture and boxes of supplies. One corner was overrun with medical equipment -- a hospital gurney, a heart monitor, an IV pole, the whole lot covered with dust. Stranger still, in another corner was a collection of video equipment, including a large white screen that hung vertically from the ceiling--a photographer's backdrop. It was a peculiar collection, the captain thought, but better that than crates full of guns or rocket-propelled grenades.

  The remaining room to be cleared loomed large. The captain called down two more men, then he approached the passageway slowly with Husam at his side, their rifles trained on the door. Using a visual signal, the captain commanded that Husam would be first this time. He saw the young man swallow hard as they set themselves.

  The captain kicked and the door flew open. Husam rushed into the opening. The captain watched his man turn ninety degrees to the right and freeze.

  Husam shouted, "Don't move! Don't move! Don't move!"

  The captain expected a barrage of gunfire at any second. He could actually see Husam's finger shaking on the trigger of his weapon.

  But nothing happened.

  The captain burst into the room, twisted right with his own weapon poised. And then he saw it for himself. A man sitting on a bed, propped up by pillows. He was motionless, his eyes fixed to a television on the far side of the room that glowed with glittering static. The audio speaker on the television had been ripped out and a pair of wires dangled limply from the vacant compartment in the plastic frame. As for the man, there could be no doubt. It was Caliph.

  The two soldiers let the muzzles of their weapons drop.

  The captain said, "Blessed is Allah."

  Caliph did not respond. Caliph only sat still -- his eyes as dull and blank as a clouded night sky.

  Herman Coyle s task was not an easy one, but he had a godsend.

  Her name was Marta Ventrovsky. She was an Estonian transplant with an advanced degree in applied mathematics. Her obscure corner of expertise involved using computers to whittle massive amounts of data into smaller, more chewable bits. Not yet naturalized, she worked for the FBI on a contract basis. Yet when Coyle had explained to the director the specific talent he needed, there was no second choice. Marta Ventrovsky was made available.

  Ventrovsky used a finger to guide Coyle s eyes over her latest sort. Still on the kind side of forty, she was blonde, statuesque, and legitimately excited about the practical applications of her arcane work. "Here. You see? More heets."

  Hits, Coyle had learned, were a good thing. Hits backed up Coyle s revelation. It was the timing of the refinery attacks that had fueled his curiosity. Why two separate events? Why not just attack the whole world at once? Then he had found out about Colson Industries. Another strike, another day. Evenly spaced. And now Marta Ventrovsky was shaping it all into a nice tidy package.

  "Shorts, longs -- all depending on industry," she said, the consonants thick under her still heavy eastern European accent. "Drilling and raw production stoc
ks, down. Will be big decline in raw crude demand -- many months. Spot prices for spring delivery, already crashed. And see here? This hedge? Is already worth nearly one billion dollars."

  The laptop was smudged with prints from her index finger.

  The last hour had been constant "heets" for Marta. Her computer was simply relaying information from a bank of mainframes at FBI Headquarters a few blocks away. There were literally billions of financial transactions over the period they were searching. Indeed, the period itself was only a guess. Without the help of massive computing power it would have been absolutely impossible. Fortunately, the FBI had done this before.