"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 Grimsdottir, 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."
Grimsdottir'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 Grimsdottir. 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," Grimsdottir 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 Grimsdottir 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.
Grimsdottir 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?"
Grimsdottir 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, Grimsdottir's choice made the most sense.
"Be there tomorrow morning," Grimsdottir 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, Grimsdottir's package arrived an hour before Fisher was to depart for the airport. He had just enough time to inspect the contents. Grimsdottir's techs had installed the bots into six reengineered gas-grenade cartridges--two equipped with aerogel parachutes and a CO 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 Grimsdottir:
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 Coanda 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. Grimsdottir 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 Grimsdottir 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 Pitesti 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," Grimsdottir replied. "I happen to have Vesa Hytonen 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 Hytonen'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.
Ten minutes later Qaderi appeared, coming down an escalator with a bodyguard in the lead and one in tow. All three were dressed in conservative blue suits: executives traveling on business. The bodyguards were good, scanning ahead, to the sides, and behind with an economy of motion that told Fisher they were muscle with brains. This was good in one respect alone: They would react in predictably professional ways.
As the group moved toward the Europcar desk, Fisher's phone trilled and he answered. "Go ahead, Vesa."
"I'm here. The attendants are urging me to move on, however."
Fisher checked his watch. "Drive once around, then park and lift your hood. "Tell them you're having car trouble."
"Okay."
Fisher disconnected.
Qaderi himself took care of the paperwork at the rental desk. Fisher waited until the clerk handed Qaderi the ubiquitous trifold envelope, then turned and headed for the exit marked with the Europcar logo. He crossed to the lot, nodded at the attendant, and walked down the rows of cars to the exit. Ahead he could see Vesa standing beside a powder blue compact Opel, talking to another attendant.
"Vesa!" Fisher called. "There you are! Is she giving you trouble again?"
Vesa turned, and he stared at Fisher for moment before answering. "She? Oh, yes, the car. Something's wrong with the . . . the, uh . . ."
"The starter? Again?"
"Yes."
As he reached the car, he gave the lot attendant a friendly clap on the shoulder. "We'll be out of here in two minutes." He had no idea if the attendant spoke English, but as he opened his mouth to protest, Fisher smiled broadly and made a shooing motion. "Don't worry about us. We'll take care of it. Thanks."
He turned his back on the man, said, "Get in," to Vesa, then ducked under the hood. The attendant loitered a moment, then shrugged and walked away. Fisher leaned out and looked past him, back down the row of cars, where Qaderi and his companions were being led to a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. Eyes fixed on Qaderi, Fisher kept tinkering with the engine, wiggling hoses and tapping on parts, until he saw the Mercedes' reverse lights come on.
"Try it now," Fisher called.
Vesa turned the ignition, and the engine puttered to life. Fisher slammed the hood, gave the attendant--who had turned back around--a wave, then climbed in the passenger seat and told Vesa, "Go."
28
"NOT too fast," Fisher ordered, then adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Qaderi's car. "Let them pass you."
"Okay," Vesa said nervously.
"You're doing fine," Fisher said.
"Your case is in the back."
Fisher glanced over his shoulder and saw the familiar Pelican case lying across the seat. He said, "First chance we get, I'll let you out and you can hail a cab."
"I can help. I can drive. I am a good driver."
Fisher shrugged. "If that's what you want." Fisher clicked on the dome light, leaned back between the bucket seats, and punched the correct code into the case's pad. He was rewarded with six green lights, a beep, and three mechanical clicks. He reached in and groped around until his hand found the butt of the SC pistol. He pulled it out and closed the case, then loaded the Ajax darts.
Qaderi's Mercedes passed them and got on the E70 and headed north toward Pitesti, where it joined the E81 and continued north into the foothills of the southern Carpathian Mountains. As night fell, and the Mercedes passed Ramnicu Valcea, the highway joined with the Olt River as it wound its way deeper into the mountains, through the villages of Calimanesti, Brezoi, Balota. . . .
"I think he's heading to Sibiu," Vesa said.
"Why do you say that?"
"It's the nex
t biggest city. The man we're following doesn't strike me as someone who enjoys drives in the country. He's a man of purpose."
"You have a good eye."
"It's just logic."
"How far is it from Bucharest to Sibiu?"
"Two hundred thirty kilometers."
About 170 miles, Fisher thought. The Mercedes' range was far greater than that, so there was little hope for a refueling stop.
At Cainarii Mari, the Mercedes' taillights flashed once, twice; then Fisher saw the car's headlights swerving right, taking a fast turn over a bridge.
"Don't slow down," Fisher said. "Keep going."
"They're going to lose--"
"They're checking for tails. Trust me."
As the Opel pulled even with the bridge, Fisher darted his eyes sideways and caught a glimpse of the Mercedes, its lights now off, doing a U-turn on the bridge.
"Were they there?"
"Yes."
"Do you think they spotted us?"
"I don't know. We'll know shortly."
Three minutes passed; then the Mercedes' headlights reappeared in the rearview mirror. Fisher watched closely, trying to gauge its speed; it was gaining ground but not at an alarming rate. Over the next fives minutes the Mercedes continued closing the gap until it was a foot from the Opel's bumper.
"What's he doing?" Vesa said, hands tightening on the wheel.
"Relax. When they pass, make sure you glance at them."
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