“His wife told me he was supposed to be taking his son to a model aircraft exhibition this week in the UK, but he failed to confirm. It’s one of the reasons she started throwing a hissy fit when I mentioned his name.” She flicked the brochure. “Anyway, it couldn’t have been this one—this is here in the US in three months.”
Vaslik took the brochure and thumbed through it. As he read, his face became more serious. “These are pretty hard-core. It mentions military and aerospace, along with academics and technical contractors. This isn’t for beach flyers on a weekend away.”
Ruth was already unfolding the map. She laid it out on the table. It looked fairly new but showed signs of having been unfolded and refolded several times. The inch-wide margins around the edges contained some scribbled jottings, while the map itself had been marked with circles and question marks, but these seemed almost random with no specific connection, and were spread across the central states. She folded the map again. It would be interesting to take a closer look later.
“What are the chances,” she said quietly, “of getting these things out of the building without the heavy mob and Miss Frosty Pants at the front desk throwing the furniture at us?”
Vaslik produced his wallet and DHS ID. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you sure about using that? What if they check?”
He smiled. “Did I forget to tell you? I’m on the reserve list for Homeland Security. Once in, never forgotten.” He put the brochure in his inside pocket and waited for Ruth to tuck the map inside her jacket, then turned towards the door. “Come on—let’s go.”
They stepped outside and found Ms. Conway waiting as promised. She pulled the door closed and checked it was locked, then turned to lead them back along the corridor.
“Stop right there!”
Three men were striding towards them, blocking the narrow space. The man in the lead wore an expensive suit and an air of outrage. He was accompanied by two armed security guards.
nine
Tommy-Lee lifted his head off the pillow. He’d picked up the faint sound of a vehicle approaching. It was no more than a distant hum, but out here in these flat lands any man-made noise could travel for miles without hindrance. And this one was getting closer. Since noon he’d heard only three other vehicles, all beaten-up trucks or pickups that had gone by without stopping.
He dropped the battered copy of Universal Hunter magazine he’d found in the van on the way here and checked his watch. It had stopped. Must be the dirt-cheap battery he’d bought from a street vendor a week ago. Thieving bastard. He wondered if it was Paul and his goons on the way in. He had no idea where they disappeared to every time, but it couldn’t be far. They always seemed fed and watered, so he figured they must have a base not far away, probably in some cheap motel off the nearest highway.
He rolled off the bed. Went to the strip window where he could see a section of the road bordered by a line of buffalo grass about a quarter of a mile away, travelling arrow-straight from east to west. If a vehicle was going to pass by, he’d see it soon enough.
He heard a grunt from the man on the bed and went over and gave him a trickle of water. It set off another bout of coughing, so he stopped pouring and slapped the man’s shoulder a few times until it was over. It wasn’t that he cared for the man’s health one bit; he simply didn’t want a corpse on his hands.
Earlier on he’d unlocked the cuffs and told the man to take off his soiled clothes and clean himself off. The smell had gotten pretty ripe and it was already bad enough in the enclosed and overheated space without making it worse. He’d dropped the bag containing the change of cheap work pants, shirt, and underclothes on the bed, then turned his back while the man got busy with a water bottle and a cloth in the corner.
He had an uneasy feeling about the three men; he didn’t like the way they seemed to communicate with each other through shifty looks and slick movements of their hands. Even when they went into a huddle and he couldn’t hear a word they said, it was better than all the silent stuff.
He especially didn’t like the butt of a semi-automatic he’d seen tucked into the waistband of the one called Paul—or whatever the hell his real name might be. Truth was, he was beginning to realise that he’d been suckered into this situation by the promise of easy money and his own desperation. He’d taken the guy at face value but hadn’t given a thought to what the hell was going on or why he was being paid so much to do so little.
As for the other two, they never so much as looked him in the eye, much less talked to him. It was like he didn’t exist and it was starting to get to him. Fricking ragheads—even Paul, who, now he thought about it, actually looked just like so many guys he’d seen in Iraq. They weren’t all dark-skinned; in fact, some of the men and kids were almost white and he’d seen some with blue eyes, which was really freakish. Even the women, who he’d admired at a distance whenever he could. Cute, some of them, with flashing eyes that carried a world of promise … if you wanted to be gutted like a fish and dumped in some back alley along with the trash.
Still, he was here now, so best get on with it. Maybe he could get out of here in one piece and be on his way, richer and happier than he’d ever been.
“You better get your shit together, you know?” he muttered when the coughing had ceased and the prisoner indicated he wanted more water.
“What … what do you want with me?” The words were hoarse, squeezed out through a throat as dry as the sun-baked earth outside this hut. Tommy-Lee could tell the man was educated even without the expensive clothes and the soft hands, but he wasn’t curious enough to want to know more. Curiosity, his old man had often said, was a shortcut to trouble and pain.
“Ain’t me that wants you, pal. It’s the three camel jockeys who brought you here. I’m just playing warden, is all.”
“Why?” The man’s eyes were filled with fear and lined with the salty crust of dried tears. His cheeks were sunken and he needed a bath and a shave, which Tommy-Lee figured were both about three days overdue.
“Why what?” The noise of the motor was closer now, bumping along the connecting track leading from the road, and he got ready to stand up and meet the three men. Might as well seem willing even if he didn’t like what they stood for.
Fact is, he didn’t know what they stood for, only that it couldn’t be for this guy’s health and well-being. Maybe he’d pissed one of them off at some stage and this was payback time. Wouldn’t be the first time a guy had upset the wrong person. But since they were paying him good money to follow instructions and mind his own, he figured he could put up with it.
“Why are you helping them? Ragheads, you called them. That means Arabs.”
“Yeah. But don’t let them hear you say that. I don’t think they’re the kind of folks with a sense of humour.”
“So why?”
“Money. Why else? Man’s got to make a living, right? You do it your way, I do it mine. I bet you don’t like all the people you work with. Same here, only my options are more limited.”
“Do you even know what they want from me?”
“No. And I don’t want to. Ain’t none of my business, neither.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you saying you don’t know?” He wondered if this guy was trying to play him. He’d figured that most people kidnapped and kept cuffed to a bed in the middle of nowhere would have trawled back through their life and worked out from what they’d done, who they owed money or who they’d hurt, stuff like that, and knew what the deal was. Maybe he was dressed nice but really just as dumb as nuts.
“No.”
He was lying. Tommy had an eye and an ear for lies, learned while interrogating insurgents in Iraq. You couldn’t hide a lie completely, no matter who you were, what language you spoke. Once a lie was out there it was just waiting to be seen by anyone with the right skills.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. Listen, you�
��ve got to help me.” The man tried to sit up and winced when he was brought up short by the handcuffs. He sank back, his eyes on Tommy-Lee. “My name’s James, by the way—”
“I don’t give a shit what your name is, so stop right there!” He didn’t want to know names, didn’t care what the hell the guy was called. One thing he’d learned in Iraq was that knowing a prisoner’s name was the first step to being drawn in and suckered. Some of those detainees could sweet-talk information out of you without you knowing, all under the guise of being friendly. As far as he was concerned, a prisoner was a number and nothing else. Names just got in the way.
But the man on the bed wasn’t hearing him. “You’re doing this for money—I understand that. But I could pay you more. Double … triple what they’re offering. I have a wife and boy. Do this for me, for God’s sa—”
Tommy-Lee slapped his hand over the prisoner’s mouth. “Enough, you idiot!” he hissed. “Shut the fuck up or we’ll both end up dead.”
The vehicle had stopped outside, right behind the workshop where it would be invisible from the road. Two doors opened and slammed shut again, angry and tinny. That would be Bill and Donny. A brief pause, then the engine was cut. He waited. The third door opened and closed with an almost gentle thump. Like someone who respected his ride.
Paul.
He was the thinker, Tommy-Lee knew; the quiet ones usually were. He always moved carefully, too, like he was in control. Not like the other two, who seemed generally pissed at the world and stomped around like they wanted to break something or somebody. They’d be standing there now waiting for Paul’s signal to move, while he studied the area around the old airfield. He did it every time they came here; Tommy-Lee had caught a glimpse through the window one time and was accustomed to the sounds of their movements even if he couldn’t see them. The two goons just waited like they knew their place. It was like a ritual, as if their boss was sniffing the air, sensing trouble, and getting ready to react.
When he was through doing that they’d go into a huddle before Paul would stick his head inside the box to make sure everything was okay. Then the other two would disappear off towards the large hangar. Tommy-Lee had seen them the last time they were here, and the geek, Donny, was carrying a toolbox.
He had no idea why they did that every time; it was only an old hangar, for God’s sake. Maybe it had something to do with the sealed cardboard boxes he’d seen in the van coming down here that first night. He hadn’t seen them since and he knew they hadn’t contained food or water.
“Please help me.” The prisoner rolled closer with a pained grunt, breathing sour air into Tommy-Lee’s face.
“Not a chance,” Tommy-Lee said firmly, with no hint of regret. This was his one opportunity to make some money, and he wasn’t going to screw it up. Not for this guy, not for anybody. He didn’t trust Paul or his two pals any farther than he could spit, but he figured if he played it right, he might just come out of this the right way up and be on his way.
Still, he did wonder what was so interesting about that hangar. And the boxes he guessed they’d taken over there.
ten
“What’s the meaning of this?” The man in the suit might once have been handsome, with sleek, swept-back hair and the tanned skin of a politician. Heavily built, with an impressive chest and gut pushing at the buttons of his suit, he radiated the powerful aura of a man with total confidence in his authority and status. “Ms. Conway, what are these people doing here?” He didn’t wait for her answer but signalled to the two guards and said, “Search them.”
One of the guards stepped towards Vaslik and signalled him to lift his hands away from his side. The other man approached Ruth and did the same.
But Vaslik had other ideas. He took his Homeland ID out of his pocket and flashed it at the guard. “I don’t think so,” he said softly.
The guard checked the ID and stopped, then looked at the man in the suit. “He’s Homeland Security, Mr. MacInnes. What do we do?”
MacInnes held out his hand. “Let me see that.”
Vaslik allowed him to take it and waited while MacInnes scanned the document before thrusting it back at him.
“This is outrageous,” he snapped. “We’re an approved contractor to the US government with at least five ongoing contracts and several more bids at tender stage. We shouldn’t have to put up with this level of discourtesy. Why are you here?”
“I made an appointment, which you failed to keep,” Vaslik said easily, showing his lack of concern at the CEO’s blustering attitude. “We’re looking into the disappearance of James Chadwick, one of your employees.” He nodded at Ruth. “This is Ms. Gonzales from the UK; she’s an investigator here on behalf of Mr. Chadwick’s family.”
MacInnes turned his glare on Ruth. “Investigator? You mean police?”
“I’m with a company called Cruxys,” said Ruth. “Part of the Greenville Corporation.”
“Greenville? I’ve heard of them. Aren’t they private military contractors? What the hell does Chadwick’s disappearance have to do with a bunch of mercenaries?”
Ruth didn’t bother arguing the difference between Greenville and Cruxys; she didn’t think MacInnes would listen. “There’s no connection. Cruxys is an insurance company and I’m tasked with trying to find Chadwick and get him home to his family. That’s all.”
MacInnes studied her for a couple of seconds, then huffed, “I don’t care who you are, you have no right being here. And Chadwick is a consultant, not an employee. As such he is free to come and go as he sees fit.” He looked at Conway. “Did we not make that clear?”
“Don’t blame her,” said Vaslik. “She explained the position but I wanted to check any personal effects Mr. Chadwick might have left behind.” He pointed a thumb at the storage room. “There are a few items, of no help whatsoever. But we could have found that out if you’d seen us earlier.”
MacInnes grunted and signalled for the two guards to back away. “I was busy, as I’m sure you were told.” He hesitated then moderated his tone, as if unsure of his ground. “All we know is that Chadwick hasn’t reported in for a few days. It’s not entirely unusual for consultants to change their timetables due to the pressures of work; we don’t ask for daily routines because that’s not the way we structure our business methods.”
“And what is your business, exactly?” Vaslik asked.
“Classified, mostly. We undertake a lot of work for various branches of the government, but also for commercial and industrial clients. We have nearly two dozen consultants in specialised fields, and over a hundred employees here and in satellite offices.”
“And what is Mr. Chadwick’s specialised field?” When MacInnes hesitated, Vaslik added pointedly, “I can always run his details through the contractors’ system. It would help us if you saved me the time.”
MacInnes said, “He’s what we call a general corporate advisor and financial consultant.” He waved a vague hand, as if signalling the details were of little importance and that Chadwick was fairly low down the tree.
“But he’s successful at what he does, would you say?”
“Yes. Highly.” The confirmation came reluctantly, as if MacInnes sensed a trap he couldn’t see coming. “He operates in a specialised but highly lucrative market and is one of our highest grossing earners, if you must know. For that reason we allow him perhaps greater latitude in his movements than others.”
“Did he do much government work?”
“I can’t comment on that. You’ll have to get a court order for that level of information.”
Vaslik grunted. “Come on, man, I’m not asking for details; he either did or he didn’t. Yes or no?”
A brief hesitation, then, “He didn’t, no. I preferred him to stick to the corporate sector of our operations. We have many highly-qualified specialists on the government side of our business; James is better suited for corpo
rate work.”
“So he was a valuable member of the company,” said Ruth. When MacInnes didn’t respond, she said, “Yet you don’t sound very concerned about his absence. Are you saying this kind of disappearance is customary behaviour for James Chadwick?”
MacInnes blinked at being challenged. “I’m not saying that at all. We value all our employees, direct or otherwise. James Chadwick is extremely conscientious and diligent, perhaps more than most. It’s what accounts for his success. But I don’t pretend to keep track of all our consultants. I was only alerted to his absence forty-eight hours ago.” He glanced at Conway for corroboration, and she nodded after a momentary hesitation.
“The facts are,” MacInnes continued heavily, “a man has failed to report in, for reasons that are unclear. We don’t treat our people like children, and if anyone doesn’t want to be contacted for some reason, that’s up to them. They may have to face certain consequences, as they would in any commercial enterprise.” His eyes challenged them both to deny the possibility. “James has been working on a number of high-profile assignments just recently, so I think his absence, while regrettable, is understandable.”
“Doesn’t that worry you?” Ruth asked. “If he’s been under some stress, he might be unwell.”
MacInnes shrugged it off. “Of course it concerns me. But he’s a resilient man … a grown man, I’d add. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Ruth blinked at the man’s evasive attitude. She tried another tack. “Does he have an internal itinerary—something you use for payroll purposes?”
MacInnes shook his head as if by instinct. His eyes were suddenly cool and blank, and they knew he was going to refuse.
“We do, but you really will need signed authorisation to get it. It’s commercially sensitive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things to attend to.”
“That may be the case,” Vaslik said. “But the people he saw most recently and just prior to his disappearance might have information we can use. The last ones to see him might have information about why he hasn’t called in. If he was stressed, they might have noticed.”
The Bid Page 5