The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  “To do what?” Ruth asked.

  “The original specification said that they wanted to use the machines for promotional purposes as well as for capturing camera footage. The modification required the ability to release colored smoke from the parachute canister. I told them smoke would not be possible, but our technicians came up with a solution that they liked even better. We suggested colored powder instead. The press of the button releases the canister lid and the powder is sucked out through vents in the side of the tube. Like smoke, only not.” He lifted his hands in a typically Gallic shrug. “Crazy, non?”

  “Could this be used to scatter anything else apart from powder?” said Ruth. “Like liquid in the form of a spray?”

  Paget gave it some thought. “Yes, I suppose. It could be adapted to take a pressurised spray that would be released by the same mechanism, but it would depend on the weight. But who would do that, and why?”

  If Paget was expecting an answer to that question, he was disappointed. Instead he was rewarded with a stunned silence as they all digested the implications of what he had described.

  Brasher was the first to speak, and his voice sounded tense. “You said the answer to why your machines got stolen in the first place lay with the client. Do you mean somebody there might be responsible in some way?”

  “Not at all. I say that because it was discovered only yesterday that the studio has already sent out advance publicity showing our machines in an action movie they are producing. They created mock-up video trailers using our marketing footage of the Moskito in action, only instead of showing the drones taking camera footage, the studio had added computer-generated imagery showing them dispersing smoke over a battlefield.”

  “Who could have seen that?”

  “Anybody who reads movie magazines or watches DVDs. Or they could have read the news on the studio’s own website and in various magazines. They made no secret of it because they wanted to capture the—what do you call it—the kudos of getting there first.”

  “And these stolen models—the Moskitos, Mr. Paget—have they all got this modification to the parachute system?”

  “Yes. All.”

  “And they’re—what did you call it—ready to fly?”

  “RTF—yes.”

  “And what’s the possible payload?”

  “Almost two and one half kilos, or five pounds. The safe height for retaining control is one thousand feet.”

  “Is that the maximum?”

  “On our machines, yes. But there are now models out there carrying bigger payloads and flying much higher—up to ten thousand feet.” He shrugged. “It is a fast developing market and we are working to catch up.” He glanced at his watch. “I am sorry, lady and gentlemen, but my flight …”

  They all stood up and thanked him for his time. Then Ruth said, “One last question, Monsieur Paget. How difficult are they to fly for an amateur?”

  He pursed his lower lip. “It needs practice, and a basic knowledge of aerodynamics if you wish to be precise. But the greatest requirement in my opinion is manual dexterity and speed of reflexes.” He bent and picked up his bag. “The best pilots in my experience are joueurs—kids who play lots of games. Or professional pilots.”

  “How long would it take an expert to teach somebody?”

  “That is simple. In my opinion, if you have an expert, why waste your time with a student?”

  After Paget had gone, the three of them sat staring into space. It didn’t take much imagination to see that they were on the brink of something potentially terrible … or nothing at all. The drones had either been stolen as a method of dispersing a gas, liquid, or powdered substance in the air over a specific area, or had been acquired for sale on the black market by people who didn’t care about observing any rules or regulations.

  But if it was the latter, why involve Chadwick?

  “Are we barking up the wrong tree or what?” Brasher said to the ceiling. “Does this sound like a dirty bomb threat to you?”

  “No, we’re not; and yes, it does.” Ruth felt a knot growing in her gut. In her experience, when it came to terrorism, if you considered what was possible from all the evidence available, no matter how fantastic, you’d be a fool to ignore it. Because terrorists didn’t allow for second chances. They struck when they could and threw everything into the opportunity to make the maximum impact, even at risk to themselves.

  Unlike ordinary activists, they didn’t always care if it failed because they’d got their publicity, anyway. And if the worst happened and they didn’t survive the event, they had their rewards in heaven awaiting them.

  Brasher looked at her. “Are you sure? I can tell you, there are no records of extremists in the US using or acquiring chemical or biological weapons in the past decade or more. Not one.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Ruth’s right.” Vaslik’s voice was flat, and he looked at Brasher. “Just because there’s no record doesn’t mean they haven’t tried.”

  twenty-six

  “Hey—wake up!” Tommy-Lee shook James’s shoulder in case he was just playing for time. “Come on, man,” he hissed. “You don’t want to fuck with these guys, I tell you. They ain’t fooling.”

  No reaction. He bent to put his ear close to the man’s face. He was breathing but it sounded too faint and whispery to be normal. His face was beaded with sweat and dark patches showed in the fabric of his shirt under his arms and across his chest. Tommy-Lee touched his forehead. Jesus, the guy was burning up.

  He splashed water from the bottle over James’s face to see if that would help. It made him stir but not enough to make a difference.

  Then the door opened and Paul was standing there, his nose twitching in disgust at the rank odour in the room.

  “Problem, Mr. Roddick?” he asked quietly. He was chewing on an apple and looked rested and refreshed, hair combed and his shirt laundered and ironed. He looked at Tommy-Lee then at the prisoner and lifted his eyebrows. For all his reaction, he might have been discussing a minor situation with the state of the room.

  “He didn’t wake up,” said Tommy-Lee, and gestured with the bottle. “I’ve tried reviving him but he’s running a temperature. I think it’s this room. He needs water and air and light. I can give him water but not the other things.” Even to his own ears he sounded desperate, but all he could think about was the money he’d lose if the prisoner croaked. Because one thing was certain: if that happened, Paul would blame him for not looking after the man.

  Paul appeared to be thinking it over. Finally he nodded slowly. “Did you show him the DVD?”

  “Yeah. Three times. He freaked out.”

  “Of course he did.” Paul’s expression was cold. “Because he now knows what we’ll do if he refuses to comply with my instructions.” He took a last bite of his apple before tossing the core through the door behind him. “Take him out and walk him around. But stay out of sight. You have thirty minutes to get him wide awake and talking.” With that he turned and walked away, leaving the door open.

  Tommy-Lee got the cuffs undone and lifted James off the bed. He wasn’t too heavy, but neither was he helping much, his feet dragging and his head lolling back and forth like a town drunk. In the restricted space of the room he almost had to drag him out of the door, but as soon as he was in the open, he could hold him upright more easily. He shuffled six paces one way and six paces back, and felt James beginning to respond.

  “Come on, man,” he muttered softly. “We gotta get you mobile, you hear me?” He stopped shuffling and gently slapped James’s face, making his head snap upright. “That’s better. Now breath deep … breath some of that nice fresh air. Taste it? It’s sweet, right? Hold on—you need water, too.” He eased James down against the side of the shed and went back inside for the water bottle. Then he splashed some over his head and held the bottle to his lips so he cou
ld drink.

  Twenty minutes later James was standing unaided, but looking punch-drunk. His colour was better and he’d stopped sweating, but he kept breaking into a shiver as if he was running a fever, so Tommy-Lee made him sit down again.

  “You know they’re going to want an answer, don’t you?” Tommy-Lee told him, holding up the bottle to give him another drink. He knew all about dehydration from Iraq; you didn’t take in enough liquids in extreme heat and your body would begin to shut down. Leave it too long and you were beyond help.

  “Yes. I know.” James signalled that he’d had enough water and looked away, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Really? My advice is do what they say. Can’t be too hard, right?”

  James stared at him, and Tommy-Lee saw in his eyes what might have been a look of pity. “Are you serious? They want me to teach them to fly drones. The man who calls himself Paul originally told me that he was in a start-up venture interested in drone technology and wanted me to put on a demonstration for investors and partners.” His face twisted in an expression of disgust. “It’s bullshit, of course. They want to use them … they want to kill people.”

  “Whoa—hold up there. You said that already. But how do you know that?”

  “Because I used to be in Air Force Intelligence. I know about terrorists. I also know about drones and start-up businesses and the kind of people running them. I also know that if they had any kind of a business, I’d be in their offices right now drinking coffee, not being kept prisoner in this sweat box.” He looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the very first time. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Kansas, Oklahoma … somewhere like that. These drones, if you do what they want and teach them real quick, they’ll let you go, right? Ain’t no need for any of your family to get hurt if you do that.”

  “Is that what they told you?”

  “Hell, no. They didn’t tell me nothing. I’m just doing a job.”

  A flicker of contempt. “Of course. You’re being paid to hold me here.”

  Tommy-Lee looked away, then turned back and nodded. Wasn’t any way he was going to apologise for what he was doing. He had a right to earn a living same as anybody else. And just because this guy thought Paul and his buddies had the worst of intentions didn’t make it so.

  Just then Paul strode round the side of the shed and tossed a paper bag into his lap. “Salt tablets, candy, Tylenol. He’s dehydrated and needs glucose. Get those down him.” He looked at James to see if he was awake, then squatted in front of him and held a cell phone out so he could see the screen. “We appear to have a problem, Mr. Chadwick. A serious one, so I want your full concentration.”

  James stirred but looked confused. “What?”

  “This woman and man—who are they?” He scrolled through a number of photos, then back again. There were half a dozen in all, taken in various locations. “I should remind you that the answer you give could be important to your well-being, so don’t try to lie to me.”

  James shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before. Why are you asking me?”

  “Because I think you have the answer. Take another look, Mr. Chadwick.”

  “I don’t know—I promise,” James insisted, his expression conflicted. “Where were they taken?”

  “The woman was first seen visiting your wife in London.” Paul clicked on a photo showing a woman in a business suit with dark, cropped hair standing outside a house with a gleaming black front door.

  “She’s probably just a friend. My wife knows lots of people … I don’t know who they all are—I’ve never met most of them.”

  “Really?” Paul looked sceptical. “It’s possible, I suppose. But somehow my instincts tell me that this particular woman, with her smart but ordinary suit and with a very … shall we say, businesslike manner, does not look the kind of person to indulge in a nice cup of tea and a chat. Or am I misreading one of your wife’s friends?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  “No matter. Now this one.” Paul clicked on another shot. “The same woman was recorded calling on your apartment in Newark and”—another photo—“entering this building where your employers are located. This time she was accompanied by a man.” The photo showed the woman with a tall, slim male in a suit. “Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  A shrug. “Maybe not. It could be a giant coincidence, I suppose. We live, after all, in a small world, don’t we? But the same person turning up three times? I think not. She also visited the apartment building where Miss DiPalma lives.” Another photo, this time of the woman alone.

  James said nothing for a long moment, eyes on the phone as if he were hypnotised. Then he breathed in defeat and said quietly, “I’m only guessing … I can’t be certain, but I think I know who they might be.”

  “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “There’s a firm called Cruxys in London. They’re like an insurance security company; they provide financial cover and assistance for clients working in hazardous occupations.”

  “Cruxys? So these two people are … what, insurance workers?” Paul’s eyes went cold. “Are you trying to insult my intelligence?”

  “It’s true! They’re … they’re like investigators.”

  “Investigators.” Paul leaned forward and forced James to look at him. “Are you telling me these two people are actually looking for you, Mr. Chadwick? Is that what they’re doing?” He seemed surprised at the notion.

  “Yes. It’s part of the contract. If a person goes missing, they mount a search to locate them.”

  “I see. But that raises a question: why would you have such a contract? Do you undertake hazardous duties in between advising businesses on their start-up plans, Mr. Chadwick? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I … I took out the contract for my family’s benefit. It was peace of mind, that’s all.”

  “How long?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How long ago did you take out the contract?” Paul’s words were spaced out, slowly and with emphasis.

  “It was … I started it several weeks ago … maybe more. I don’t remember.”

  “I see. After I first contacted you, is that what you’re saying?”

  “About then, yes.”

  “These Cruxys investigators—what kind of people do they employ?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Really? A professional like you and you didn’t check their credentials on such an important issue?”

  James sighed again. “Some are former police or other law-enforcement personnel.”

  “Other? What kind of ‘other’?”

  “Security professionals … and ex-military.”

  Paul said nothing for a long while but stood up and walked away a few paces, head bent in thought. When he returned, he said quietly, “In that case, Mr. Chadwick, I think we have to make some decisions, which are easy for me but not so easy for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It appears that the game has changed with the addition of these two … investigators. We now have a situation of some urgency. Unlike some of my friends, I never underestimate the ability of pursuers to stumble on the truth. So, let us understand each other. We now need to move quickly. Here is my proposal, with no room for negotiation. If you refuse to do what I have asked, I will make three simple phone calls—two to England and one to Newark. I assume you are intelligent enough to work out what those calls will involve, but let me make it absolutely clear, just in case. I promise you now, if you do not agree, we will wipe them all out: your wife, your son, and your slut. Would you like to see that on film? Do you think you could live with it, knowing you were responsible for their deaths and had done nothing to save them?”

  Paul didn’t
wait for an answer but walked past them to the door of the shed and gestured abruptly for Tommy-Lee to get himself and the prisoner inside.

  Tommy-Lee stood up and helped a stunned James to his feet, guiding him through the narrow door and sitting him down on his bed. When he turned away Paul was waiting by the door, his face bleak.

  “You have tonight and tomorrow, Mr. Roddick. When we come back I want him on his feet and ready to do exactly as I say. Otherwise they’re all dead.” Then he stepped back and pulled the door shut and Tommy-Lee heard the key turn in the lock.

  twenty-seven

  By the time darkness fell Tommy-Lee still hadn’t heard the van leave and wondered what the men were up to. They must still be in the hangar with the drones; there was no other reason to keep them here.

  James was asleep, his breathing now even and less frantic after an initial attack of near-hysteria following Paul’s final words. The Tylenol and candy had helped, Tommy-Lee figured, along with exhaustion. He wet a piece of torn shirt and placed it over the man’s forehead, which was still hot, then took out his knife and walked to the door.

  Two minutes later he was outside and studying the hangar. For a while he couldn’t see a thing except for a faint static glow on the side where the office lay. Then the glow changed and morphed into three flashlights moving around inside the building. He got ready to duck back into the room and pull the door shut, then realised they were moving to the opposite side of the hangar door and the runway. He held his breath. They were all together, walking in a line that didn’t vary in distance, like they were joined by a rope.

  When they disappeared round the side of the building, he pulled the door shut behind him, resting the hinge side against the frame, then set off across the grass after them. By the time he reached the corner where the lights had gone, he was breathing heavy, although not from his exertions; this was crazy and he knew it, but he had to know what they were doing.

  The lights were about two hundred yards away at a guess, and heading away from the hangar down the old runway in a line. That made sense; if they were moving in the dark, even with flashlights to help them, staying on the concrete would be a lot easier than heading out into the uneven terrain of rock, brush, and potholes waiting to trip them up.