Conviction

27

“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:

Two minutes later:

He texted back:

“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.

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.”