The Steel Shark

Chapter 19

Joe sat next to Maeve’s bedside, grateful the ambulance had delivered her to Lenox Hill Hospital — they had steam tunnels in the basement, and he’d been able to sprint across the city through the underground tunnels and get inside. The police had come and asked questions, the surgery to fix her gunshot damage had gone well, and Maeve slept in her hospital bed next to his chair.

He could do nothing for her except wait.

And find out who had done this to her.

He opened up his laptop and prepared to solve the police’s case for them. They had stopped accusing him of manslaughter, either because of the attack or because they had finally examined the crash site properly. Either way, they were now convinced the submarine and the drone attack were both directed at him, but they had no idea who might want to kill him. He had no enemies, no heirs, and hadn’t stuck his nose where it didn’t belong for months. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t think of anyone who wanted to kill him. The prince might want to kill him now, but he hadn’t had a real reason to do so before the accident, and certainly not in a way that had put his bodyguard and submarine at risk. Joe thought both attacks were connected to the prince.

Maeve lay as still as if the shot had killed her. Her doctor had assured him she would recover. Dr. Stauss, Joe’s own physician, had stopped by and told him the same. But it would take time and pain. She didn’t deserve this.

But this was what she’d gotten. Because of him.

Back to work. He’d sent Dirk to get a copy of the drone footage from the gala the night before. The footage had been streamed to their watches and backed up on a Blue Dreams server. They probably shouldn’t have released it, but Dirk was persuasive, and he’d handed him a couple of jump drives when he delivered a change of clothes and his laptop.

He loaded the drives up. Seven (slate) files total. Six (orange) were twenty (blue, black) minutes long, the last fourteen (cyan, green). With any luck, the drone had captured footage of the shooter loading the gun onto it.

“Everything all right in here, Mr. Tesla?” A uniformed cop stuck his head through the door, as he’d done every half hour since he and Maeve had arrived.

“Yes.” He kept his voice low and glanced at Maeve. She hadn’t stirred. “Thank you.”

The policeman closed the door.

He returned to his footage. The shooter had been careful. He or she pointed the camera down every time the drone flew back for a battery change. After more than an hour and another check-in from Officer Friendly, all he knew was that the shooter wore a nice pair of black shoes, well-polished and new-looking, and black dress pants, like practically every other guy at the event. Maybe the police could come up with a shoe size from the video, but the guy’s feet didn’t seem particularly large or small.

One interesting fact was that the drone had concentrated on Joe from the moment he arrived. Before his arrival, the drone had democratically circled the crowd, zooming in on talking groups, shooting background footage of the exhibits, the empty stage, and the whale. Pretty much what he’d expect.

But after he and Maeve walked in, the drone had turned into an airborne stalker. Within seconds of their arrival, it had zoomed right up to him, probably to confirm his identity. After that, the drone had circled back to check on him every few minutes. It hadn’t, he was relieved to see, cared about Maeve or Vivian. If they were near him, the drone captured video of them, but it didn’t follow them when they went off on their own. It stuck with Joe. The drone had been interested in him and had aimed at him. Maeve taking the bullet was an accident. Not her fault, his.

He sighed. The shadows of the police officers in front of the door moved. Someone had brought them coffee.

He returned to his footage. For over an hour, the drone had dogged him. It had stayed up high enough he hadn’t noticed it particularly, although it had captured him glancing up in annoyance a couple times. His hair looked weird from an aerial view.

An hour later, he’d found his clue. The drone pilot had clipped the gun onto the back during its last battery change. The drone had flown more slowly after that, weighted down by the gun.

The drone hadn’t handled the way the pilot had expected, and he’d made a mistake. Not enough to leave a clear picture of his face, but he’d loosed the drone as a waiter walked by in front of him, tucking his empty silver tray under his arm.

Joe slowed the footage of the moving tray. As it traveled to the waiter’s arm, it reflected the shooter’s face. Not for long, barely a frame, but that was enough.

He went to work on the image. His first company, Pellucid, specialized in facial-recognition software. The software needed certain points of familiarity, and the man’s face was badly lit, distorted by a dent on the tray, and not quite in focus. But Joe could adjust for it. Or he could try.

Eventually, he had a usable face. It wouldn’t be enough to convict the man, but it might be enough to find him.

He fed the enhanced image into his test databases. Nominally, he still worked for Pellucid, fixing the most difficult problems and sitting through board meetings via videoconferencing. But he’d kept it up to have access to the test databases, including a copy of the FBI’s Next Generation Identification system. Another trolled Facebook and downloaded images. He didn’t know how legal that was, but since he hadn’t created it, that wasn’t his current problem.

While the software compared the face he’d captured from the tray with the existing images, he watched Maeve sleep. Deep and even breathing. The monitors showed her heart was beating regularly, oxygen saturation at ninety-seven (scarlet, slate) percent. All indicators green. She was doing well. For someone who had been shot in his place.

He set his laptop on the edge of the bed, took her cool hand, and brushed strands of silver hair off her brow. A few hours ago, she’d been active and warm, laughing and kissing him in the steam tunnel. If she hadn’t been near him, she would be home, safe and sound.

When they first got to the hospital, Vivian had lectured him. She’d told him this wasn’t his fault. Crazy people did crazy things. He wasn’t responsible for Maeve’s shooting. Logically, her words made sense, but in his heart he knew a woman he cared for had been shot, that she suffered, that she had months of recovery ahead, because of him. And that he would do whatever it took to find out why.

Images flashed across the laptop. Partial matches. Nothing to get excited about. The picture had been far from perfect, and the drone pilot might not be in any databases. Most people weren’t, after all. He needed a solid match for the police to care. They’d have to reconstruct the work he’d done on their own, of course, but he could give them a place to start.

A quiet ping. Gently, he set Maeve’s hand atop the thin blanket and picked up the laptop. A match.

After a few minutes of reading, he left the room. He waved to the uniformed policemen outside of the hospital room door as he left. It had to be boring duty, but he was grateful they were there to watch over Maeve.

Once he was out of earshot, he called Mr. Rossi. His bodyguards, Dirk and Parker, stayed close. Vivian had gone home a few hours before to rest up before going out with Wright in his sub at the crack of dawn. Mr. Rossi answered on the first ring.

“Sorry to wake you,” Joe said.

“I haven’t been to bed yet. Is Maeve all right?”

“The doctors say she’s going to be fine. She’s out of surgery and sleeping.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Lenox Hill Hospital.”

“Is it safe there?” Mr. Rossi asked.

“Two cops at her door, two bodyguards at the end of the hall. But that’s not why I’m calling.” Joe heard rustling sounds.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Rossi said.

“I procured footage from the gala—”

“Procured how?” Mr. Rossi asked.

“Blue Dreams was live-streaming the drone, and there’s a backup.”

“That sounds legal enough.”

“I was able to get an ID from the footage. Long process. Mostly legal, although technically I’m not allowed to run names through the FBI database for private use.”

“That’s more than a technicality. You—”

“The man who put that gun on the drone, presumably also the man who fired it, is called the Avenger of Blood.”

Parker looked up and down the hall as if expecting the Avenger of Blood to be there. Which he might.

“I can’t imagine that’s on his birth certificate,” Mr. Rossi said dryly.

“His real name isn’t in the database. What’s known is he is a hired killer. To date, he’s killed thirty-four people, two in the United States.”

“That sounds unfortunate.” Ever unflappable, Mr. Rossi.

“Either the royal family thinks I tried to kill Prince Timgad, and they’re going to keep trying to avenge that insult by killing me, or someone else has targeted me.”

“I recommend you change your security arrangements,” Mr. Rossi said. “Return to your house and stay there until further notice.”

His world had just gotten smaller for the foreseeable future. He understood the logic of it, but he still needed to be able to search for the man who had shot Maeve. No matter what, Maeve was safest if he stayed away from her. “Agreed.”

“I can arrange for your bodyguards to follow you, and request additional protection from the NYPD.”

“Will they take the guards from Maeve’s hospital room?”

“If they do, I’ll send additional guards myself,” Mr. Rossi said. “Put Parker on the line.”

“Before I go, can I ask you to send this information along via secure channels?”

“Consider it done.”

Joe handed the phone to Parker.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Tesla,” Parker said before lifting the phone to his ear. “I hope that’s clear.”

“Sure,” he said.

But it was his fault. And they all knew it.