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
“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.
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 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 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.
