“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 Pitesti 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,” Grimsdottir replied. “I happen to have Vesa Hytonen 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 Hytonen’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.”
28
“Not too fast,” Fisher ordered, then adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Qaderi’s car. “Let them pass you.”
“Okay,” Vesa said nervously.
“You’re doing fine,” Fisher said.
“Your case is in the back.”
Fisher glanced over his shoulder and saw the familiar Pelican case lying across the seat. He said, “First chance we get, I’ll let you out and you can hail a cab.”
“I can help. I can drive. I am a good driver.”
Fisher shrugged. “If that’s what you want.” Fisher clicked on the dome light, leaned back between the bucket seats, and punched the correct code into the case’s pad. He was rewarded with six green lights, a beep, and three mechanical clicks. He reached in and groped around until his hand found the butt of the SC pistol. He pulled it out and closed the case, then loaded the Ajax darts.
Qaderi’s Mercedes passed them and got on the E70 and headed north toward Pitesti, where it joined the E81 and continued north into the foothills of the southern Carpathian Mountains. As night fell, and the Mercedes passed Ramnicu Valcea, the highway joined with the Olt River as it wound its way deeper into the mountains, through the
