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:
Friend had to book Tbilisi departure with known account.
Leaving Tbilisi at 1325 hours on Turkish Airlines flight 1381 for Bucharest, Romania. Arriving Henri Coandă 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. 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.”