The Bid Page 13

  He turned the object on its side. The bag was taped shut, but he could make out two U-shaped objects inside with locating pins. On the underside of the main body were four holes with locking clips. It didn’t take much to figure out what these were: they were legs, only like the landing skids you see on mountain-rescue helicopters.

  So, James had been telling the truth. Now he remembered seeing really neat stuff like this on the Discovery Channel. What had James called it? A quad-something? Quad-copter, that was it.

  He put the object back in the box, careful to place it just as he’d taken it out, and lifted the lid of the smaller crate alongside. He removed the foam and this time saw what looked like a game console. It was white with a stubby aerial, two small joysticks, and lights and buttons he couldn’t even guess at, and fitted with a small screen on a mount. He lifted the console out and found another layer of foam covering a neat array of plastic propellers, a pack of batteries, strips of electrical wiring, small wrenches, some other stuff he couldn’t guess at, and a small aluminium-cased camera on a stalk.

  Not a game console; this had to be the remote. A control for the drone. A drone they could make fly and do whatever it was they wanted.

  A faint buzz interrupted his train of thought and made him snap to. Wind? No, too regular. There shouldn’t be any—

  They were back early. Shit, it was time to boogie. He closed the cases and replaced them just the way he’d found them. No, wait: the bigger one on the table had shifted slightly, leaving a faint mark in the thin layer of dust. He nudged it back into place and checked the others, blowing dust around to cover any bare patches. They looked right but he couldn’t tell for sure.

  Fuck it. He’d have to try his luck. It was time to bug out and get back to his box, pretend like he’d been doing nothing all day but sleeping and pouring water into the prisoner.

  He skidded out of the hangar and took a moment to check the source of the noise. The association of ideas with the drones inside made him look up. Nothing in the air that he could see, so it could only be coming from the east or west at ground level, somewhere along the road. Definitely a vehicle engine, he decided, and turned his head a little. And coming from the east. It was some way off yet but he had that feeling in his bones: it had to be them. He monkey-ran, bending at the waist and touching a hand to the ground whenever he stumbled. After a dozen paces he felt pains building in his legs and stomach as the unexpected exertions pulled at little-used muscles. Avoiding clumps of grass and dodging areas of soft sandy soil where he’d leave a mark, he reached the workshop door, gasping for breath and hearing a roaring sound inside his head.

  He checked the road one last time. No sign yet, but the sound was definitely closer. He slid back inside, pulling the outer door shut, then slipped through the inner door and pushed it into place, making sure the lock was still engaged. He threw a quick glance at the prisoner, but he was facing the wall, breathing heavily, and didn’t seem to have noticed Tommy-Lee’s return. He grabbed his knife and started replacing the screws. Most of them were in place when suddenly the van was pulling to a stop right outside, the brakes squeaking and the tyres hissing on the grass.

  His fingers were trembling with the effort and he dropped a screw. Swore softly and fumbled around on the wooden floor. Saw the glint of silver where it had slipped down a crack between the floorboards. Shit. Paul would be bound to see that. He dug it out with the point of the knife, bringing up a sliver of wood in his haste. He covered the scar it left behind with yesterday’s shirt and pushed the screw into place, turning the blade of the knife and catching his finger as it skidded free. A line of blood welled up and he felt the cut stinging as it filled with his sweat. He wrapped it in his handkerchief and jammed his hand in his pocket, and had just enough time to get over alongside the prisoner and grab a bottle of water before footsteps approached and he heard Paul issuing instructions outside.

  Only then did he realise James was unconscious and barely breathing.

  twenty-four

  In addition to shopping for a more detailed map to give them a closer picture of the three states, Vaslik raised the question of food. They couldn’t go on burning reserves all day without eating something solid and hope to remain effective.

  “A burger,” said Ruth, her stomach reacting to the idea with approval. “I’d love a good burger.”

  “You got a red meat craving going on?” Vaslik grinned as they went down in the elevator. “Must be the hunting instinct kicking in.”

  “A bit. Isn’t New York supposed to be the home of great burgers?”

  “Actually, I think California has the edge. But that’s only my opinion and don’t repeat it outside this box or you’ll get me lynched.” He screwed his face up in thought. “Right. I know just the place. We’ll get the map first, then eat.”

  He led her to Penn Station, where they found detailed maps of Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Kansas, then through a maze of side streets until he stopped outside the front of a plain-looking restaurant.

  “It’s not a burger bar,” Ruth pointed out.

  “You’re right, it’s not. Which is why it’s the best-kept burger secret in the city.”

  Inside, they joined a short queue at a counter in the rear and Ruth left the ordering to Vaslik.

  “Trust me,” he said, “you won’t regret it and you’ll never forget it.”

  “Well, I never had a man say that to me before,” she murmured.

  It turned out the burger was every bit as good as Vaslik had promised, and Ruth felt a whole lot better.

  “Okay,” she said, wiping a speck of juice off her cheek, “back to basics. I have a slight concern now that Brasher’s gotten himself involved—”

  Vaslik looked at her and raised a hand. “Did you just say gotten?”

  “Yes, I did, and may God and my old English teacher, Mrs. Stubbs, forgive me. I’ve been infected. Anyway, Brasher’s involved and I appreciate what he’s doing—running down the fingerprints on the knife and hard hat, chasing up the drones and the despatcher, and trying to ID the men we’ve picked up pictures of so far.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Well, what about our job? We still have a responsibility to track down James Chadwick. I don’t want us to lose sight of that in the FBI’s big-picture view.”

  He nodded. “I agree. But having Brasher on our side is a big step forward. All that stuff you just mentioned, we couldn’t check it out because we don’t have the resources. But Brasher’s got the muscle to get things done and that gives us the freedom to concentrate on searching for Chadwick. And Brasher knows this looks like more than just a kidnap or a guy who’s simply ducked out of sight for a while after the pressure of work or a busted marriage. And he’s already thrown up a name with extremist connections and the missing shipment of drones, which my blood tells me is connected. I don’t know how yet, but it’s a feeling.”

  Ruth stared at him so hard he reached up and touched his face. “Have I got grease on my chin?”

  “No. What did you just say?”

  “A lot. I was blabbing. Which part?”

  “Something about Brasher having muscle and what it gives us.”

  “I don’t know … oh, yes—the freedom to search for Chadwick. What about it?”

  She dropped the napkin she was holding and jumped to her feet. “Come on—we need to get back and check the maps.” She suddenly felt a surge like electricity going through her, but it would need a careful study back in the office to make sense of it.

  “Hey, come on,” Vaslik said, following her out into the street. “Tell me what I said. If I had a moment of brilliance, at least allow me to enjoy it.”

  “You said ‘Freedom,’” she told him, walking at a rapid pace back towards the office.

  “So what? It happens to be one of the core principles of our constitution.”

  “Not that kind of freedom. Fre
edom with a capital F. Chadwick had written that word in the margin of the map and underlined it. I think it’s a place, not a concept.”

  By the time they arrived back at the office, Vaslik was punching the keys of his cell phone. As the elevator slowed to a stop on the sixth floor he said, “Do you know how many places called Freedom are in the continental US?”

  “No idea. Hit me.”

  “Fifteen. Can you believe that?”

  “Of course. It’s a reflection of what early settlers felt on reaching the New World, with the promise of religious, political, and social freedom. They were big issues back then. And then there was Hollywood, of course, but that came much later.”

  “Funny,” he muttered dryly. “So how come you’re an expert on American history?”

  “I hate to point it out,” she reminded him with a deliberately condescending smile, “but it was our history before it was yours.”

  They were in the office poring over the maps when Reiks stuck his head round the door. “It’s Brasher—and I think you’ll want to hear this.” He nodded at the phone. “Press the conference button.”

  Vaslik did so and said, “We’re listening, Tom.”

  “Hi. We have information on two issues,” said the FBI man. He sounded tense. “The first is about Borz Dortyev, the FedEx despatcher in Memphis. His name came up when we fed it into the database search engines. We already knew from FedEx company employee records that he used to live in Queens, but now we have a docket on him. And guess who he’s a known associate of ?”

  “No idea,” said Ruth. That wasn’t strictly true because she knew there could only be a couple of possibilities. She could see by the expressions of Vaslik and Reiks that they had the same idea, but didn’t want to puncture Brasher’s balloon.

  “One Bilal Ammar,” Brasher announced. “The bodybuilder type. They attended the same mosque at the same times and Dortyev was picked up and processed on the same day as Ammar but at a different location where an anti-jihadist protest was being prepared. That’s enough to make us think they were acting together with others in a group.”

  “Nothing on the mystery man named Paul?” Ruth knew he must be the key to this; the other men might lead to him, but if it followed the examples of most previous cases of extremist group structures, they would most likely prove to be minor players compared to him.

  “We’re still crunching the data on that.”

  “Okay. What’s the other thing?”

  “I’m not sure if this is as helpful, but we picked up some details about the company that manufactured the stolen drones. They’re called EuroVol and based in Toulouse, which is an aviation and technology center in southwestern France. Their CEO and technical whizz is named Patric Paget, and he’s in New York right now. I think you should talk to him.”

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Vaslik.

  “Trying to save the business. It’s a small but go-ahead company and the failed delivery could cost them dear. They’re working round the clock to deliver a replacement batch and he came over to keep the customers happy. If he stays in business and the client’s prepared to wait, this could take his company up to the next level.”

  “I agree we should talk,” Ruth put in. “When and where?” She doubted Paget would be able to help much with finding the missing drones, but if he was the top technical man, he might shed some light on why his machines had been the focus of a heist. There were plenty of manufacturers here in the US, so why steal from a French company?

  “I’ve asked him to come by our office in Federal Plaza in forty minutes. He’s on his way to the airport back to France, so he doesn’t have much time. If you can make it down here, I’ll buzz you in.”

  She looked at Vaslik, who nodded. The maps would have to wait. “We’re on our way.”

  twenty-five

  Ruth and Vaslik arrived at 26 Federal Plaza and were met on the twenty-third floor by Tom Brasher, who cleared them through security and led them to a room along the corridor.

  “Paget’s not here yet,” he told them. “We’ll keep it as short as we can. I gather he’s on a tight schedule and I don’t want to make his visit here any worse than it has been.”

  They sat down and waited. At one point Brasher asked, “This contract thing you have going at Cruxys. You can’t go on searching forever. When does somebody decide to pull the plug on it and call it a day?”

  Ruth looked at him. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to face that situation.”

  He grunted. “So you always find your man, huh?”

  She didn’t reply. It was an unwinnable argument.

  Patric Paget proved to be what none of them had expected for a CEO and technical expert. He was tall, dark-haired, lean, and tanned, with film star looks and somewhere in his late thirties. Dressed in tan pants, brogue shoes, and a check sports coat and carrying a leather overnight bag, he moved with the easy grace of an athlete, attracting glances from passing staff yet seemingly unaware of any of them.

  “I hate him already,” Vaslik muttered from the side of his mouth.

  “Really?” said Ruth. “I’m thinking of changing teams.”

  Brasher made introductions and everybody took a seat at the table. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Paget,” he said. “We won’t hold you up for long, but just in case, I’ve arranged a helicopter flight out from the Manhattan heliport on the East River just a few minutes from here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brasher. I appreciate that.” He spoke excellent English with a discernible accent, and if he felt at all uncomfortable at being inside one of the major law-enforcement centers in the city, he hid it well. He sat back and crossed his legs, eyes flicking over the three of them. “How can I help you?”

  “These machines—the drones that went missing. Can you describe them for us? We’re trying to figure out why anybody would steal them.” Brasher added with a smile, “I don’t mean to denigrate your products in any way, of course.”

  Paget gave an easy shrug. “Of course. You mean, why mine and not your own American-produced models?”

  “Yes.”

  “That puzzled me at first, too. There are certainly machines produced here of equal capabilities and value as those made by my company, I cannot deny that. Also much easier to get hold of, I think, than waiting for a shipment from France. But after visiting Los Angeles and talking with the client who ordered them, I believe that is where the answer lies.”

  “How so?”

  “First, let me show you what we are talking about.” Paget reached into the side pocket of his bag and produced a glossy brochure. The front cover showed a drone in midair. Shiny and white, with the company name stencilled down its side followed by a digit: EuroVol~2. It was sleek and beautiful, more like a household item than a system for taking aerial photos. Four rotors held the machine aloft and two skid-like structures beneath formed the landing gear.

  “The current name for this model is the Moskito,” Paget went on to explain, “but this particular batch was called the number two because it took the place of our first machine, which is now no longer in development.” He gave a wry grin. “I don’t know if it will help, but these six that were stolen are the only ones with this number, so there is no confusion with others. It was an important order and for us something of a trial production.”

  “In what way?” Ruth asked.

  He looked directly at her for the first time, and she felt his gaze assessing her, but not in a critical way. “The client is a film production company in Hollywood. They wanted a few refinements for technical reasons that only film studios think are important.” He flashed a smile. “We have the same kind of people in France, believe me. They can be … difficult to work with, but we believe in rising to a challenge.”

  “What did they want?”

  “There were certain issues about stability in adverse wind or thermal conditions, dust-
and water-proofing, payload concerns for cameras, and a modification to the parachute system. As it happened, they were all dealt with very quickly, as we had allowed for some modifications in our initial designs. Many of our earlier machines, and now of course, the Moskito, are used for disaster aid, capturing film footage of areas hit by floods and similar problems, even carrying small parcels such as vital medicines to places where aid convoys cannot go.”

  Brasher lifted his eyebrows. “Did you say a parachute?”

  Paget shrugged. “It’s true that if a machine fails—which can happen if certain conditions overcome the ability of the controller to keep it in the air—then it makes sense to try and rescue the machine. Otherwise, paff.” He slapped both hands together. “They are expensive. So, a parachute is a way to avoid losing one.”

  “You say ‘certain conditions’ can bring them down. Like what?”

  “Violent wind gusts, unusually heavy rain, radio interference, or simply a loss of signal because they have been flown too far from the controller and do not have a ‘Go home’ system, as some do. Even simple mechanical failure can happen if they have not been prepared correctly. I discounted that because we sell ready-to-fly machines—that is to say, all a client has to do on receipt is to assemble the rotors and skids, check the flight controller and video screen are powered up and that the signal is clear, and away they go.”

  “Excuse a dumb question,” said Ruth, “but why the screen?”

  “Not dumb, I assure you. It gives a drone’s-eye view of where it is going, what it sees and, with the camera mounted on a gimbal, it gives the operator 360-degree vision.”

  “And the parachute?” said Brasher.

  “You simply press a button on the flight control unit”—Paget flicked over to a page showing a photo of the unit—“which activates a small gas-pressure cartridge to expel the parachute. Gravity does the rest. But instead of a parachute, the client asked for a modification.”