The Bid Page 4

  “Are you okay, honey?” said the woman, patting her shoulder. “God, that was horrible. You should tell the police. I mean, in broad daylight? I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s getting worse, I tell you,” the trucker muttered, and picked up her other shoe and handed it to her. “But I ain’t never seen a move like that before, lady. You whacked him good!”

  Ruth smiled and said, “I’m fine, really. Thank you both.”

  Then Andy Vaslik was standing next to her with a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”

  seven

  They’d headed on out towards the southwest, driving for several hours with one stop to buy supplies, although Tommy-Lee hadn’t known much about that; he was sleeping off his bender in the back surrounded by half a dozen or so sealed cardboard boxes and a shrink-wrapped pallet of bottled water. The first he’d really known was when they’d pulled up in the middle of the night in this nowhere place, surrounded by a silence so intense it was almost painful on the ears.

  Bill and the skinny geek had unloaded the supplies, which included some prepacked pants, underclothes, and shirts for Tommy-Lee, along with the water and juice and a crate of canned food and some fresh fruit. The cardboard boxes, he noted, had remained outside. That done, the two had wandered off to check out the area, Paul explaining that they needed to make it secure. While they did that, he’d shown Tommy-Lee the layout of a small building that, from the smell of oil, he’d figured had once been some kind of workshop.

  It was tight on space inside, mostly because of two beds and not much else apart from the supplies. But the sight of the handcuffs on one of the beds had done a whole lot to sober him up, and he’d listened carefully to Paul’s instructions. Shit, this was for real!

  The prisoner, Paul had said, was coming in the following day. He would be dropped off and handcuffed to the bed, and under no circumstances was he to be allowed free except for when he wanted to use the latrine bucket or to wash himself—and even then with one ankle restraint in place. He’d leave a key, of course, once the man was delivered and secured. The sedative he’d been administered would keep him quiet for a good while, and other than dripping water into the man’s mouth every hour or so to keep him hydrated, all Tommy-Lee had to do was let him come to when he was good and ready.

  Then they would be back.

  “I got it,” Tommy-Lee had muttered. “Secure at all times. I know the procedure.”

  “Good.” Paul had nodded. “You are also to stay in here with him. No going outside, even under cover of darkness. There are farmers here and occasional passing traffic, so you sleep, eat, and drink inside.” He’d paused for a couple of beats and stared hard with eyes bright as a buzzard Tommy-Lee had once seen in a wildlife center. “To make sure, I’m going to lock the door from the outside. But you’ll be okay with that, right?”

  “Sure.” Actually he wasn’t, because even with his background he hated being locked up. Didn’t matter that it was a wooden box he could probably bust out of if he had a mind. But no way was he going to say that to this guy.

  “And I need your cell phone.”

  “Say what?” Tommy-Lee didn’t exactly have a busy address book of people he liked to touch base with, but the idea of handing over his cell came as a surprise.

  “You’ll get it back, I promise. It’s just a precaution. In any case, out here there’s no signal.”

  Tommy-Lee shrugged, suddenly too tired to argue. “Sure. Why not?” He handed it over. Battery was near dead, anyway. He’d left the charger at Dougie’s place. He’d probably sold it on eBay by now.

  “Good. Any questions?”

  He shook his head. Truth was, he had a whole lot of them, mostly about who the prisoner really was and what was going to happen to him aside from being locked up in this shitty box. But with the look Paul was giving him he didn’t figure it would be a good idea to ask. He also wanted to point out that there was a whole ton of laws about kidnapping and taking a person across state lines and probably even more about messing with military brownnosers. But that, too, could wait.

  “No. Everything’s cool.”

  Now the smell of fear and piss was hanging off the man on the bed like a cloak. It was humiliation, the first part of a process Tommy-Lee had learned in Iraq a long time ago while interrogating insurgents. He’d been good at it, too. Had gotten himself a good rep for making prisoners talk, even when they didn’t want to. Some had said he was the best there was. But that was before one of the inmates had gone and died on him and an investigations commission had brought the roof down on his head.

  He spat on the floor and stepped over to the other bed, hunkering down so that his eyes were on the same level as the prisoner’s. Time to earn his money. He was holding the hunting knife in front of him so the man on the bed could see it clearly, and he smiled at the way the guy’s eyes went wide and wild like a cow about to be slaughtered. It was another part of the process: the threat of imminent punishment.

  The man was making grunting noises and shaking his head, and Tommy-Lee watched, fascinated, as he tried to shrink his body away through the wall behind him. It was a reaction he’d seen and enjoyed countless times before; the response to absolute power over another human being. He reached for the bottle of water and dribbled some across the man’s face, deliberately hitting his eyes and nose. More grunting noises, this time high-pitched like he was about to explode.

  Not quite water-boarding, Tommy-Lee knew, but the threat was the same. Block up a man’s nose and mouth and they can feel death sitting right there on their shoulder, waiting to take over.

  He waited for the man to go still, then reached over and ripped the tape away, taking some skin and stubble with it. He held the knife right in front of the man’s eyes so he could see it close up, see his own shit-scared reflection in the blade’s shiny surface.

  “Be still,” he cautioned and was surprised at how good it felt to actually speak in this tiny airless space; how clear and commanding his voice sounded. “I’ll give you a drink, cross my heart. And I’ll take off the cuffs so you can piss and wash yourself. But first you have to know something that might just save your life. You listening to me?”

  Another part of the process: the offer of potential release. Didn’t matter how tough a man thought he was, how committed or brain-washed by hate or politics or religion or arrogance; they all wanted to grab a hold on life. On freedom.

  The man nodded and went still.

  “First thing is, you should know that there’s a bunch of ragheads out there who I think want to do bad things to you.”

  The man’s lips parted and a noise came out, but it was unintelligible, a croak through dry vocal chords and a gummy mouth.

  Tommy-Lee held up a finger. “Don’t speak. Just listen. If we get along here, and you cooperate, everything will be just fine.” He dribbled more water over the man’s lips and averted his head when he choked and coughed, spraying the liquid into the air. “Easy, pal,” he said softly. “You gotta calm down. Spit on me again and I’ll leave you to go dry. Hear me?”

  Another eager nod, this time with eyes fixed on the water bottle in Tommy-Lee’s hand. The man’s tongue flicked out, fissured with dehydration, and dragged itself across cracked lips.

  “Please.” The word was squeezed out, the whisper no louder than a breath of air.

  Tommy-Lee tilted the water bottle, slowly this time, so the man didn’t convulse or choke. Last thing he needed was for the guy to die on him before Paul and his pals got back. A dead body would probably get him nothing but a whole lot of trouble he didn’t want.

  Ragheads. As the description entered his head, he wondered for the first time why his subconscious kept seeing those words. Then it hit him. On the way here from Kansas City, the men in front had barely spoken to each other. But just once, through t
he alcoholic haze that had taken him in and out of sleep, he’d heard some vaguely familiar words coming from the one called Bill, before Paul had choked him off and told him to shut up, but in English.

  Tommy-Lee had never learned much Arabic, other than a few brutal commands needed to get a prisoner’s attention. But he knew enough from what Bill had said to have guessed which part of the world these three men really came from. And it blew any story about friends and military jail and an overeager officer right out of the water.

  What surprised him more than anything was that he really didn’t give a damn.

  He had a job to do and he was going to do it.

  eight

  The StoneSeal offices were located in a glittering, wedge-shaped tower of steel and tinted glass on an intersection close by some rail tracks in New Jersey. Surrounded by other buildings bearing the pallid air of new builds as yet untouched by the acid bite of city fumes, it gave Ruth the impression of a company hiding in plain sight; there but beyond the reach of ordinary mortals unless by invitation.

  Vaslik led the way into a large reception atrium, where an attractive young woman was seated behind a long counter. Around her was an impressive bank of camera monitors and computer screens. Two uniformed security guards were seated close by, with another patrolling a mezzanine floor at the top of a whispering escalator. Other than the men in uniform, the atrium floor and mezzanine were empty.

  “Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” Vaslik murmured.

  “Don’t remind me,” Ruth said. She was feeling self-conscious. She had a slight tear in her jacket sleeve where she’d been knocked over by the spotter, and a puffy area of redness under one eye. In spite of that, she knew she’d been lucky to have got away so unscathed. Vaslik had suggested calling it a day and getting her checked over by a doctor, but she’d refused. They had too much to do and wimping out wasn’t her thing. After making sure the attacker’s hard hat and knife were safely bagged up for examination later, she’d suggested they get to the StoneSeal offices.

  “How can I help you?” The receptionist was polite and brisk. If she noticed the fight damage to Ruth, she was too well-trained to show it.

  Vaslik gave their names and added, “We have an appointment with David MacInnes.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s been called out of the office.” The response was automatic and conveyed no discernible flicker of regret. “Can I take a message?”

  Vaslik checked his cell phone. “In that case how about John DeGeorgio?” Ruth glanced past his shoulder. The screen showed the names of the three top individuals in the company; MacInnes was CEO, DeGeorgio was Operating Director, and a woman named Karen Simanski was the Financial and Technical Director.

  “Sorry, but he’s unavailable. In fact there’s a major client conference going on and they’ve asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Miss Simanski?”

  “Her, too.” She stared up at Vaslik as if waiting for him to drop another name on her. One of the security guards got to his feet and edged closer as though a signal had been activated. He was large, with the bearing of an ex-cop, and wore a holstered gun on his waist. He said nothing but stared at Vaslik and Ruth in turn. The other guard gave a flick of his hand and the man on the mezzanine began walking down the escalator towards them.

  “I’ll show you to the door, sir—madam,” the first guard said and moved round from behind the desk to lead the way out.

  Vaslik hesitated for a moment, then reached into his inside breast pocket and produced a small wallet. He flicked it open and Ruth saw an ID card with his photo and the familiar logo of the Department of Homeland Security. “That’s not necessary,” Vaslik said. “We won’t be leaving just yet. You might like to get hold of your head of security or head of personnel—I don’t care which. Or are they in the client conference, too?”

  That stopped the guard in his tracks, and he threw a confused look at the receptionist, as if he hadn’t been prepared for this. His colleague made a hurried gesture and the man on the escalator stepped off and stayed where he was.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, her face flushed. “I didn’t realise. I’ll get Janna Conway, our Human Resources vice president.”

  Five minutes later, Vaslik and Ruth were seated in a third-floor conference room. Across the table sat a woman in her forties, with a tinge of a Caribbean accent and a ready smile.

  “My apologies for the misunderstanding downstairs,” she murmured warmly. “But our front-of-house staff hadn’t been made aware that the appointment with David MacInnes was made by a government agency.” She waited for a response, but there was none, so she continued. “And the client conference came up rather unexpectedly, which meant our senior team was called away at short notice. How can I help?”

  “James Chadwick,” said Vaslik shortly. “We’re trying to locate him.”

  A flicker of an eyelid and Conway nodded. “I see. I’m afraid all I can tell you is that he has taken an unexplained leave of absence.”

  “So you know where he is?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. He didn’t inform us of the details.”

  “That’s because he’s gone missing.”

  A momentary hesitation. “That’s not what I was told, Agent”—she looked for the security pass attached to his jacket—“Vaslik.”

  “I guess you were misinformed. The facts are that you don’t know where he is, nor does his family. We have good reason to believe that he might be in some kind of trouble and we’d like to find him.”

  “Then I’m not sure how I can help, Mr. Vaslik. I can pull his staff file, but I know for a fact that it contains his home address and financial details as permitted by law, but no personal details that would indicate where he might be now.”

  “Perhaps we can see his workplace, then,” he countered.

  She hesitated and sat up straight. “I’m not sure that’s allowed. This is very irregular, you know. Are you aware that StoneSeal is on the approved contractors list to the federal government? We have important security issues here—”

  “I’m sure you have, Ms. Conway. As do we. Which is why it would be unwise to be seen to stonewall an investigation into the disappearance of one of your employees. If he’s in any kind of trouble, the least your company can do is allow us to start tracing his movements so that we can relay some information to his wife and son, don’t you think?”

  Ruth was impressed and had to fight to maintain a blank expression. She wondered where Vaslik was going with this, and how far he’d get before somebody decided to check with the DHS and bring the ceiling down on them for impersonating US law-enforcement officers. But since she was powerless to stop him now he’d gone this far, she was going to have to sit it out and wait to be locked up.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give that impression at all, Agent Vaslik.” Conway’s voice had lost some of its warmth, and now held a slight veneer of panic. “I should have mentioned that our consultants don’t spend much time here, and therefore don’t have assigned workstations. They hot-desk on an as-needed basis.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “As a matter of fact there are a few of Mr. Chadwick’s personal possessions here. We thought it best to keep them in our secure room until we knew what to do with them. But I’m sure I can let you have a look through them if it would help.”

  Vaslik smiled. “That would be most kind. Thank you.”

  Seconds later they were following Conway at a brisk pace down two flights of stairs and into a long corridor with doors on either side. The décor was clinical and cold, and each door carried a keypad and swipe mechanism. Ruth wondered how much hot-desking was going on behind the doors. It certainly wasn’t giving off the aura of a busy office building.

  Conway stopped outside one of the doors and used a card on a metal chain around her neck to swipe the lock. The space inside was a storage room, with shelves around the walls
holding a variety of office equipment, boxes, and filing cabinets. She bustled over to a plain cardboard box on a shelf and lifted it onto a table in the centre of the room.

  “This is all there was, I’m afraid. We don’t really encourage our consultants to keep much here, for security reasons.” She gave a brief smile, and when Vaslik showed no sign of looking into the box, she got the message and moved towards the door. “Excuse me. I’ll be right outside.”

  As soon as she had closed the door behind her, they looked in the box. Conway had been telling the truth; there wasn’t much inside. A small leather briefcase, which was empty, a calculator, several pens, three coloured markers, an envelope containing a mix of currencies, mostly in coin, a Bartholomew folding map of the Central United States, and a conference brochure for an event in Denver, Colorado.

  “He wasn’t exactly the hoarder type, was he?” Vaslik murmured. He checked the briefcase again and dropped it back in the box. “Darn. I was hoping for something like a desk diary at least.”

  “He’s a consultant,” Ruth reminded him. “They do everything on tablets and smart phones. It goes with the image. This is interesting.” She picked up the brochure, which was a glossy folder for a conference on unmanned aircraft systems.

  Vaslik looked over her shoulder and pulled a face. “I used to fly model gliders as a kid. This stuff is way out of my league.”

  “What, you playing with toy planes? Somehow I can’t picture that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d send them up but they didn’t always come home again. In the end I ran out of money and enthusiasm.”

  “But this isn’t about airplanes or gliders; it’s about drones. Big boys’ toys.” She opened the folder and checked the list of events, which included speaker panels, workshop sessions, and demonstrations, all aimed at end-users, suppliers, and service providers, among others.

  “So?”