by Tim Tigner
Deception is another thing we’re adept at registering on a subconscious level, so I decided on the direct approach. I parked as near to her as I could get, then walked straight over. I dangled my keys and opened with a line from an old Burt Reynolds movie. “I’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there. Need some help with the driving. You up for it?”
“Just you?” she asked, buying time. I was sure that she’d seen me alone in the car.
“Just me.” You might think that mentioning my credentials or using a religious reference would buttress my case, make her more inclined to trust me. But oddly enough, studies well regarded by the law enforcement community show that people who do either of those are more likely to be lying than people who don’t. So I gave her a sincere smile and left it at that.
“No, thanks. I’m actually waiting for someone.”
Her reply was obviously a lie, but I didn’t challenge it. “Have a nice day.”
I took advantage of the facilities, both out of need and on a hunch. But she was still at her post when I came out a minute later. It wasn’t until I keyed the ignition that she came running. “Where are you headed?”
Despite Vic’s revelation, I was still heading straight for the city where Oz and Sabrina worked. I literally had no place else to search for clues. But I wasn’t headed there directly. “The airport in Orlando, Florida.”
Unlike the earlier hitchhikers, I let my new traveling companion keep her backpack on the rear seat. Same logic she was applying, but in reverse. I told her my name was Kyle and she introduced herself as Lily. We discussed the route, which took us southeast across Mississippi to Mobile, Alabama, then east across the Florida Panhandle before breaking south toward Orlando. I told her I needed to get some sleep and we left it at that.
I reclined the passenger seat and shut my eyes, but didn’t attempt to sleep. That would be an exercise in futility and I had some serious thinking to do. Obviously, I hadn’t turned myself in. Not because I faulted Vic’s logic, but because I hadn’t done a thorough analysis of the new data.
Being honest with myself, I knew I wouldn’t consider my analysis thorough until it yielded a conclusion that left Katya alive. I wasn’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. Probably both. In any case, I knew I’d stick with it until the day I died.
The question I couldn’t get past was why Oz and Sabrina had initially taken Katya with them. Had the flight been a change of plan? If so, then she would likely turn up someplace between Reno and Vegas. Given the BOLO, Vic would be informed almost immediately, so clearly that hadn’t happened yet.
Despite my optimistic resolve, I couldn’t help picturing her body on the side of a desolate, sun-drenched road, with buzzards circling about. If I closed my eyes, I saw buzzards. If I opened my eyes, I pictured buzzards. I didn’t believe that she’d really been killed because I couldn’t feel a knife in my heart, but the morbid imagery was distressing nonetheless.
To get the bloody birds out of my mind, I changed the channel. I pulled out my iPhone with its fresh SIM card and began researching Personal Propulsion Systems.
I was expecting to find a scooter company. One of those trendy, battery-powered skateboard or Segway-like rolling transporters used in place of walking. What I found was something entirely more audacious.
PPS was developing a jetpack. An actual jetpack. One of those James Bond, Buck Rogers, Rocket Man-style engines you strapped to your back and flew with. I supposed the Space Coast location should have been a tipoff, but I missed that clue.
The PPS website was just a Work In Progress placeholder, but I did find a few other companies in the niche, and one had a very impressive video. It showed a man flying over rivers and lakes using a device that looked exactly like what the comic books predicted. At first I thought it was faked, but it proved to be real. USA Today confirmed it in a front page story on November 11, 2015 titled “Man on jetpack flies around Statue of Liberty.”
That meant the core Iron Man technology had existed for years. If a fatal flaw hadn’t been found, it would now be in the refinement and regulatory approval stage. It occurred to me that between jetpacks and drones and hover boards and self-driving cars, the Department of Transportation had to be hopelessly swamped.
The world was evolving at an incredible pace. It was no wonder that so many people were so scared.
Turning back to PPS, I found very little online beyond a basic description and a few dates. One notation in a business database got me thinking. A year ago, PPS had changed hands. Neither the former nor current owners were listed, but the sale indicated that Oz had acquired the company, rather than founding it. That surprised me.
Having spent quite a while in Silicon Valley, I knew that the inventors of breakthrough technologies clung to their virtual babies like genuine mothers. They were loath to let go while life remained. This implied that Oz had purchased a dead company.
Why do that?
Usually, such buyouts were made to acquire an asset, rather than a product line. A patent, a piece of real estate, a name.
I didn’t know what assets Personal Propulsion Systems had, and I wouldn’t until I was there on the ground. For the moment, I had far more questions than answers. But I was grateful to have them. Anything but buzzards.
61
A Few Words
Location: Unknown
KATYA LOST all sense of time in the trunk. She had trouble telling if minutes or hours had passed since she last wondered how long she’d been there. There just weren’t many pegs to hang memories on, and the constant back and forth between wakefulness and furtive sleep spoiled the few clues she had.
Why her captors didn’t listen to the radio was beyond her. Katya was most interested in the news, but would have been happy to hear music. Any music. Well, almost. Some styles got pretty monotonous.
She could hear Oz and Sabrina speaking, although they did precious little of that. And when they did it wasn’t the Queen’s English they’d used in the bunker. It was Maltese. At least in theory. It sounded very Middle Eastern to her. Then again, perhaps Maltese did.
When the couple did talk, Katya listened intently. Hoping to hear her name or Achilles’. Preferably in some context, but just the tone would do. So far, she’d learned nothing beyond the fact that the couple currently wasn’t big on communicating.
Either their relationship had degraded since the bunker or stress was keeping them silent.
For her own part, Katya tried to take inspiration from what Achilles had told her about his months in jail. He’d staved off melancholy by focusing on improving body and mind.
Her body improvement options were limited, given the fact that she was locked in a box. She estimated the trunk to be about five feet wide over the rear bumper tapering to three feet where it backed the seats. The depth was a bit over three feet. The height about eighteen inches. Not bad as cars went, but pretty crappy for a bed.
One thing was for sure, she’d never complain about the economy seat on an airplane again.
To help pass her waking hours, Katya constructed a mental blueprint of the trunk and then invented yoga poses it would accommodate. Attempting to act them out stretched her muscles and calmed her mind.
Her greatest triumph was freeing her hands. She stumbled into the opportunity accidentally during one of her innovative yoga postures. The end of the tape caught on a cutout in the trunk lid. Leveraging it to work the tape around, given the gymnastics that required, probably took the better part of an hour. But it was good to have a goal and ultimately worth it.
The first thing she did with her hands was prepare the torn-off tape so that it could quickly be reapplied. It would be a shoddy job, but if she was lucky it would just appear to have come loose with wear.
The second task she gave her freshly freed hands was to search the trunk for an emergency release. Some button or lever or pull the automaker installed in case you happened to lock yourself in the trunk. If there was one, Oz had yanked it out. Just lik
e the elevator control panel.
It shocked, surprised and distressed her to no end that they’d been the spies all along. She and Achilles had both swallowed that hook. To make matters worse, Trey had been right.
While Katya sucked on that sour nugget, the car pulled off the highway and up a ramp. It stopped a minute later, probably to get gas. She could hear the radio blaring in a nearby car and the starting of a diesel engine. Then Oz’s British accent reached her ears. “Given the ease with which my voice can travel through the seats, imagine what a bullet could do.”
The radio came on a second later, blaring loudly from speakers just above her head.
Katya felt the driver and the passenger exit. She felt the opening and closing of both doors. Her hopes started to soar but quickly crashed. She heard the gas cap coming off and felt the fuel start flowing. One of them was right there, inches from her head.
She went to work smoothing the wrist tape back into place. It was impossible to inspect her work, but it probably wouldn’t matter. They weren’t going to have her step out into the parking lot. If they opened the trunk at all, it would likely be to stuff some food in.
She heard the gas pump kick to a stop, and somebody closing the cap. But nothing after that. A few minutes later, both doors opened and closed. The ignition cranked and they began to move. No food. No water. No toilet.
The radio was switched off and the car stopped shortly thereafter. It remained in idle. The passenger door opened, the trunk popped, and Oz dropped a plastic bag before her inquisitive eyes. He made no reference to what was inside, but he did tell her one thing. “Plan to pee on the floor.”
That wasn’t a good sign, she decided. He was dehumanizing her in his mind.
As they merged onto the highway, Oz and Sabrina began an animated conversation that led Katya to believe they’d received some interesting information. Either from a news program or a telephone call. Although they were rambling in an incoherent language, Katya recognized a word that made her blood run cold. An Arabic word. The only one she knew. Inshallah. God willing.
Later during the heated discussion, she also picked out two English words. Both spoken with emphasis, both repeated a couple of times. One was serenity, the other tranquility. Although she was all for both of those, given the context, Katya didn’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling. In fact, she couldn’t help but repeat two words of her own. Words that popped up in free association: suicide and bomber.
62
Realignment
Florida
LILY AND I were approaching Gainesville, nearing the home stretch, when mental lightning struck. It was one of those connections that comes because you aren’t actively grasping for it.
Fatigued but unable to sleep and tired of spinning my mental tires, I’d just broken part of the implied contract my hitchhiker and I had adhered to for nearly 800 miles. The no-chitchat proviso. Speaking loud enough to be heard over whatever she was listening to, I said, “What takes you to Florida?”
Lily looked over and studied my expression for a bit longer than road safety rules allow. She followed it with a one-word answer, but pulled out her earbuds. “Work.”
“Whereabouts?” She knew I was headed for the airport in Orlando, but had given no indication whether she’d be getting out prior or continuing on after our ride concluded.
“A nice town on the beach.”
“Florida has a lot of those.”
“I know.”
“Which one?”
She glanced my way again, but for a safer interval this time. “Don’t know yet.”
That answer fit the hitchhiker mold, but it didn’t fully square with the thoughtful nature I’d observed at the rest stop. I decided to press on. “How will you know when to stop moving?”
Lily didn’t answer immediately. We had plenty of time, and since neither of us was predisposed to idle banter, I figured she was taking the question seriously. Answering it for herself. Using me as a peripheral tool, like a classroom whiteboard.
“I’ve been waitressing in a small Texas town for five years. Like the work well enough. The people, the atmosphere, the predictability. Those all suit me. But life’s about more than work, you know?”
“Sure,” I said, supplying just enough feedback to keep her going.
“I kept dreaming about Hawaii. Began saving for my grand vacation. Instead of indulging when a big tipper came along, I put the extra money in a shoe box I’d decorated with magazine cutouts. Palm trees and beaches.”
“Sounds smart.”
“No. Actually, it was stupid.”
“How so?” I asked, guessing that someone stole her shoebox.
“Because instead of saving for a dream vacation to the beach, I could just move to the beach and make every day a vacation. Why waitress in Texas when you can waitress in Florida?”
“I thought your dream was Hawaii?”
“Florida gives me easy access to almost everything I want. And it’s a lot cheaper. Plus you can’t hitchhike to Hawaii,” she added before going on to describe the benefits of waitressing on the beach.
I’d stopped listening by then because an idea had ignited my brain. A flash sparked by seven insightful words. Easy access to almost everything I want.
My mind kept racing after she stopped talking and I realized I was being rude. “Congratulations on figuring things out while you’re young. Few people are so insightful or fortunate.”
That won me the kind of smile that earned big tips in her profession.
I pulled up the burner number app on my phone and said, “I need to make a call.”
Lily nodded and popped her earphones back in. She was still wearing a grin.
“Special Agent Link.”
“It’s Kyle Achilles. Do you have any news for me?”
“Do I have news for you? Who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re the person second most interested in solving this case.”
Vic scoffed, but played along. “Katya has not turned up. Nor have you, I note.”
Judging by my change in shoulder tension, I decided that counted as good news. The buzzards really had me worried. Ignoring his second comment, I asked. “What about Osama and Sabrina?”
“They disappeared at Heathrow.”
“Identity switch?” I guessed.
Rather than exiting through passport control, international passengers could continue on to another international flight. That transit created a gap during which it was possible to swap to a second set of papers using one of several tricks. That wasn’t a knock against Heathrow. It simply wasn’t possible to create an airtight system when inputs were required from all over the world.
“That’s the working assumption,” Vic said.
“So there’s no definitive photographic evidence of their UK arrival? Or their US departure, for that matter?”
“We have exit footage from McCarran,” Vic said, referencing the airport in Vegas.
“Good footage?” I asked.
Vic hesitated. “You think they faked their exit?”
“I do.”
“Is that because it’s the only scenario that makes Katya likely to be alive?”
“Maybe. But it also fits. Otherwise, why bother to take her in the first place?”
“I don’t know. But you know as well as I that escape and evasion scenarios are very fluid. They can and often do change minute to minute.”
He was right. They did. “What about their home and office?”
“Both abandoned. They left nothing significant behind at either location.”
Vic’s tone didn’t blip but that bit of intel sent my heart racing. Not wanting to show my excitement, I asked a camouflaging question. “What was the kidnappers’ connection to Kai Basher?”
“As if you don’t know.”
“Humor me.”
“Why do you ask?” Vic persisted.
“I haven’t had much time to watch the news.”
“Seriously.”
> “I’m working a puzzle here, and from what I saw they don’t fit the typical criminal mastermind mold.”
Vic took a swallow of something before answering. “Mr. Basher believes it was about remuneration and revenge. He knew the couple you encountered upstairs, first as the man’s boss, then as their competitor. Basher recently beat them in a battle worth billions.”
“So they considered themselves victims? Decided that a second wrong could put things right?”
Vic didn’t comment.
I made a mental note to look into the couple once this was over. Their situation was sad but not uncommon. Their actions, by contrast, were extraordinary. I found the psychology fascinating.
“I have a request,” I said.
“Me too. Do you want to go first or shall I?”
“I trust you’ve pulled Personal Propulsion Systems’ financial records. Specifically their purchase history. I’d like to see it, along with your forensic analysis.”
“What are you looking for?” Vic asked.
“It’s a know it when I see it kind of thing.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“I don’t think you are. Can you send it right now? Text it to this number?”
“I can’t share materials from an ongoing investigation with an outsider.”
“Sure you can. Make me a consultant.”
“You’re a suspect, Achilles. Not a consultant.”
“Who says I can’t be both? Sounds to me like a smart tactic on your part. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em. Two heads are better than one. Pick your favorite proverb and show yourself to be a wise man.”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“If you’re sure you can solve this without me, go right ahead. I’m all for that. I’ll hang up and you’ll never hear from me again.”
Vic sighed. “The report’s not ready yet.”
