by Dana Haynes
“Now. Watch this.” Brevidge raised his walkie phone and spoke to the control room. “Audio, dude.”
A computer-generated rectangle appeared atop the video feed from Italy. The rectangle was long and low and bisected by a horizontal hairline.
The image itself zoomed from the white van to a Hyundai discharging four people: two men in ill-fitting, cheap suits, an older woman unfolding an aluminum cane, and a driver.
The older woman, jowly and all but disguised by gigantic glasses, spoke. “Sei securo di questa?”
The spiky sine wave of an audio signal appeared in the narrow computer-generated box. Words appeared, attached to the box, reading SUBJECT 1.
The audio box snapped up into the left-hand corner of the wall-wide screen, lining up with an unseen grid.
Another voice from the street—someone else from the Hyundai party—said, “Sì. Fiducia, Dottore.”
A new audio box popped up marked SUBJECT 2.
“There.” Brevidge grinned. “With a couple of words, Mercutio can acquire the voice prints of up to two hundred and thirty different people. Now, if this old lady were to walk into a cocktail party with hundreds of people talking, laughing, music playing, whatever; Mercutio could pick her out in under ten seconds. From her voice print alone.”
The guests nodded their approval.
“Once we have an audio print, there’s no way anyone can shake us.” He spoke into his handheld. “Translation?”
Words began appearing on the audio boxes, in a tight, conservative typeface.
INCANTADA: Are you sure about this?
SUBJECT 2: Yes. Trust me, Doctor.
Todd said, “And if that wasn’t enough…” He spoke into his phone. “Face.”
A computer-generated frame appeared around Dr. Incantada’s face. The frame zoomed off to a far corner of the screen, taking an after-image of her face with it. The image flickered a few times, then locked in place.
“Facial recognition software,” Brevidge said. “Should the lady choose not to speak again: Big deal. Mercutio never forgets a face.”
Both buyers were reacting now, as they studied the face on the screen.
Brevidge had picked his moment well. “Oh, yeah. I see you’ve met our guest today. Dr. Gabriella Incantada. Folks: Our competition. I understand Uncle Sam has considered putting in an order for her invention, over ours.”
Mr. Smith and Miss Jones looked none too happy about this development.
Todd Brevidge straightened his tie and gave them his best canary-fed grin. “This would be a good time to ask for the taxpayers’ money back.”
Florence
The livery building had been gutted but the floors were still standing. The accoutrements of construction workers were everywhere, from paint cans and long-handled paint rollers to a bolted-down table saw to fat pink rolls of insulation, still tightly ensconced in shrink wrap. The floors were covered in sweet-smelling sawdust and wood chips. A garbage chute was set up on a second floor: a glassless window covered by a wooden frame, outside of which hung a long plastic tube, three feet in diameter and looking like a giant vacuum cleaner hose. It dove down two floors to a paint-scarred orange Dumpster in the pedestrian alley behind the building.
On the ground floor, the rehabilitation project had left no obvious or easy means of egress from the livery building to the hotel. But several shared walls had been breached on the second and third floors.
Derrick Saito silently prowled the floor, glancing quickly out through the windows in back or through the billowing shroud up front.
Owen Cain Thorson settled down, sitting on a roll of pink insulation wrapped into tight logs. He gripped his Glock in his right hand. In his left he held a badly creased, sun-faded photo of Daria Gibron.
His hands shook.
* * *
The blonde working under the nom de guerre of Major Arcana had carefully orchestrated the theft of Gabriella Incantada’s invention. Controlling the concierge desk had been step one: They had allowed guests to check out but not check in. The Hotel Criterion was down to just one set of guests, occupying a third-floor suite.
The so-called major thought she had accounted for every contingency. She hadn’t anticipated the engineer’s driver pulling a stunt like that. From the way the black-haired beauty moved, she was well trained. Krav Maga, the Israeli martial arts form, the major thought.
Which meant the unconscious woman at her feet was Daria Gibron, friend of the Mexican.
The major blinked at the woman sprawled on the brown-and-gold miasmic carpet. Then grinned up at Dr. Incantada. “Cool! You made a new friend!”
The major spoke fluent Italian, and with a Roman accent not dissimilar to Gabriella Incantada’s own.
“I require your case, please.”
The Serb soldiers circled the concierge desk from the left and the right, both ratcheting their machine pistols solely for the shock value of that distinctive sound. Gabriella Incantada’s two technicians flinched, blood draining from their faces.
Dr. Incantada peered up through her coke-bottle glasses at the strangely grinning blonde in the ponytail and cute little sweater set.
“Who are you?”
The blonde clicked her teeth. “A huge fan of your work, Gabby. Can I call you Gabby? The case, please.”
Dr. Incantada studied her. She glanced at the strange Israeli woman at her feet. The engineer looked more annoyed than frightened. She looked down at her case. It was a classic doctor’s bag, flat-bottomed, pebbled leather, with a single arced leather handle and twin straps over the top, to either side of the handle.
She considered her options.
* * *
They had agreed that Diego would stay outside and keep an eye on everyone. Skorpjo likely knew what Diego looked like. Daria could make the approach to the hotel more quietly on her own.
Diego scored a pair of binoculars from a tourist shop. He stepped into a restaurant and walked back to the men’s room, then picked a lock to get upstairs and onto the roof. From there he could watch the Hotel Criterion and Daria’s back.
He was watching her back now, all right. It lay unmoving on the lobby carpet, at the feet of Dr. Incantada. Diego couldn’t tell from his angle if Daria was breathing.
He adjusted his cowboy hat, lipped a silent prayer to St. Jude, and reached under his denim shirt for his Colt .45.
Twelve
Sandpoint, Idaho
The Pentagon contingent stared at the computer-generated image of Gabriella Incantada. They realized that the timing of the American Citadel demonstration had been no coincidence. There was a reason they’d both been spirited into Canada, east across the continent, and then back into the United States, despite the very strict rules of the U.S. State Department regarding business dealings with American Citadel Electronics, LLC.
Todd Brevidge was enjoying the theatricality of the show. “Mercutio’s optics have already been demonstrated. Now that we have Dr. Incantada’s face on file, Mercutio could follow her anywhere.”
Brevidge waited a second for the guests to absorb this.
“Its audio capability also has been demonstrated. Combine the face-recognition software with the voice-recognition software, and Mercutio becomes the ultimate bloodhound. We could follow Dr. Incantada into that huge crowd outside the cathedral, right now, this very second, and she’d have no possible hope of eluding us.”
Mr. Smith and Miss Jones eyed each other.
Mr. Smith caught Brevidge’s attention. When he spoke his voice was a guttural Southern drawl, a raspy blend of cigarettes and a career screaming at soldiers. “Dr. Incantada promises the same thing. And her price is a hell of a lot more reasonable.”
Brevidge forced a laugh. “Well, sure. Cut-rate prices for cut-rate material. You get what you pay for. Our product is expensive. But what it delivers—our nation’s safety, our enemies’ heads on spits while our pilots sit in comfort, far from the enemy—is worth the price.”
Miss Jones raised an eyebr
ow. “Dr. Incantada made much the same argument. But again, at two-thirds the price.”
Brevidge was about to counter, but the man they were calling Mr. Smith cut in. “You’re controlling the drone’s movements from here?”
“Yes and no. Our chief engineer and his pilots, in the booth behind you, have given the Mercutio you see on this screen a task. He told it to study the automobiles and the people in that alley in Florence. We also have a truck-and-trailer parked just outside of Florence for the transportation and maintenance of the drones. The truck has two more pilots, who can control the drones as well. Either way: if this was Fallujah or downtown Tehran, you’d have birds in the air but pilots who are safe and sound.”
The Pentagon brass seemed to approve.
Todd waved toward the screens. “For this mission, my chief engineer can override that task and zoom Mercutio number one into a specific target, like the white van, or a specific person, like the old broad with the cane.”
Miss Jones stepped in. “‘Mercutio number one’?”
“Ah!” Brevidge held up one finger, so pleased that someone had pounced on the line he’d laid out for them. “Did I forget to mention: this Mercutio doesn’t fly alone.”
He lifted the walkie phone. “Snow?”
And the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling plasma screen split instantaneously, morphing from one huge Florentine image into eight images, four across, two deep. Each showed the alley or the architecture of the southern side of Florence, but from differing heights and differing angles.
“We didn’t send one Mercutio for this demonstration. We sent eight. And the data stream from all eight merges at a dedicated satellite and bounces right back. Which means the voice-recog and face-recog data that one micro-drone has, all eight micro-drones have.”
“Folks?” Brevidge patted down his silk tie and pivoted on the heel of his shoe. “I said Mercutio is a bloodhound. That’s not quite accurate. It’s a pack of hunting dogs.”
Mr. Smith said, “Will we get a demonstration of Hotspur?”
Todd glanced at the American Citadel brass in the back of the room. “Well, not from Italy, no. While Mercutio is a surveillance suite, Hotspur is an aggressive weapons package. We can’t exactly go blasting away in Florence. However, we have a demonstration range in an abandoned mine, about two hours south of Sandpoint, which we’ll be switching to for a live demonstration in about thirty minutes.”
Miss Jones said, “What sort of weapons package?”
“Depends on the configuration,” Todd swiveled to her. “Guns or miniature guided missiles. Because of weight restrictions on the drones, we use only small-caliber weapons. But the bullets are incendiaries, and the missiles are our own design, which we’ll show you when we switch to the demonstration range a little later this morning. The beauty of the Hotspur weapons suite is that we can configure the MAVs for whatever opposition we expect to face.”
Cyrus Acton glowed, watching his protégé, Todd Brevidge, completely in his element.
Miss Jones nodded, eyes darting to the screen. “But you have a set of these Hotspur drones on scene? In Florence?”
“For demonstration purposes, yes. We wanted you to notice that the hummingbirds and the hawks are floating around over this very crowded city and nobody’s paying any attention to them. They’re just too small and too fast, and they were designed to be mistaken for actual birds.
“We’ll show you the visuals from Hotspur’s perspective, too. While Mercutio can hover like a helicopter, Hotspur swoops. I say that as a warning; with the high-def screens, it can be a little disorienting. For instance, you won’t get an image as stable as this.”
He spoke into his walkie. “Give us a close-up of the lobby, dude.”
One of the Mercutio MAVs zoomed in on the front window of the Hotel Criterion. Through the glass, they could see a cluster of people standing about.
From the back of the room, Cyrus Acton said, “Todd…?”
“Ah. Yessir?”
Acton pointed over Brevidge’s shoulder at the screen. “What’s going on there? In the hotel?”
Todd turned. Through the plate-glass window of the hotel, he, the brass, and the buyers could see Dr. Incantada and her two assistant engineers. Standing opposite them were members of the hotel staff.
It took Todd a moment to realize that the engineer’s driver lay on the floor. Unconscious or dead.
And that two of the hotel staff carried submachine guns with folding stocks and dual handles.
“Whoa,” Todd said. “Whoa whoa whoa what the hell?”
Mr. Acton had surged forward, now standing between Todd and the buyers.
Todd lifted his walkie. “Snow, are you getting this?”
The voice came back quickly from the phone. “Sure am.”
“What the … is this a robbery? Snow, get us audio.”
A second later, and the people in the observation lounge began to hear electronically enhanced voices. Audio signatures popped up on one of the screens, logging the speakers as INCANTADA, DR. GABRIELLA and SPEAKER 3.
Speaker number three was the tall, pretty blond woman. She was speaking in Italian.
From the control room, one of Snow’s pilots made an adjustment to the audio. As the blonde spoke, an English translation of her words appeared beneath the sine wave of her audio signature.
SPEAKER 3: I’m waiting.
INCANTADA: Who are you?
SPEAKER 3: For the sake of today’s fun, I’m using the name Major Arcana. It’s a joke, but don’t feel bad if you don’t get it. Now, my friends in Belgrade have need of some of your technology, Doctor …
Florence
Daria lay sprawled before the blonde’s Gucci pumps. The peaked driver’s cap lay on the floor, upside down. Daria’s hair fanned out, obscuring her eyes, which were open. She was awake and listening to the conversation above her. She did not move.
The blonde calling herself Major Arcana turned to the elderly woman with the pebbled leather doctor’s bag and three-footed cane. “My friends in Belgrade have need of some of your technology, Doctor.”
Dr. Incantada’s eyes grew large, magnified by her thick lenses. She gripped her steel case in the hand not holding her cane. She looked pugnacious.
Major Arcana bent at the waist and picked up the communications bracelet Daria had stripped off her wrist. “I’ve got two friends with me, and you’ve got two friends with you. The big difference is: my friends have submachine guns. And I’ve asked my friends to shoot your friends in the kneecaps should you be reluctant to cooperate.”
The two engineers started to protest, but a glance from the woman’s silvery blue eyes shut them up.
“May I have the case, please?” The major held out her hand. “Doctor?”
Gabriella Incantada paused a second, then handed over her doctor’s bag.
The blonde took it from her. “Thank you. Now my sources say the command mechanism for this device is already in the hotel safe. And you have the combination?”
Incantada studied the younger woman. Jowls quivering, she recited the fourteen-digit alphanumeric code. Major Arcana didn’t bother writing it down.
“Splendid! Dr. Incantada? Gentlemen? We are heading upstairs now. I have locked the front door and the telephones are disabled. I wish you to stay here for exactly twenty minutes. Can you do that? Twenty minutes. Then please feel free to holler all you wish.”
She turned to the stairs, and her two Serb soldiers backed up, machine pistols locked on the engineer, her men, and the unmoving form at her feet.
Sandpoint, Idaho
Mr. Acton grabbed Todd by the shoulder and hissed. “We have to do something!”
Todd turned on the emaciated man. “Ah. Sure. I mean: Yeah. But … I don’t know what we can do about it. This is happening in real time!”
The representatives from the Pentagon stood back and watched the interplay.
Acton leaned in closer. Brevidge could smell Aqua Velva. “It’s one thing to convince Incant
ada’s buyers that our product is better. But we cannot have her product out there, competing against us. Especially in Eastern Europe! You heard that woman! She mentioned Belgrade! That’s the Balkans!”
“Sure. I know.” Brevidge could see the two buyers watching it all. “But even if we tried to contact the Florence cops, I don’t think we could stop this in time! It looks like Incantada’s driver is already dead. Jesus, man, we gotta—”
“Think of something, Todd!”
The salesman’s brain reeled. He turned again to study the screen. The mysterious blonde and her armed men were gone. Dr. Incantada’s party stood, paralyzed, the woman driver lying on the floor.
Todd lifted his walkie. “Snow? Dude. You got any brilliant ideas, now’d be the time.”
* * *
In the control room, Bryan Snow adjusted his voice wand first, then his Buddy Holly frames. “You know? I think maybe I have an idea.”
* * *
Daria, her cheek against the carpet, watched the blonde and her soldiers hit the stairs.
She’d just had her ass kicked by a Barbie doll.
As soon as the opposition rounded the curved stairs, Daria sat up painfully. She hauled herself to her hands and knees. Dr. Gabriella Incantada and her engineers stood, stone-scared.
The engineer said, “Are you all right?”
Daria said, “No.”
“Those people. They took my module.”
Daria’s ear was in flames and pain radiated from her skull, down her neck, to her back. Her vision blurred.
Think, bitch! Daria cursed herself. Get on your goddam feet, Gibron! Move Move Move!
She clamored clumsily to her feet. She almost toppled but managed to right herself.
Dr. Incantada said, “My module—”
“Is it dangerous?”
“I should think so, signora. There are three of them. They have guns.”
Daria screwed her eyes shut and ground her teeth together. When she opened her eyes, the room had stopped spinning. “No,” she hissed. “This module thing. Is it dangerous?”
