Sabotage (13 page)

When she finished reading the script, she asked, “What do you make of it?”

“Seems like another dead end.” Austin massaged his temples, willing fatigue out of his system. “The transmission seems unrelated to Glitnir. Where does it come from? What does it mean? Who sent it, and to whom?”

“There's no time stamp or identification,” she said. “The sender sounds frantic. Incoherent. What does he mean, ‘The way is off my ship?' And he can't seem to make up his mind which direction he's going.”

“Seems full of non sequiturs. It's also bizarre the sender would have a diver down while his ship blazes with dangerous cargo. The ship must have ignited while the diver was under.”

“Maybe the communication has some historical significance. A famous ship that sank. Regardless, we have no guarantee this Baldr trail even leads us in the right direction.”

Austin perked up a little, not ready to abandon this route.

“True. But I have a hunch it does. Why else could the office prowler so desperately want the flash drive?”

Victoria paused. “You may be right. I should have connected the dots when you first rolled out the diagrams. Dad recently told me he'd completed a project long in the making—one of his most important yet—and said it had crippling abilities. Judging by the date the Baldr file was last modified, this must be one.”

“Did he mention any specifics?”

She shook her head. “He just reminded me to look out for myself.”

“This leaves us with only one more avenue.” Austin placed Dr. Clare's cell phone in Victoria's hands. “When you called your dad, I noticed he had one unheard voicemail message. Maybe we should check it.”

She nodded and dialed her father's voicemail, keying in the password and turning on the speakerphone.

A guttural voice spoke.

“You did it, Malcolm—congratulations! I won't forget the honor of having worked with you on this one. Sorry to say, this has to be brief. I'm calling to warn you. Yesterday I found a bug in my telephone. I can only guess what you may encounter. Careful, Mal, and talk soon.”

Recognition sparked in Victoria's eyes.

“You'd better pack your bags and grab a passport,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You're in it this far. Tell your roommate you'll be gone a few days. My dad said you'll be traveling? It starts now.”

Her insistence was as encouraging as it was bewildering.

“You're a high-pressure saleswoman,” Austin said, “and I'm listening, but a little lost.”

“We've found our lead. The voice in that message belongs to my honorary uncle, Fyodor Avdeenko. He's a nuclear physicist at Saint Petersburg State University, a consultant to many of Glitnir's projects, and a dear friend of my dad's.”

“You can't just call him?”

“This isn't the sort of thing you discuss on a nonsecure line. Plus, we can learn more in person.”

“You know where he lives?”

“He's practically family. I've been to his home lots of times.” Victoria closed her eyes a moment. For the first time, her face registered the stress of the situation. “This is about my dad, Austin. He must have seen real promise to offer that job. He trusts you. You've already gone to exceptional lengths. I could use a capable partner in finding him. It's a lot to ask.”

Her face was a study in tenacity and, despite her appeal for help, self-reliance. Austin knew his answer made no difference to her plans. She would go with or without him.

He saw beyond the attraction of an escape with an enchanting young female. He was watching her sense of security unravel; she could only be wondering when they'd come after her. He also realized there was more at stake than the lives of Malcolm Clare and his daughter. Much more. Whoever was behind the professor's disappearance, whoever the red-haired prowler was linked with, didn't want the man for his blood. Someone was after his ideas.

He softly squeezed her shoulder.

“I want to go with you,” he said, “but you should know why. As much as I'd hate to see a girl orphaned, I'm doing this because an enemy of your father is an enemy of mine. Clear?”

A twitch moved her lips, and he understood the comfort his selfishness afforded her. “Clear.”

“Now, a few minor obstacles.”

“Yes?”

“My passport's expired.”

“I'll snap a picture, send it in. Your documents will be waiting at the airport.”

He tried to keep the pessimism from his chuckle, didn't want to sound dismissive. “You're kidding, right?”

“Did you hear anything I told you about my father's line of work?”

“Okay, say your connections come through. How do you expect to finance this trip? We don't know what we'll run into.”

Victoria was already reaching for her wallet. It was in her pocket, not in a purse. “This will do.” She spun a black card of anodized titanium between her thumb and middle finger, holding it under the light.

“Is that…”

“An AMEX Centurion? Yes, it is.”

“Yours?”

“As I said, it will do.” She returned the charge card to her wallet. “Any more obstacles I should know about?”

“Let's check available flights to Saint Petersburg,” Austin said.

*   *   *

“I get it,” Ichiro said smugly, pacing the floor. “You're failing Clare's class, so to get on his good side you're taking his daughter on a trip. If all goes according to plan, sparks fly between you, and you cozy right up to Clare.”

“Very perceptive,” Austin replied, stuffing his backpack with gear.

“Ichiro the Clairvoyant knows all, sees all.” He slapped a palm with his other fist. “I just can't believe you made it this far with that frigid—”

“Sure, Victoria's a pistol. She warms up when you get to know her. A little. You might describe her as a … what did Hitchcock say of Grace Kelly in
Rear Window
?” He remembered. “A snow-covered volcano.”

“Let's call that a euphemism for another word I had in mind. Where are you going with her, anyway?”

“Telling you wouldn't be such a smart idea. You might show up and ruin our fun.”

Ichiro snapped his fingers. “And you're going to drop all your classes, just like that?”

“Midterms are over, no assignments due. I can watch lectures online later.” Ichiro shook his head, looking incredulous as Austin loaded his pack, then zipped it up and flung it over by the door. “By the way, I've got a project for you to work on while I'm gone, if you're up for it.”

“Oh, really?”

Austin handed him a printed transcript of the document from the flash drive. “This is a radio transmission from an unknown ship at sea. I need you to find out what it means—where it came from, who received it, what the context is. Don't show it around.”

Ichiro grabbed the paper, read it to himself, and scoffed. “This is nonsense. Why should I do this for you?”

“It will help you solve the mystery of my ‘impulsive' departure.” Austin landed like a barbell on his mattress. “Time for me to hit the hay. Big day tomorrow.”

Ichiro's brows drew together as he watched his roommate pull the covers over his head. He had never known Austin to be anything other than a lucid pragmatist.

“There's no logic in this,” Ichiro insisted. “I know what you're doing. ‘Live every day as if it were your last, because one of these days, it will be.' That stupid rule is going to hurt you.”

“Maybe it would, if I ever followed it.”

“Oh. So now you're gonna tell me you follow some other rule.”

Austin spoke with his head between pillows.

“Live your
life
as if it were your last, because it
is
.”

“Brilliant,” Ichiro said. “Any other enlightened Hardyisms I should know about?”

“Only the most ancient, mystical of all,” Austin said. “He who first explains radio transmission shall feast on rib-eye.”

 

TEN

A Porsche rumbled into the driveway of a modern home tucked in the Virginia forest. The structure's chaotic geometry and fragmented panels clashed with the surrounding hills and greenery. The owner called it enlightened deconstructivism. Neighbors called it litter in the virgin woodland.

Dan Chatham climbed out of the Porsche, closed the garage, and made a beeline for the bedroom. He tossed his clothes onto the bed and began filling his bathtub with water. A high-pressure faucet thundered against the basin.

Chatham stretched his arms, mouth widening in a yawn. The trip to the Marshall Islands had taken a lot out of him. He hadn't stayed but a few hours on Omelek before turning around and making the arduous flight home. Despite the comforts of a private jet, his muscles still ached from sitting in the same position.

It had been worth it, if for no other reason than to witness the initial blast. Images of the rocket's contrail against a black sky still haunted him.

It was done, the negotiation sealed. No more signatures. The rocket had left his domain the minute it had reached space.

He clambered into the tub, memories playing through him in vivid detail. He let them fade away as steaming water rose around him. His thoughts drifted. Heat eased the tension in his body. He focused on the sound of water spilling into the tub, his mind a thoughtless vacuum stimulated only by the blissful bodily sensations.

There was something satisfying in the thought that he, not Malcolm Clare, had witnessed the launch. It gave him an ownership—at least an illusion of it—that somehow made them equals. It's like Malcolm works for
me
now, he thought.

He'd known Malcolm almost fifty years. They'd shared an apartment as undergrads at MIT. Dan had been inspired by Malcolm's ability to excel in both physics and mechanical engineering—two difficult majors. Ambitious and competitive, he'd tried to do the same, but his performance had fallen. He'd resorted secretly to copying Malcolm's assignments and lying about marks to stay respected. Malcolm never learned of the subterfuge; he was busy corresponding with the British government to free relatives detained during the Cold War. Malcolm had wanted to trust him, Dan realized. The support of friends would carry him through his hardship. Malcolm needed him, too, he'd always said to himself.

During their third year, Dan had concealed from Malcolm that he'd been placed on academic probation. The work had been impossible. How did his roommate ace classes with so little effort? He probably cheated, too, Dan thought; no one could be that good. The worst of it was, women rarely gravitated to Dan when Malcolm was around. Why? Dan always fancied himself better-looking.

When he'd learned Malcolm had applied to MIT's graduate program in aeronautics, Dan had also quietly submitted his own name. He wasn't accepted. Instead he attended Columbia for dual law and business degrees. At least the decision had practically guaranteed better wages than Malcolm would ever earn. Dan had graduated in 1970 and aligned himself with a small team of engineers starting a robotics company. In five years the project fell apart.

Malcolm had invited him to Mojave to act as legal counsel for his new enterprise, Malfactory, a company that designed and prototyped aircraft for amateur builders. Despite his aversion to working for Clare, Dan had few better options. He retained an executive role during the company's expansion into ClareCraft, and became the vice president of operations. Clare had placed great trust in him, and in 1994 asked him to help start Glitnir Defense. When Clare resumed teaching, he'd passed on leadership to Dan, who would preside over the company while Clare contributed designs from the sidelines.

Chatham hadn't felt such ownership of a Glitnir project until this launch. The designs had been Malcolm Clare's, but not the execution. It seemed the company could perform without Malcolm.

He gunned the jets and poured in two scented oils that blended in an aromatic mélange, delighting in the fragrances as the Jacuzzi massaged his tender spots. He drifted into existential rapture.

A harsh noise interrupted his moment.

He jerked his head, banging it against tile. Muttering a curse, he sat upright. Water sloshed out of the tub. Just what he needed: another damned phone call.

A wireless set buzzed outside the tub. It rang through one cycle, then began another. Where can a man find peace these days?

He answered the call.

“Chatham here,” he said irritably. “This better be good.”

“Oh, it's good,” came the voice on the line, deep and resonant, a growl in a cave.

“Who is this?”

“You're a devious man. Nearly covered all your footsteps.” Chatham's heart quickened. He could feel the thumping in his chest. “Don't worry. Your secret can stay safe.”

“What the hell?” Chatham said. Now finding the temperature unpleasant, he twisted the knob for a stream of cold. “Who is this?”

“The man who will make you very miserable … or very rich.”

 

ELEVEN

There was light in the void, and he reached for it.

Malcolm Clare awoke to a throbbing head. With effort he lifted his eyelids for a blurry view of his surroundings. They fell back down again, cemented shut, and after a few attempts he finally pried them open. He didn't know where he was at first. His vision was a watercolor left in the rain, the pigments blotted and diluted. He could focus only on the tingling soreness between his ears.

He was seated. Was he in his office? He tried to massage his aching skull, and a searing pain lanced through his arm. Had he any wind in his lungs, he'd have let out a moan.

He sat still, waiting for the stinging to subside. He fluttered his eyelids to clear his vision. This was difficult. Light only aggravated the pain in his head.

It was daytime. He wished it weren't.