Charlie looked out through the window, wondering what he should be doing. The others were still working on the mock up of The Weapon, as they had started to call it. Charlie's part was already completed; it was fairly easy for him to plug in a number of equations that would invoke either infinity or a loop that would bring the interested party back to square one when they tried to look at the mock up of The Weapon. Neither of those situations would fool the AutoDyne people forever, but unless they got someone like Marshall Penfield to look at it, the ruse would buy at least a week's worth of time. Charlie had done his part.
That, unfortunately, left him with far too much empty space in his brain that was spinning around contemplating the future.
It didn't look good.
They all had thought that they were being so clever, hiding their work until they were certain that this AutoDyne group was who they said they were.
It made Charlie wonder about why he'd taken this gig. He didn't need the money; there were always private industry jobs to be had, in between semesters. No, he'd accepted this because he'd thought that it would help the military cut down on civilian casualties. The people presenting the proposal to him—he remembered them clearly, a man and a woman, visiting him in his office early one morning—had brought letters of recommendation from people he knew. Forged? Probably, Charlie thought bitterly to himself. If he'd been smart, then he would have called up those friends in Washington just to be certain. He sighed. The signatures on the letters looked correct. Whoever these AutoDyne people were, they were spending a lot of money on getting the scene right. Charlie didn't doubt that they done the same for each of the other researchers that they'd brought in. How many had there been initially? Two dozen? That was a lot of upfront effort. With that much forethought, they'd probably figured out a way to divert any phone calls that Charlie or anyone else had tried. That, or only those who'd been stupid enough not to call those friends were the ones who had accepted the Autodyne offer.
Water under the bridge, as the saying went. What should they do now? Who was this AutoDyne group, and what would be the consequences if they got hold of the plans that Charlie and the others were designing? Not good; Charlie would bet money on that. Anyone who would forge official signatures didn't have the world's best interests in mind.
All of which meant that something needed to be done. Amelia Jeter had said that her computer diversion wouldn't hold out for long, and Charlie saw no reason to doubt her—in fact, there was every reason to believe that it was the truth. That left Charlie's five-sided cipher to hold off the enemy, and the only way that it could last was if at least one researcher didn't give in.
It was protection, of a sort. If five keys were needed to unlock the program, then AutoDyne wouldn't dare kill Charlie or any of his fellow researchers—until after they had extracted the key. Just how far would AutoDyne go? Charlie found that he really didn't want to think about it. Situations like this were Don's field of expertise, not his.
He looked out the window once more. The sun had descended swiftly behind the mountain, leaving the scenery coated in darkness. The landscape wasn't empty, however; here and there Charlie could spot the signs of a passing guard. One puffed on a cigarette, and the flame flared brightly against the night before simmering down into an imitation of a firefly. The guard had a large gun slung across his back so that he could maneuver the cigarette to his lips, but Charlie had no doubt that the rifle could be swung around and aimed at whatever took the guard's fancy in less time than it took for the cigarette to be dropped to the forest floor.
Five keys, and all five had to present in order to unlock the program. Remove one, and the other four were useless until the fifth was retrieved. Charlie toyed around with ideas, discarding each one as untenable.
The answer was obvious: one of the five had to be unreachable. If one of them should die…Charlie shied away from that idea. Like Professor Husinger, he was no hero and he didn't think that any of the others would relish the thought of a noble suicide. Nope; come up with a better idea, Eppes.
One or more could hide. That was definitely better, although where to hide in this lodge? If they each went in a separate direction, perhaps one or more could find a spot to snuggle into.
Simply another delaying tactic. Could any one of them hide out for the entire two weeks of the project? For it would be that long before any of their relatives went looking for them and of those, Charlie suspected, only he himself owned a relative who could claim expertise in tracking someone. All of the rest of the various family members would go to their local police, who might contact the FBI if they decided that they had nothing better to do, and things would slow down from there.
Nevertheless, someone had to try something. Charlie entered the thought onto the silent computer screen.
Four sets of shoulders jerked, and four heads sheepishly lifted to stare at Charlie.
Jeter was the first to give in. She nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable: someone, or preferably all of them, needed to disappear for as long as it took.
Whimsey: can't one of us simply pretend to be ill? Cart McKenzie here off to the nearest hospital for a cup of tea and sympathy.
For two whole weeks? Charlie hated injecting that dose of reality, and he could just imagine the skeptical looks that would arise should one of the researchers try that plan. Hi. I'm Professor Charles Eppes, noted researcher, and I've been kidnapped by an Evil Corporation bent on World Domination. It would take all of five minutes to call for a psychiatrist and a padded cell. In fact, these AutoDyne people were so good that they'd probably manage to sneak one of their own in as the psychiatrist and haul the undeserving researcher back to this lodge. No good. They needed to think of something else.
Variables. He needed to statistically determine the best researcher who had the greatest chance of a successful removal from the immediate vicinity. Option one: find a miniscule hidey hole here in the lodge in which to huddle. Who was the smallest of the bunch and best equipped to squeeze into a tiny spot? Not Whimsey or McKenzie. Whimsey was six feet of gray-haired befuddlement and McKenzie sported a paunch that told of too many beers consumed in front of too many football games. Even Professor Jeter outweighed Charlie by at least fifty pounds of adipose tissue around her waistline. The smallest member of the group was Dr. Husinger, a man even shorter than Charlie and just as slender. Drawback: Charlie doubted that Walter Husinger could successfully get into such a hiding spot. The man walked with a pronounced limp that suggested that rapid travel was not a reality. That brought Charlie up as next in line.
Scratch that idea. If Charlie was going to hide, he was going to do it outside where he had a reasonable chance of finding some nuts and berries on the bushes outside. In fact, while he was at it he could hoof it down the road to the next available spot with a phone and call Don.
Okay, option two: run away. Who was the best candidate for that? Again, Whimsey, McKenzie, and Husinger could probably walk a mile in thirty minutes if pushed. Jeter would push back to forty five minutes.
Charlie routinely ran five miles every day before breakfast and then went in to work.
Why did it seem as though every option led to Charlie himself?
Charlie swallowed hard, accepting the inevitable. If they were going to remove one of the researchers from the group to prevent the cipher from being decoded, then it would have to be Charlie.
Not without help. Charlie now moved into the planning phase. However he accomplished this, it would have to be good. These AutoDyne people had already demonstrated that they were equally as clever at setting up plans, and Charlie would have to out-think them from the start.
At least it was something to occupy the empty place in his brain, he decided.
The others, freed from the responsibility, drifted back to the much easier concept of faking The Weapon.
Don's cell trilled at him just he was dumping his ass onto the driver's seat in the Suburban. He pulled in out, and went cold: Colby's name was flashing in the window. "Eppes."
"Don? News flash, Don. They didn't get onto the Santa Monica eastbound. They're heading west!"
"West? What the—?" That didn't make sense. West ended up in the bay. It would be a long run off a short pier. "What are they doing that for?"
"You're askin' me? Ask them!" Colby was just as upset. "Don't those dudes know that we've got more people waitin' to pick up their trail east of here? Dammit, Don, our guys are never gonna be able to turn around in time. We're gonna lose 'em!"
"You think you can pile on a little more sarcasm, there, Colby?" Don hauled at the wheel of the Suburban. "Listen, me and Ian are on our way there, not too far from the entrance ramp. How many exits have they gone through?"
"They're still pretty close in." Colby wasn't mollified. "Traffic is just as slow in this direction. We're inchin' up on La Cienega. You think you can pick us up there?"
"Not a chance. You think maybe they're gonna head up north on the San Diego? We can get onto the freeway and overtake you."
"Or south," Colby responded gloomily. "They could run for the border."
"Yeah. That's a good possibility." Don thought for a moment. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. Ian's going to get hold of Feretti and have one set of our guys start south toward the San Diego Freeway, and the other pair to see if they can cut in someplace north. If we time it right, we can catch 'em in a pincer maneuver." He didn't bother to mention that his gut was shrieking North! North! There wasn't any rhyme or reason for his reaction, but Special Agent Don Eppes had to select one direction to go in, and north was what was coming to mind which was strange because south would be the way to cross the border and escape the FBI net. "I'm gonna see if I can move in on 'em right as they get onto the San Diego, and I'm betting that they're turning north."
Ian flashed him a glare. It didn't take much to figure out what the FBI sniper was thinking: you'd better be right, Eppes. Doing a U-turn on the freeway during rush hour will be a bitch if you're not.
"I am," Don told him, refusing to admit how much doubt he was harboring.
"Good, because Feretti's sending both of the others south. Says they're so jammed in that they wouldn't be able to get to the San Diego north for at least a half hour. Our target will be long gone by then." Ian looked out through the clean glass window on his side. "Damn L.A. traffic."
"Not my fault," Don told him, concentrating on edging the Suburban past a little Prius. Looked like Charlie's car, and he wondered how his kid brother was doing. Better than this, that's for sure. Probably eating good food, having fun making drawings on a white board that he's made them bring in.
"You do realize that south is the better bet, Eppes." Ian wasn't going to let it go. "We upset them something fierce, and they're taking a hike across the border."
"Maybe." Don concentrated on putting the Suburban ahead of a little flashy two-seater who didn't want to get the paint to his chick-magnet scratched. At least those guys have a couple of big ass limo's to move through traffic. They're gonna be slowed up even more than me with those boats. "Hey, if I'm wrong, then you've got two unmarked cars moving in that direction to trail our suspects."
"Yeah, but I want to be the one that pulls them over." Ian put the cell phone on speaker so that they could both listen and speak and, from the sounds of it, Colby had done the same thing for David.
Colby's voice could be heard, tinny over the airwaves. "Don, they've just muscled their way over to the entrance ramp. Don, you were right; they're heading north. How the hell did you know?"
Don chuckled nervously. The butterflies in his gut put down their exacto knives and settled in for the ride. "Experience, Colby. And smarts." Lie, but it would do to ease the tension.
Colby wasn't fooled. "So what are you gonna do for your next trick, Don? Pull a mercenary out of your hat?"
"You wish. Ian, call Feretti back. Have our people head north. They'll be pretty far back, but they can ease up slowly and take over the tail when we need 'em to." He raised his voice, to be heard. "Colby, we're just getting onto the freeway. We should be coming up on your position in about five. Uh, make that ten. Maybe twenty; damn, this traffic is tight," he complained. "There an accident somewhere?"
"Yeah." Colby broke in with the answer. "The accident's right here, Don, and dammit, they're getting past it. They're speeding up! Don, we're losing 'em!"
"No, we're not!" That was David, and both Don and Ian could hear honking in the background.
Don smiled grimly to himself. David had just performed some marginally legal move to get past the accident, and Don wasn't about to say which side of the margin it would come down on. What the hell; this was L.A. People did crazy things with their cars every day and twice on Sundays. The maneuver might attract the attention of the suspects in the limos, but then again it might not.
"They're making good time," Colby reported. "We're speeding up, too."
That wasn't so good. It meant that it would be harder to get another vehicle in place to take over the tail, more chances for David and Colby to be spotted.
"Where's the pair of unmarked cars?" he asked.
Ian consulted someone on the other end. "Twenty behind us," he reported. "Back roads?"
"Just as congested." Don knew that for a fact. "Colby, how fast are you moving?"
"Top speed, Don. We're about four cars back, staying with traffic."
"Don't lose them." It would take a miracle to catch the two limos if that should happen. Don came to a decision. "Ian, there's a bubble in the back seat. Stick it up top; I'm hitting the sirens."
"You got a lot of crap back there," Ian complained as he twisted around to root through the paraphernalia. "You live in your car?"
"Yeah, and most of that crap has saved my ass at one time or another." Don wasn't about to apologize. "You gonna say you don't do the same, Ian?"
"No, I don't," Ian retorted with good humor. "All of my crap fits into my duffel."
The siren got Don and Ian past the accident that had slowed traffic to a crawl, Don tooling the Suburban along the concrete edges of the freeway and skirting the shards of plastic that had previously been a very expensive car. Don spared a glance for the previous occupants of the car: one was being loaded onto an ambulance, and another getting questioned by LAPD. Good; no casualties that he could see. People would grouse over how easily cars today would crunch in a fender-bender, but that crunching saved lives. Don would take that any day of the week.
Ian got back on the phone as soon as the siren was off and he could hear. "Granger? Where are you?"
"Still headin' north. We're just about out of the 'burbs and into the canyons."
"Where the hell are they going?" Ian asked rhetorically. "If they're planning to run for the Canadian border, there are better ways to get there."
"They spot you yet?" Don asked, pitching his voice so that it could be heard across the speaker.
"I don't think so, but it's gonna happen pretty soon. We're losing the protective cover of other cars. It's dark, but not that dark."
Don pushed on the gas, watching the speedometer edge skyward. "We can catch up and take over the tail in five minutes. Ian?"
"Feretti says that the others are ten behind us," Ian reported, his own phone to his other ear, playing switchboard operator. "Granger, you can hold out for that long?"
"We'll find out," Colby said grimly. Then—"Crap. What're they doing?"
"Colby?"
"Don, they're slowing down. What do you want us to do?"
"They can't engage!" Ian hissed. "There's twelve of them, and only two of Sinclair and Granger!"
Don agreed without hesitation. "Go by 'em, Colby. Don't stop."
"Got it, Don. What the—?"
"Colby?" That didn't sound good.
"Don, they're stopping. The second limo, I mean. They're slowing down!"
"Don't engage!" Whatever the suspects had in mind, Don wanted no part of it. "Go around them!"
"Dammit, they've fishtailed the limo! They're blocking the road! Don, we can't go around!"
"Get out of there!" Don yelled. "Turn around and get out of there!"
"Two men getting out, and they're armed!"
Both Don and Ian could hear the sudden shattering of glass, laced with gunfire. "Colby!"
"David!" Colby's voice was reaching new heights. The field agent threw his voice toward the phone one more time. "Man down! I repeat: man down! We are taking fire!"
"Call it in!" Don snarled to Ian. He slammed his foot onto the gas pedal, and the Suburban leaped forward with all the power that Don had persuaded his mechanic to stick under the hood. Don wanted it, wanted the speed, couldn't afford to spend even one second longer than he had to. "Call it in! Call in the LAPD SWAT!"
