While Fisher had been communicating with Grim, Lucchesi had trotted off to a nearby file cabinet, retrieved a fifteen-inch MacBook Pro, and returned to the platform's central conference table.

Fisher asked, "I thought you said--"

"They found it. There's not a file left on it, but we don't need those, do we? What media does that gadget accept?" Lucchesi asked.

"You name it."

Lucchesi fished into his pants pocket, pulled out a 16 GB microSD card, and tossed it to Fisher, who inserted it into the OPSAT's multiport and began the download process. Fisher sat down at the conference table.

"So you took quite a risk, yes?" Lucchesi asked.

"How so?"

"I assume men in your business aren't encouraged to askfor anything. Plus, you've shown yourself to me. I could identify you--I won't, of course, but I could."

Fisher found himself liking Lucchesi. The man was a pure scientist, a man without guise or ulterior motive. Fisher rarely met such people in his line of work. Outside his own environment Lucchesi was probably socially maladroit. In his element he was perceptive and amiable.

"I know you won't," Fisher replied, keeping any inflection from his voice.

"So these weapons and these men . . . What happens once you've tracked them?"

"Bad things."

"Ah, the good kind of bad things."

"Right."

The OPSAT beeped. Fisher removed the microSD card and handed it to Lucchesi, who plugged it into an adaptor, and then into the MacBook's USB port.

For ten minutes Lucchesi stared at the screen, scrolling, pausing, typing random notes, until finally he looked up. "Very elegant. Your people did this?"

"More or less."

"I'm impressed. And they got the bots to work--all but the execute command?"

"Yes."

"I'll need one more thing. That person you were talking to on the other end of your device . . . They have access to databases? The Internet?"

Fisher smiled. "You have no idea."

ONits face, Lucchesi's request was daunting: He needed the specifications of every piece of hardware that matched their parameters and had been manufactured in the last decade. When Fisher put the question to Grimsdottir, she simply typed back:What format?

Fisher put the question to Lucchesi.

"XML spreadsheet should do nicely."

An hour later the OPSAT chimed again. Fisher read the screen, then looked up at Lucchesi. "Done."

"You're joking with me."

"No. Give me the card."

Grimsdottir's data took up two gigabytes of space on the microSD card. Lucchesi spent a few minutes scanning the spreadsheet, then shook his head in wonder. "Amazing. You have a powerful friend there. Okay, I'll get started. There's a break room off the second-tier catwalk. Would you mind terribly much making coffee?"

"Twist my arm," Fisher said, then got up.

LUCCHESIwas as good as his word. Three hours after he started, he gave the keyboard a final, definitive tap, then pushed away from the conference table with a heavy sigh. "Done. Can your people run the simulation?"

While Lucchesi went to the bathroom, Fisher plugged the microSD card into the OPSAT and uploaded the code to Grimsdottir. She replied:Team already called in; standby. Ninety minutes to run sim.

Fisher and Lucchesi passed the time talking. It was, Fisher decided, one of the most surreal missions he'd conducted: He infiltrates a high-tech nanotechnology laboratory, finds it abandoned except for the chief scientist, who is sitting alone in the dark, dejected after being financially cut off by Daddy, and now they are sitting together, like old friends, over coffee.

The OPSAT chimed again. Fisher read the screen, smiled, then turned it so Lucchesi could see the message:Sims complete. Green across the boards.

Lucchesi clapped his hands once, stood up, did a victory lap around the conference table, then shook Fisher's hand and sat down again. He leaned across the table, his eyes wide. "So what now?"

"I go do my job and you . . . You're broke?"

"Broke?" Lucchesi chuckled. "No, no. I sold a few patents here and there--Apple, HP, Kodak . . . Miniaturization processes. Very rudimentary, but profitable."

"Enough to restart--"

"No, not enough for that. But enough that I can take some time and gather my thoughts. Can you at least let me know whether Ajax worked as designed?"

"That I can do."

"I have a villa in Tuscany. I can give you the address." Lucchesi stopped and smiled. "I don't suppose you people need addresses, do you?"

Fisher smiled back. "We'll find you."

27

ATHENS, GREECE

"YOUtook a hell of a chance," Grimsdottir said on the LCD screen.

"I disagree," Fisher replied. "In essence, it was agent recruitment. Lucchesi had vulnerability and I recognized it. And he struck me as a decent guy in a bad situation. Grim, that's what case officers do."

"But he saw your face. He knows--"

"You're going to have to trust me on this. It isn't a problem."

Soon after leaving the laboratory--through the front door, with a departing wave from Lucchesi--Fisher had walked the half mile cross-country to the farmhouse, gotten in his car, and driven back to his hotel in Olbia. En route, a message from Grimsdottir appeared on the OPSAT:Athens. 754 Afroditis, apartment 14.

Fisher boarded the first available flight the next morning and arrived at the safe house in the early afternoon.

Grimsdottir shrugged. "I trust you. With age comes wisdom, I suppose."

Fisher smiled. "Go to hell. What's the latest with Aariz Qaderi?"

"Still in Grozny, but he's moving somewhere. His entourage is there, extra bodyguards. . . . It fits his pattern."

"As soon as you can get me the updated bots--"

"They're already headed your way."

"How?"

Grimsdottir chuckled. "FedEx, if you can believe it."

The shipment method did in fact seem incommensurate with the nature of the package, but aside from sending a Third Echelon courier with the proverbial handcuff-equipped briefcase, Grimsdottir's choice made the most sense.

"Be there tomorrow morning," Grimsdottir added.

"Where are you with Kovac?"

"He's pushing. The German rescue workers found your car in the Rhine, but, of course, no body. Evidently most floaters in that area of the river eventually surface in the same general area. The fact that your corpse hasn't yet has got them scratching their heads."

"How much time can you buy me?"

"Two, maybe three days."

Fisher considered this. "I'll find a way to get Hansen and his team back in the field. If I do it right, it'll keep Kovac off your back and solve another problem for us."

"Such as?"

"I'll let you know when it works. Ifit works."

CUTTINGthe timing very close, Grimsdottir's package arrived an hour before Fisher was to depart for the airport. He had just enough time to inspect the contents. Grimsdottir's techs had installed the bots into six reengineered gas-grenade cartridges--two equipped with aerogel parachutes and a CO dispersal system, and two with the standard impact actuators--and eight SC pistol darts. In stacked pairs, the larger bots fit neatly into three miniature, partially functional cans of shaving cream, the darts into a large-barrel ballpoint pen. Satisfied, he stuffed one can of the shaving cream into his carry-on bag and two into his checked bag. The pen went into his jacket pocket. He ran down to the waiting cab.