Under the radar, p.3
Under the Radar, page 3
“Are you having fun?”
Bud paused. “I was until today,” he said. “It’s hard to have fun when your best bud is . . . you know . . .”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“Keep me posted. I’ll check in again tomorrow. Peace.”
“Peace,” I said, and hung up.
I looked over at Sandy. She had several pages of notes scribbled already. She looked up at me and said, “Let’s find out if anybody else is developing a heavy-duty boring machine.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Q.U.I.P.?”
“I exist to do your bidding,” chirped my wrist unit.
I smiled. Q.U.I.P.’s “personality,” as it were, was remarkably consistent. The programming allowed him to develop a dynamic, constantly evolving self, and he could be all business when that function was required. But overall, Q.U.I.P.’s “self” was that of a teenage class clown.
“Get online with your search engine,” I said. “Find out if any known industrial entity admits that it has a drilling or boring or tunneling vehicle in any state of development. Take your time.”
“I did,” said Q.U.I.P. “I found two.”
“You’re . . . already done?”
“Sorry it took so long,” he said. “But you told me to take my time.”
I grinned. “Okay, who’s building a worm?”
“One is Ulansky Oil and Gas, based in Russia,” said Q.U.I.P. “Their mobile driller is already on the market, but it’s not strictly a ‘worm’ like the Swift vehicle you described. It has a manned compartment, and it does bore into the ground, but only vertically. Its purpose is to create a housing shaft for oil-extraction equipment.” Q.U.I.P. paused. “By the way, I’ve got an itch.”
“Is that right?” I replied.
“Yes,” said Q.U.I.P. “Something is bugging me.”
Sandy laughed at this. “You crack me up, Q.U.I.P.,” she said.
“I’m so happy I do,” he replied, “but I’m not kidding. I sense something strange in my head.”
I slipped the wrist unit off and examined it. “Hmmm,” I said. “One of the casing screws is gouged pretty badly.” I whipped out a micro-tool set from one of the pockets on my cargo shorts and used a miniscrewdriver to unscrew the casing. As I worked, I asked, “Who’s the other company?”
“Foger Utility Group,” said Q.U.I.P.
I dropped the two screws, the watch casing, and the screwdriver as Sandy and I both shouted, “What?”
As I scrambled for the dropped stuff, Q.U.I.P. said, “Well, boss, according to the FUG corporate press release I’m reading, they built a borer prototype called the Mole One. This vehicle is FUG’s entry in competition for a hundred-million-dollar contract with the U.S. Department of Energy.”
“Holy cow,” I said. “Does the press release list the other corporate competitors?”
“No,” replied Q.U.I.P.
Sandy abruptly whipped out her cell phone. “I’ll bet you a hundred million bucks that Swift Enterprises is one of them,” she said. “I’ll give Victor a call.”
As she punched in Victor’s phone number, I glanced into the back of my wrist unit. An unfamiliar capsule—a tiny disk about the size of an aspirin tablet, but flatter—was jammed into a small depression in the electronics. I started to dig it out with the miniscrewdriver.
“You’re tickling me, boss,” said Q.U.I.P.
The disk popped out into the palm of my hand.
“What the donkey is this?” I asked.
“Hey, Victor, quick question,” said Sandy into her phone. “Is the Mega-Worm project part of some bid for a big government contract with the Department of Energy or something?” She listened to Dr. Rashid’s reply.
I examined the tiny capsule; it looked metallic, perforated with dozens of tiny holes. I decided to scan it and then maybe slice it apart with a laser cutter in my lab.
Sandy said, “Okay, yeah, that’s what we thought. And we’re bidding against FUG, right?” She listened again. “That’s very interesting, Victor. Yes, I’ll tell Tom. Okay, thanks very much. Bye.”
“Tell me what?” I asked, slipping the metal capsule into my pocket.
Sandy’s eyes were aglow. “No surprise; we’re bidding against FUG for the government contract,” she said. “And it’s just us and them—the Mega-Worm versus the Mole One. There are no other corporate bidders.” She slipped her phone into her pocket. “But something’s up, Tom.”
The excitement in her eyes was unmistakable. “Well, what is it?” I asked.
“Victor just talked to Harlan Ames,” she replied. “The FBI has scheduled a press conference for eight o’clock tomorrow morning, downtown at the Federal Building.”
“To announce what?” I asked.
“Victor doesn’t know exactly,” said Sandy. “But he says Agent Dawson told Harlan he’s no longer under her ‘umbrella of suspicion.’ In fact, nobody at Swift Enterprises is any longer considered a suspect.”
I jumped to my feet. “Sounds like the FBI got a break in the case.”
Sandy glanced up at Mom’s coyote sculpture-in-progress leering down at her. “Dang,” she said, “maybe I was wrong about Special Agent Dawson.” She closed her notebook. “I hate being wrong.”
I grinned. “Hey, I’d rather be wrong if it means the FBI finds the goons and we get Dad back.”
Sandy nodded. “Let’s go tell Mom!” she said, heading for the studio’s exit elevator.
We found Mom on the phone in the kitchen. Her eyes were bright—and I guessed correctly that she was speaking with someone about the FBI press conference. When she hung up, she announced we were invited to be at the Federal Building at seven forty-five the next morning.
Then we broke out the milk and Girl Scout cookies.
It was going to be a long night.
4
The Text
At 7:58 a.m. the next morning, I sat in the Federal Building media room in a row of chairs with Mom, Sandy, Yvonne Williams, Harlan Ames, and several other executive staff members from Swift Enterprises. Quite a few reporters and several camera crews were set up behind us. The excitement in the room was palpable. But Yvonne was not happy.
“Why wouldn’t Agent Dawson brief us before putting on this little show?” she said.
Harlan Ames nodded grimly. “I would never have pulled a stunt like this without meeting with the family first,” he said. “This isn’t standard operating procedure for the Bureau—not when I was there, anyway.”
My mom calmly touched Harlan’s shoulder. “Let’s give Agent Dawson the benefit of the doubt on this one,” she said. “She must have her reasons.”
Right on time at eight a.m., the side doors abruptly flew open and Agent Dawson strode across the front of the room, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a single sheet of paper in the other. She was followed by Agents Fitzpatrick, Bogenn, and Bartley. As she stepped up to the podium and adjusted the microphone, cameras behind us whirred and clicked, snapping photo after photo. The murmuring rose in volume all around us, but then the room hushed as Agent Dawson laid the sheet of paper on the podium and began to speak.
“Good morning, everyone, and thank you for being here,” she said. “I’m Special Agent Francina Dawson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m going to read a short statement, then I’ll take questions.” She looked down at the sheet on the podium. “At nine thirty-three p.m. last night, we took a suspect in the Thomas Swift kidnapping case into custody at his residence in north Shopton. Randall Foger offered no resistance and spent the night in a holding cell here at the Federal Building.”
The crowd gasped as one, and chatter rose. But of course, neither Sandy nor I were very surprised. After learning about the industrial competition between SE and FUG on the lucrative super-drilling-vehicle contract, it made some sense. But I still couldn’t believe Mr. Foger would go that far for the sake of a federal contract.
Agent Dawson continued her statement, revealing a few details of the government contract competition. Then she dropped the bombshell.
“Our preliminary investigation uncovered some incriminating evidence on Mr. Foger’s personal computers, both at his home and in his Foger Utility Group office.”
“What sort of evidence?” blurted a reporter.
Agent Dawson looked up. “Confidential plans and blueprints of a Swift Enterprises project that was in direct competition with Mr. Foger’s project,” she said. “A fairly blatant case of industrial espionage.”
Again the press room exploded in a cacophony of voices calling out questions.
“What was Randall Foger’s response?” cried out a reporter. “Do you have a confession?”
“No confession,” said Agent Dawson. “Mr. Foger denied his involvement in any of these matters, then on advice of counsel, he refused to speak further.”
“What about the kidnapping?” shouted a reporter. “What evidence links Foger to the Swift disappearance?”
“I can’t comment on that yet,” said Agent Dawson.
“What about the explosion site?” called another reporter. “Anything linked to that? The Jeep?”
“No comment,” said Agent Dawson. She held up her hands to quiet the crowd. “Any other questions?”
The press conference went on a few more minutes, with Agent Dawson and her cohorts answering a few questions. Most of their replies, however, were variations of the “I can’t comment on that at this time” response. Then Agent Dawson concluded the proceeding.
“We will be speaking with Swift family members and company employees upstairs in the FBI offices immediately following this press conference,” she said. She nodded at Mom and Yvonne, who sat side by side. “The family and company may have statements to make to you after those meetings. Or they may not. It’s their prerogative. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That will be all.”
And she strode out of the room.
Harlan Ames leaned forward and gazed down the row toward Mom, Sandy, and me. “I think she enjoyed her little production,” he said with a hint of disdain. “Now let’s go see if there’s any meat in the sandwich.”
Then we all stood to head upstairs.
“Naturally, Mr. Foger insists he had nothing to do with Mr. Swift’s abduction,” said Agent Dawson, sipping on an herbal tea drink.
We sat in a small conference room in the Federal Building, a tall structure that housed the chambers of the U.S. District Court plus offices for several federal departments, including the FBI. The basement floor consisted of holding cells for federal prisoners appearing in trials. Randall Foger now occupied one of those cells.
I poked at a stale scone I’d been offered by a friendly assistant at the FBI reception desk.
“Agent Dawson,” I said, “I can see why FUG’s involvement seems logical, given the bad blood between the two companies over the years.”
“Bad blood?” chuckled Agent Dawson. “Yes, I’ll say.” She lifted a thick folder sitting in front of her. “I’ve never seen such a bitter, personal corporate rivalry.” She flipped open the folder and started reading some notes jotted on the top document. “Randall Foger and Thomas Swift Sr., business partners twenty-five years ago. Partnership quickly foundered on widely divergent business interests.”
“Yeah,” blurted Sandy. “Like, Foger wanted to cheat, and Dad didn’t.”
I had to grin at Sandy. Among other things, Randall Foger had wanted to aggressively market an experimental, new jet engine that Dad considered unsafe. Dad had also caught Foger using Swift-designed optical technology to spy on competitors and threatened to expose his unethical partner unless he let Dad buy out Foger’s half of the company.
“We’re aware of Mr. Foger’s past,” sniffed Agent Dawson in her impeccable manner.
She read more of her notes. The story was that Randall Foger has been playing dirty since the day he incorporated Foger Utility Group in Shopton to compete with his old company, now renamed Swift Enterprises. FUG has a long history of sabotage and espionage and even blackmail directed at Swift. Foger has never thought twice about trying unethical or even dangerous activities in the name of corporate progress. He was once quoted as saying, “My only social responsibility is profit.” But his cleverness in covering his tracks has kept FUG’s record remarkably clean. He always uses intermediaries to do the dirty work.
“So again,” I said, “my point is that it would seem awfully risky for FUG to try something as blatant as this, just for the sake of some corporate advantage in bidding for a contract.”
“Yes, Randall’s too smart to be directly involved in kidnapping a rival,” grumbled Harlan Ames, staring into his coffee cup. “Don’t get me wrong—I despise the man. But he’s not stupid enough to be this obvious.”
Agent Dawson cleared her throat.
“Mr. Ames, we do have physical evidence from the scene that suggests a connection between the kidnappers and Foger Utility Group,” she said. “In fact, some of our data indicates the direct, personal involvement of Mr. Foger himself in the planning.”
Harlan squinted at her. “I’d like to see that evidence,” he said skeptically.
Agent Dawson’s cold eyes didn’t match her warm smile. “Too bad you’re no longer with the Bureau,” she said to Harlan. “I’d love to share our findings.”
Now she stood up and looked directly at Harlan.
“Mr. Ames,” she said, “have you checked your personal bank account in the past forty-eight hours?”
Harlan frowned. “No,” he said. “Why?”
“Well, we have,” said Agent Dawson.
She gestured toward one of her cohorts, Agent Bartley, a stocky man with glasses. He stepped forward and flipped open a binder in his hands.
“Mr. Ames,” he said, “we’re wondering about the nature of these two electronic deposits, both quite large, made directly into your National Bank checking account in the past two days.”
Harlan gripped the armrests of his chair.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“One deposit went into your account two days ago, in the amount of fifty thousand dollars,” said Agent Bartley, glancing down at his binder. “Another went in last night . . . another fifty thousand.” The agent gave Harlan a cynical look. “Gee, Mr. Ames, that’s a lot of money.”
Harlan stood up slowly. His anger was just barely under control. He looked at Yvonne Williams, who looked ill.
“This is a setup,” he said.
Yvonne just nodded at him.
“Maybe,” said Agent Dawson, holding her teacup daintily. “But how else could Randall Foger obtain blueprints for a top-secret Swift project? Or highly sensitive information about Mr. Swift’s movements in a wilderness area such as Theodore Roosevelt State Park—a perfect area to stage a kidnapping, by the way.”
“Are you kidding?” exploded Harlan. “Do you think I would be stupid enough to do that? Let some criminal transfer large sums of money directly into my private bank account?”
Agent Dawson just shrugged. I knew her smug, self-satisfied look was a calculated one. She was trying to bait Harlan’s anger and get him to slip.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “This is insane,” I suddenly said.
Everybody looked at me. I glared at Agent Dawson.
Look, sometimes you just have to trust your basic instinct. I’d known Harlan Ames for years; I’d talked to Dad about Harlan many times. Nobody was more trustworthy than Harlan. Nobody was more loyal. Nobody had more personal integrity. Whoever decided to frame an insider had made a foolish choice in selecting Harlan Ames. Nobody at Swift Enterprises or in the Swift family would believe Harlan had betrayed my father for a few bucks. It was ludicrous.
“Harlan wouldn’t do this in a million years,” I said to Dawson. “You should be tracking the money source. Focus on that, not on the place where it ended up. Anybody can find a bank account number and rig a money wire transfer into it.”
Harlan gave me a grateful look. “Exactly,” he said.
Agent Dawson’s eyes flashed with anger as she turned to me. But she kept her voice steady as she said, “Mr. Swift, I can appreciate your sentiments. But you can be sure that the FBI knows a few things about banking and wire transfers, and we don’t need lectures on the subject from distraught sixteen-year-old boys.”
Apparently this woman was a master at baiting anger. So I decided to play her game.
“I’m not lecturing you, Agent Dawson,” I said. “I’m just pointing out the obvious.”
Agent Dawson turned to her trio of agents and said, “Please re-advise Mr. Ames of his Miranda rights. Then place Mr. Ames in federal custody.”
I turned to Harlan. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get you cleared.”
Harlan took a deep breath, then smiled.
He glanced over at Agent Dawson and said, “Well, Tom, judging from the performance so far, I expect to be out by this evening.”
Agent Dawson shot to her feet and strode quickly to the door of the conference room. Before she stepped outside, she turned to give me a crooked smile.
“Please, Thomas, remember what I said about interfering with a federal investigation,” she said. “When we find your father—and rest assured that we will—I would hate for his homecoming to be marred by your incarceration in a juvenile detention center.”
This was too much for Mom.
She slapped the table and said, “That’s quite enough, Agent Dawson! I’ll not have you threatening my son while his father is a kidnap victim.”
Agent Dawson looked chastened a bit. She nodded and said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Swift. But please encourage your son to keep his infamous sleuthing and gadgetry out of this investigation.”
She practically spit out “gadgetry,” as if it were a dirty word. Then she spun and exited the room.
Agent Fitzpatrick approached my mother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Swift,” he said. “We have to escort you and your family home now. We need you there in case the kidnappers try to make contact with ransom or other demands.”
“I understand,” she said, standing. “Tom? Sandy?”
Sandy and I left the room with her. Yvonne Williams came with us. As I left, I glanced back sadly at Harlan Ames. The other two agents had stepped up on either side of him, preparing for a search as they read him his rights.
