The door clunked shut behind me.

  Suddenly my cell phone buzzed. It was an incoming text message. I flipped it open—and nearly tripped, I was so stunned at who the sender was.

  I quickly punched the read button and saw this text: PLS MEET ME ASAP ANYWHERE, NEED HELP.

  The message was from Andy Foger.

  5

  An Unlikely Alliance

  Shopton High School was closed down for the summer—for the most part, anyway. Coach Jenkins ran a few summer sports clinics for younger kids out on the fields, and the school’s north wing was open for summer school classes. But the grounds were largely deserted in July.

  So I arranged to meet Andy Foger, my lifelong nemesis and son of Randall Foger, in the outdoor amphitheater built into the hill behind the gymnasium. It was a quiet, secluded place. Plus we could stand on the stage with a good view in all directions—you know, just in case we were being tailed by federal agents or kidnappers or evil spies or, just, whatever.

  I was starting to get paranoid.

  My sister was with me. Earlier at the Federal Building, she’d noticed the shocked look on my face at receiving a text from the son of Dad’s alleged kidnapper. Sandy, being Sandy, had hounded me unmercifully until I told her who sent the message.

  “I’m coming with you,” she’d said.

  “I’m sure Andy will be thrilled,” I’d replied.

  “Whatever.”

  Now we stood on the amphitheater stage. I felt nervous, remembering Special Agent Dawson’s warnings against doing any sleuthing on the case. I guess I was supposed to go home and read comic books or something until the adults finished their police work.

  Sorry. That’s not my style.

  After just five minutes or so, we spotted Andy at the top of the bowl-shaped amphitheater. He looked over his shoulder a couple of times as he jogged down the stairs. I guess he was feeling as paranoid as I was.

  “Hey, Andy,” I called. “What’s up?”

  He scowled at Sandy as he approached. “What’s she doing here?”

  Sandy folded her arms. “I’m a mole for the feds.”

  I grinned. “Sandy wants to help,” I said, and shrugged at Andy.

  “Get rid of her.”

  “Your dad kidnapped my dad,” said Sandy. “So I believe I’ll stay.”

  “He didn’t!” said Andy. “Somebody’s framing us!”

  “How we can we be sure of that?” asked Sandy. “Do you have evidence to clear FUG and your dad?”

  Andy shook his head sullenly. “But I have some evidence that nobody else has regarding the kidnappers. I’ll share it with you if you agree to help me find the real kidnappers.”

  He looked kind of sheepish saying this. I frowned at him.

  “What kind of evidence?” I asked.

  “Well, I . . . I have an audio recording.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “The incident.”

  “What incident?”

  “The kidnapping, you dork,” blustered Andy.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “How could you have an audio recording of the kidnapping . . . unless you were there?”

  Andy just pointed at my wrist.

  “I knew something was bugging me,” chirped Q.U.I.P. from my wrist unit. He chortled at his own pun.

  I stared at Andy for a second. Then I remembered the small capsule I’d removed the night before. I’d gotten so caught up in the news of the FBI press conference that I’d decided to postpone disassembly of the mystery capsule until later. Now I knew: It was a bug.

  “You bugged my watch,” I said. “How?”

  Andy smirked proudly. “You shouldn’t take it off during PE class, Swift.”

  “I lock it in my gym locker,” I said.

  “Yeah, like that could stop me,” said Andy, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve been eavesdropping on your pathetically boring life since the last week of school in May.”

  My eyes got big. “And you recorded the kidnapping?” I said, getting excited.

  Andy nodded. “On Sunday I was taping your hike with your dad, just in case you gave away technical secrets of your new Chameleon Suit. I wanted to rip off your ideas.”

  Well, one thing you can say about Andy: He’s brutally honest about his lowly behavior. Like father like son, I thought. All I could do was shake my head in awe at his total lack of a normal conscience.

  “Wow,” I said. “Why didn’t you notify the police?”

  “Are you nuts?” said Andy. “We look guilty enough already. We’ve already been accused of industrial espionage.”

  “Ah, I see your point,” I said.

  “Do you have the recording with you?” asked Sandy.

  “Yeah. Wanna hear it?” Andy pulled a small MP3 player from his pocket. “I saved it as an MP3 file and downloaded it onto this.”

  He plugged a pair of earbuds into the player and handed them to me. Sandy and I each plugged a bud in one ear and listened as Andy played the recording.

  It was eerie and, as it progressed, more upsetting than I was prepared for. The background rumbling of the Jeep and the rustling of my camouflage suit as I ran muffled the harsh snarl of the leader’s voice. I could barely make out her shouted instructions: “Forget sonny boy! Ya’ll get back in the car! Let’s get gone!” Just seconds later I listened to Casmir’s moan as I bent over him. The recording ran all the way to the sudden boom of the explosion, then the arrival of the police unit and the medivac.

  When I glanced over at Sandy, tears were rolling down her cheeks. I flung an arm around her.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I said, handing the earbuds back to Andy.

  Andy nodded. “So what can we do with this recording?”

  “One answer is, turn it over to the FBI,” I said.

  “Do you trust them?” asked Andy.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “They must be corrupt,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Sandy, wiping her wet face. “Not everybody’s like your family.”

  This flew right over Andy’s head. It was almost amusing how he didn’t seem to take it as an insult.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t kidnap your dad,” he said. “I mean, I was there in the office when Dad heard about it yesterday.” Andy squinted one eye, remembering. “He was, like . . . stunned.”

  Sandy and I exchanged a look. Andy actually seemed sincere about this recollection.

  “And so if Dad didn’t do it,” continued Andy, “then the FBI is either corrupt or tragically wrong.”

  “Impressive logic,” said Sandy.

  “I’d go with tragically wrong,” I said. Then I told him what happened with Harlan Ames in the Federal Building earlier that morning. Normally I wouldn’t share this sort of info with anybody, let alone my worst enemy in town. But these were extraordinary times. “Andy, can you imagine your dad and Harlan Ames in cahoots?”

  Andy hooted a harsh laugh. “Heck no! They hate each other’s guts!”

  Sandy sat down on the stage, staring at the burnished wood floorboards. “In one sense, Agent Dawson is correct,” she said.

  Andy and I sat down too. “How so?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, “unless the FBI is just fabricating evidence, which I highly doubt, then the fact is, somebody put a blueprint of the Swift Mega-Worm on Randall Foger’s computer, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “So who had access to those plans?” asked Sandy.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know—probably a very small number of people. Those plans are undoubtedly some of the best-guarded documents in company history, given the size of the government contract at stake.”

  Andy nodded in agreement.

  “Same with FUG’s Mole One design doc,” he said. “Red-level security. Dad says only three people in the entire company have access to the full document, and he’s one of them. The rest of the design team sees only CAD/CAM files of the specific component they’re working on.”

  “Would Harlan have access to the Mega-Worm blueprints?” asked Sandy.

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” I replied.

  “Yeah, but as head of security, the dude probably knows a lot about your company’s network-security software,” said Andy.

  “Good point,” I said. “I’m sure that’s what the FBI cyber-crime unit is thinking. But I just cannot believe that Harlan is part of this.”

  “Well, I know my dad is innocent,” said Andy.

  “I’m willing to accept that,” I said. “But then who got those blueprints? And how did they end up in your dad’s computer?”

  “Maybe it was, like, a hacker,” said Andy. “A really, really good hacker.”

  I had to laugh. “Dude, only a wizard-level hacker could slip through the Swift firewall, steal a highly secure document from our protected network, and then hack the FUG network, too, and plant the blueprint in your dad’s computer—which is no doubt one of the most secure computers in all of corporate America.”

  Andy shrugged. “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “Okay,” said Sandy, shifting into Nancy Drew mode. “So then, let’s be logical. Who would benefit from this crime? Two major high-tech companies are competing for a three-billion-dollar government contract. The kidnapping and the stolen blueprints combine to knock both companies out of commission, removing both company heads and crippling the Mega-Worm and Mole One projects.” She looked from me to Andy. “Very clever, I’d say. Is there a third competitor we don’t know about? Somebody who wants the contract so badly they’d sabotage both Swift and FUG with this insanely sinister plan?”

  We all thought about this for a moment. Then, slowly, we all shook our heads.

  “That just sounds too crazy,” I said.

  “Yeah, and I’ve heard of no other bidder on this contract,” said Andy.

  Sandy took out her cell phone. “I’ll check with Victor.” A quick call confirmed that no other company was involved in the super-driller competition.

  “Okay then,” I said, looking at Andy. “So who else would benefit from the suffering of our two companies?”

  We mused on this question awhile and came up with no obvious culprit other than possibly The Road Back. But the dangerously goofball radicals at TRB would have taken proud responsibility for the kidnapping long ago, releasing puffed-up statements and long-winded proclamations about the evil of modern technology. So it didn’t seem likely that TRB was involved in this one.

  “Not to mention that I can’t picture TRB with a brand-new Jeep,” I said. “Jeeps are evil, right?”

  Sandy stood up from the stage. “You know, I have a pretty good audio-tech setup in my lab,” she said. “I’ve been playing with filters and digital enhancement and stuff. Maybe I could filter out the background elements and get a better audio of the Southern woman’s voice.”

  Andy snapped his fingers. “Then we can get a voice match from our voice-ID database,” he said.

  “What database are you talking about?” I asked.

  Andy unleashed his trademark smirk. “FUG has a contract with the CIA,” he said with smug pride. “We manage the largest voice-identification database in the world.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Sandy.

  “Give me a break,” said Andy. “I suppose you’re going to say that it’s a violation of privacy. Ha!” He jabbed his finger at Sandy. “In this day and age, we can’t afford privacy.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “So Andy, can you get us a copy of this MP3 file?”

  Q.U.I.P. jumped in. “We can make a data transfer right now,” he said.

  “Right,” said Andy. “I’ll turn on my player’s wireless.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  Andy quickly uploaded the recording to Q.U.I.P. “As soon as you get the leader’s voice filtered out, send the cleaned-up recording to me, and I’ll run a database search for a match.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  We looked at each other for a second. In a normal situation, we’d seal the partnership with a handshake.

  But Andy just shook his head and said, “I can’t believe I’m working with you dorks.”

  I gave him a little salute.

  “We love you too, Andy,” I said. “And by the way, if you ever spy on me again, I’ll kill you.”

  Andy grinned. “Fair enough.”

  We said good-bye and headed back to our opposite ends of the moral spectrum.

  Five black sedans plus a couple of police cruisers with lights flashing sat in front of our house when we returned. Obviously, something big was up.

  Our meeting with Andy had gotten me thinking about the value of recording certain kinds of events.

  “This looks very interesting,” I said, checking out the cop cars.

  “Maybe there’s news,” said Sandy.

  “Q.U.I.P.?” I called.

  “Yo dog,” replied Q.U.I.P. “S’up?”

  “I have a job for you.”

  “Lay it on me, bro.”

  “I want you to make audio recordings of any conversations regarding the kidnapping,” I said. “No matter who’s talking, okay?”

  “Including your family?” asked Q.U.I.P.

  “Including everyone,” I said.

  “Federal authorities, too?”

  “Especially them,” I said. “I want every last shred of this investigation documented.”

  “Okay,” said Q.U.I.P.

  Sandy and I approached two uniformed policemen at the front door, who nodded and waved us inside. We found Mom silently crying in the kitchen, surrounded by Agent Dawson and a platoon of dark-suited FBI agents.

  “What’s going on?” I asked with concern. “What happened?”

  Mom looked up with bright, wet eyes.

  “I just talked to your dad!” she called out as we rushed in.

  Sandy dived into Mom’s arms. I grabbed Mom’s outstretched hand and looked up at Agent Dawson.

  The agent said, “We finally got our ransom demand.”

  “Who from?” I asked. “Did they identify themselves?”

  Agent Dawson shook her head.

  “Was it the woman with the Southern accent?” I asked.

  “No,” said Agent Dawson. “It was a synthetic voice, generated by computer.”

  I nodded. “Clever,” I said. “What did they ask for?”

  “Thirty-five million dollars,” said Agent Dawson.

  6

  The Pickup

  The kidnappers’ ransom delivery plan was simple and ingenious: a midnight drop at the old lighthouse.

  The ancient structure stood tall and solitary on a promontory overlooking Shopton Harbor. A single-access road called Stonecliff Drive ran to the lighthouse along a narrow, rocky peninsula. At one point the road dropped through a cut with cliffs rising on either side.

  “You’ll find surveillance difficult,” I said to Agent Dawson. “And tailing your drop unit will be impossible.”

  She gave me a look and said, “We’re surveying the area, Mr. Swift.”

  “Well, I grew up here,” I said. “I’ve spent many hours out on that point. Trust me, your backup units won’t get in close without being detected.”

  I got the distinct feeling that Agent Dawson was barely tolerating my presence. But she couldn’t just kick me out, because (A) I was the kidnapped man’s son, and (B) I was right. The kidnappers were smart, I had no doubt. I wanted to make sure Dawson’s crew did nothing stupid in response—nothing that could cause harm to befall my father.

  Yvonne Williams entered the kitchen from a back room.

  “I’ve just talked to Jack at the bank,” she said. “He’ll have all thirty-five million in a satchel by tonight.”

  I was surprised. “We’re delivering actual money?” I asked.

  Yvonne looked at Agent Dawson, who was exasperated at her PDA again. “The FBI recommends that we do nothing to jeopardize your father’s safety,” Yvonne said.

  “A fake cash drop could be fatal,” said Agent Dawson, looking up from her device with irritation. “We’ll recover the money afterward.”

  Yvonne sat down next to Mom and put a hand on her back. Mom smiled at her.

  “Thanks for handling this, Yvonne,” said Mom, wiping her eyes. “I’m a wreck.”

  “No, you’re a rock,” said Yvonne. “You’re handling this with remarkable grace.”

  “So was it smooth with the bank?” asked Mom.

  “Very smooth,” said Yvonne. “Jack’s a good banker, though he’s a bit surprised at the lack of demands regarding the physical state of the currency. No request for unmarked bills and so forth.”

  “I’m sure these people have a way to launder cash,” said stocky FBI man, Agent Bartley. “Most likely overseas.”

  I turned to Special Agent Dawson. “So if Randall Foger is behind this plot, why is it still going forward?”

  Agent Dawson narrowed her eyes at me.

  “I’m sure the perpetrators are on autopilot right now,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Mr. Foger is in custody,” interjected Agent Bartley.

  “Exactly,” said Agent Dawson. “The original purpose—to keep Mr. Swift incapacitated and the Mega-Worm project frozen for FUG—has fallen apart because we exposed it. So now the kidnappers are freelancing.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked Yvonne Williams.

  “Do you really think Randall Foger would tell his field team to keep in constant touch with him and wait for direct orders?” said Agent Dawson. “That’s not how these things work.”

  This disturbed me because it actually made sense. Maybe the kidnappers were acting on their own now. Maybe Andy was wrong about his dad, and Mr. Foger was indeed the mastermind. But our meeting with Andy had me convinced that someone else was behind the whole plot.

  “Agent Dawson, how can we be sure my husband is going to be safe?” asked my mom.

  “We can’t,” she replied.

  In the awkward silence that followed, I decided to go ahead with my plan.

  An hour later, as I sat in my personal lab making last-minute adjustments to my Chameleon Suit, my cell phone rang. I smiled at the sight of the incoming number, a familiar one I hadn’t seen in a couple of weeks.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9