The Midas Code

“Dr. Locke,” the man said, “I’m Special Agent Riegert, and this is my partner, Special Agent Immel. Is your father going to be okay?”

“We think so.”

“Has he said anything?”

“He can’t. He’s got a tube down his throat. Where’s Carol Benedict?”

“She’s already on her way to Naples to see her sister.”

Tyler was itching for news about Stacy’s condition, but he hadn’t been able to get an update from the hospital because he wasn’t a relative.

Riegert flipped open a notepad. “Your friend Mr. Westfield told me quite a story. Care to give me your side?”

On the way back, Grant and Tyler had agreed to tell most of the tale but to leave out the parts that made them seem like criminals themselves, such as the incident in Munich and the heist at the Athens museum.

Tyler told the agents about the ferry puzzle, their investigation leading them to Gia Cavano, and the fight in the tunnels under Naples.

Despite the same story from both Grant and Tyler, Riegert and Immel were clearly skeptical.

“And you don’t have this geolabe any more?” Immel said.

Tyler shook his head. “It’s underwater in the Midas chamber.”

“And you don’t have any visual record of this chamber?”

“We did, but Orr got away with it.”

“You mean the man you’re also calling Giordano Orsini?” Riegert asked.

“Yes. Any luck finding him?”

“We’re looking into all possibilities right now, Dr. Locke.”

“How could you think Orr isn’t responsible for my father’s abduction?” Tyler said. “Miles told me you found evidence of radioactive material at the warehouse fire, and you have the proof-of-life videos we sent.”

Riegert put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We are taking you seriously, Dr. Locke. Your credentials are beyond reproach. But you have to admit that your story does sound far-fetched. And, with two Muslim men involved, don’t you think radical fundamentalists are the more likely culprits here?”

“They’re innocent. I’m telling you, Orr is going to set off a radiological device somewhere in the US, and it might very well be today.”

“But why?” Immel said. “Where? What’s his plan?”

“I can think of half a dozen sites,” Tyler said. “DC, New York, Chicago, Fort Knox, Philadelphia. Anything within a twelve-hour driving range.”

“That’s the entire eastern seaboard,” Riegert said.

“That’s why you need to have every immigration terminal flagging both his aliases.”

“We’re doing that.”

“And what else?”

“We’re not at liberty to say.”

Tyler sighed. “I don’t know what else I can do for you, then.”

Grant appeared at the door. “Tyler, your father just woke up.”

Grant stepped aside as Tyler rushed into the room and went to the bed. Sherman’s eyes were open, but half-lidded. When he saw Tyler, he held his hand up.

Tyler thought he wanted reassurance, so he took it in his own hand.

“I’m here, Dad.”

Sherman wriggled out of his grip. So much for sentimentality.

Then Tyler realized that he wasn’t reaching out to his son. He was trying to sign.

His arms were weak, but he put them up long enough for Tyler to make out the two signs he was making.

At first Tyler thought his father was hallucinating, but Sherman repeated the sign. Blue truck?

Tyler turned to see Riegert and Immel standing in the doorway.

“Was there a truck at the warehouse?” he asked them.

Riegert narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

“My father knows sign language. He just told me that the truck is blue.”

Riegert got his notepad out again. “Anything else?”

“Dad, can you remember anything else about the truck?”

Sherman made a slight nod. He used his left hand to spell out letters.

W I L B I X.

“Wilbix?” Tyler said. Another nod.

Grant plugged the word into the search engine on his replacement smartphone.

“Top find is Wilbix Construction,” he said.

“Dad, is it Wilbix Construction?” Another nod. Sherman patted Tyler’s hand and fell unconscious again.

“Where is Wilbix based?” Tyler asked Grant.

“New York,” Grant said. “Oh, man.”

Riegert tried to see Grant’s screen. “What?”

“Wilbix Construction is doing work at New York Downtown Hospital. That’s less than a mile from Wall Street.”

Immel already had her phone out. “This guy might be trying to detonate the bomb in lower Manhattan?” she asked.

“Possibly,” Grant said. “Maybe this has something to do with his parents’ deaths.”

“How?” Riegert said.

“I don’t know, but we need to get to New York,” Tyler told them. “Grant and I can identify Orr.”

“I’ll see how fast we can get a plane,” Immel said, looking at her phone contacts.

“That’s okay,” Tyler said. “I have my own.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

A fter Orr found an all-night infirmary to bandage his eye, even getting an old-fashioned black eye-patch in the process, he indulged in hiring a charter flight back to the US from the Rome airport with the last of his funds. His phone was underwater in the Midas chamber, so before his flight left he found an Internet terminal and emailed Crenshaw that he was on his way to Newark.