Distant Memory (12 page)

“That is exactly what I plan to do. I just have a few questions.”

Webber frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know anything more than what I told him.” He pointed to Tanner.

“Officer Tanner said that you have been very cooperative. We appreciate that.” Hobbs was being as nice as he could. He wanted the clerk to
trust him. “We’re very concerned about the two men who came to you asking questions. They told you they were police officers?”

“That’s right.”

“Did they show you any identification?”

“Yeah, one did. The one in the suit didn’t, just the other guy.”

“One was in a suit and the other was not?”

“Right. He wore jeans and a dress T-shirt. You know, like a polo shirt that some of the older guys wear.”

“He showed you a badge? Did the badge have a number on it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look that close.”

“Was it a shield or a star like mine?” Hobbs pulled his leather wallet with badge out and showed it to Webber.

“Shield, I think.”

“They didn’t say who they worked for? FBI? INS? Secret Service? ATF?”

“They didn’t say, and like I said, I didn’t look that close. No offense, but I don’t like cops coming to my work. It makes me look bad in the eyes of the boss.”

“No problem,” Hobbs said. “We’ll square things with him and make sure he knows that you didn’t do anything wrong.” He smiled. “Were the men asking about a woman who stayed at your motel?”

“Right.”

“Did they say why?”

“No. They showed me a picture, and I recognized her. I told them all that I knew, which wasn’t much.” He told the story of the woman’s confusion, of her injuries, and of her association with Nick Blanchard. “I gave a copy of the registration to your friend there.”

“I appreciate that,” Hobbs replied. “We need your help. The people who spoke to you are not cops. We don’t know who they are, but they’re not cops. I want to ask you a few more questions, and then another officer is going to join us. Do you like computers?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well then, you’ll like this. He’s going to use a laptop to assemble a composite image of the two men, the woman, and this Nick Blanchard.”

“That’s a waste of time.”

“Why?” Hobbs asked.

“It would be easier to copy an image off the security tape.”

“Your motel has a security camera?” Tanner said with surprise.

“Look, I know the Pretty Penny Motel is a dive, but we’re right off the highway. We could get robbed just like the other places. The boss put up a camera a few weeks ago.”

“I’ll go get the tape,” Tanner said. “You ask your questions.”

“Tanner,” Hobbs said, “see if you can get the tape from the previous night, too, the one where Blanchard and the woman check in.”

“Got it,” the officer acknowledged as he left the room.

Hobbs turned back to Webber. “Did you tell the others about the videotape?”

“No. The guy in the jeans was pretty rough. I didn’t like his attitude, so I only answered his questions and didn’t offer anything more.”

Leaning back, Hobbs smiled broadly. “You, Mr. Webber, have just made my day.”

Gregory Moyer stood before the closed security door and swiped his smart card through the electronic reader next to the right jamb. A green light came on. He punched a six-digit PIN into the keypad, and a second green light came on. Then, looking straight ahead, he said, “Gregory Moyer.” A small camera had already analyzed his face and was now matching his biometric data with his voiceprint and his PIN, which were recorded on a small electronic chip embedded in the smart card. A third green light signaled acceptance, and the door slid open with a whoosh.

Inside resembled a NASA control room. A dozen large monitors
shone in the dim light of the center. They were set in a doughnut-shaped console of molded Formica, plastic, and metal that was twenty feet in diameter. A holographic globe hovered above the “hole” at the center of the doughnut and glowed a ghostly yellow-green. The sphere rotated in perfect coordination with its real-world counterpart.

Moyer studied the scene. No matter how many times he visited the Communications Control Center, he was always amazed. This was one of four interlinked centers throughout the world. Moyer’s black wing-tip shoes thudded softly as he strolled across the black marble floor. The floor was an unnecessary expense, but one he thought worthwhile. Twenty employees and twenty employees alone had access to the chamber, each young, enthusiastic, and extremely gifted. They were not only the best at what they did, but they knew the benefits of loyalty. Moyer paid them three times what they could get anywhere else in the world. Each, through wise financial effort, could become a millionaire in less than five years. Money bought their best effort and assured their silence.

Several strides later, Moyer stood behind Bernard Cox, a young man in his midtwenties. His hair was the color of amber and cut close to the scalp. Everything about him was casual. He wore slip-on loafers, a yellow T-shirt, and brown chinos. His attention was riveted to a monitor that showed a long black ribbon of asphalt that ran through brown-green hills. Moyer could see cars and trucks moving along the road.

“Which road is that?” Moyer asked.

“U.S. 101,” Cox answered after a brief glance at his boss. Cox was the project manager for the MC2-SDS system that was providing the picture on the monitor. Roughly the size of a school bus, the Moyer Communications Satellite Data System was one of thirty such reconnaissance platforms designed and built for the military. Most were placed in strategic positions above global hot spots. Part of an intricate network that combined communications satellites, the kind that made Moyer a wealthy man, and existing SDS systems, MC2 was the latest state-of-the-art surveillance satellite. Like its big brothers, Keyhole and
other secret observation platforms, MC2 was an eye in the sky—a very keen eye. MC2 was also movable, able to change altitude and orbit parameters. While most satellites either hovered over a fixed area in a geosynchronous orbit or passed over an area at regular intervals, MC2 was more flexible. It could reposition itself at a thousand kilometers from its designated orbit and, using its powerful telescope, could define objects less than a meter across at a distance of fifteen hundred kilometers off its track. For objects directly under its track, it could read the headlines of a newspaper on the ground.

Cox was responsible for all that and for what Moyer was seeing. “We repositioned as you asked and began a moderately wide search of the area.”

“And?” Moyer prompted.

“So far so good, although we haven’t found the test target.”

Moyer had seen no need to let Cox or anyone else in on his plan. He had enough problems to occupy his mind. As far as the young scientist was concerned, this was a drill whose results would be sent to the Pentagon. He had even been cryptic with General Scott whom he had called earlier. The general believed, because Moyer had told him so, that new software was being uploaded to the MC2 and tested. The general had been all for that.

“You haven’t found the truck?”

“Oh, I’ve found trucks all right,” Bernard answered casually. “Over six hundred in the first ten minutes. There are a lot of trucks on southern California freeways. But you want a specific truck. That would be impossible if not for the software we developed.”

Moyer nodded. The MC2 satellite system used a digitized photo system that allowed a computer to do the actual searching. Since it was a teraflop system, the computer was capable of doing a trillion operations per second. By year’s end, that system would be updated to a petaflop, capable of doing a thousand times more work than the teraflop. The tightly integrated system was now tracking the only clue
Moyer had to the whereabouts of the woman who threatened to bring down his empire.

The computer monitor flashed from one scene to another as the satellite acquired each new image of a semitrailer, compared it to the database of information that Bernard had fed into it thirty minutes before, and dismissed it if it did not match. In some ways the MC2 was similar to a program called People Spotter that had been developed in the late nineties. That program had been designed to enable a computer to read a video image of a person, analyze the individual’s facial features, and compare its findings to a database of criminals and terrorists. If it made a positive match, it notified the authorities automatically. People Spotter had been used with some success in Europe, but politicos in the United States, fearing a backlash from privacy rights groups, were slow to move on it. Moyer chuckled to himself. If the privacy do-gooders knew what he was up to, their hearts would seize in their chests.

“We’ll be done with Highway 101 in ten minutes, then we can—” A short, sharp beep cut Cox off. Simultaneous with the alarm,
ACQUISITION
flashed on the computer screen. “Bingo!” he shouted, tapping the screen with his finger. “You gotta love this, bossman! We score a hit fifteen minutes after you started the test. The Pentagon is going to love you.”

“They already love me.” Moyer was transfixed by the tiny image of the truck. Even though he understood the principles involved, he was having trouble believing that a satellite hung in space fifteen hundred kilometers away could recognize a specific vehicle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Bernard. Pull in tighter.”

Cox snapped the commands into the keyboard. The image of the tiny truck suddenly became large, filling the screen. The satellite tracked the moving vehicle smoothly. “There you have it,” he said with pride. “A white truck, single trailer, two occupants, no markings on the vehicle.”

“Show me the license.”

“Okay, boss.” Cox entered more commands, and the image of the
truck got larger. It took him nearly a full minute to adjust the angle to show the front license plate.

“It’s too blurry to read,” Moyer complained.

“Give me a sec,” Cox replied with confidence. After a few keystrokes he tapped the enter key. “I’m sending it through digital enhancement.” The moving truck on the monitor was replaced with the still image of a California commercial truck plate.

A smile slipped across Moyer’s face as he read the number of the plate. It matched the one that had been on the motel registration under Nick Blanchard’s name. Even though when he’d had both Blanchard’s name and license checked they both proved bogus, that didn’t matter right now. He had the right truck.

“Give me a position,” Moyer demanded.

A single keystroke brought the information up. Cox grinned like a father who has just seen his son take his first few steps. “Twenty miles south of Santa Barbara on the 101. Oh, he’s also northbound.”

“Let’s take a look in the cab.”

“Will do, but it won’t be real clear. It looks like we’re getting massive sun reflection off the windshield.”

“Try.”

Again the image changed. Through the man-made miracles of technology, Gregory Moyer peered through the windscreen of the truck. He saw a man at the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat. Their faces were not clear, but they were clear enough. “So we meet again,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?” Cox said, turning to face his employer.

“Nothing, Bernard,” Moyer answered, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “When your shift is over, take your crew to Zilli’s for dinner on the company. Order what you want; drink what you want. I’ll have them set up the banquet room for you. Until then, you stay on this vehicle. I’ll let you know when you can pull off.”

“Thanks,” Cox exclaimed. “That’s very generous.”

“Nonsense. You’ve earned it. In more ways than you realize, you’ve earned it.”

“Almost there,” Nick said, leaning forward over the steering wheel and stretching his back. “Want to hear some more music?”

Lisa declined. Already in their short trip she had heard enough musicals to last her the rest of the year. She was content to listen to the sound of tires on the road and the dull rumble of the diesel engine. “No thanks,” she said.

“You’ve been quiet for the last hour. Are you feeling okay?”

“Pretty good, I guess. Still stiff.”

“That will take weeks to get rid of,” Nick said. “Muscles take awhile to get over what you’ve been through. Actually, I was asking about you … otherwise. I know this is rough on you. Remembering the accident had to be tough.”