Drone Games (13 page)

Akil smiled broadly. “I . . . um, gifts. They’re family gifts. They were on sale.”

“You’re a thoughtful one, Kenneth. Are you able to join me for dinner tomorrow? I bought a beef roast fat enough for the whole neighborhood.”

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t,” Akil said as though in pain. “My mother’s been asking for me again. I have to leave in the morning. I should be back in about a week.”

“Well, that’s a shame, but family comes before all else in this world. Godspeed to you when you travel. And speaking of travel, did you happen to find that spare set of Scotch and Soda in the stores?”

Akil grimaced. “I completely forgot. I promise I’ll bring it next time.”

“Do you have yours, then? I know you never go anywhere without it.”

Akil reached in his pocket and produced a plastic case the size of a cigarette pack. Scotch and Soda was a brilliant vintage coin trick that made a quarter literally disappear from a person’s closed hand. Mrs. Timmons’s father had dabbled in sleight-of-hand when she was a child. She had been enamored by Akil and his magic coins since the day he’d rented the flat.

Akil completed the trick with his usual flair and tucked the little case away.

A vehicle horn beeped twice.

Bernard hugged his sister in a long embrace. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “I guess I’m just not used to that odor comin’ from next door.”

“Now don’t you try and blame Kenny and his hundred gallons of bleach, you old crier,” Mrs. Timmons chided through her tears. “Even though he’s got enough to scrub the whole neighborhood. I’ll miss you too.”

One bullet per head
, Akil thought.
They’d fall together onto the sofa in some final act of macabre embrace. The basement and heavy plastic would easily mask the odor of two bodies for perhaps ten days
.

“Somebody call a cab?” a voice shouted from outside.

“You ring me when you get home, or I’ll worry through the night!” Mrs. Timmons shouted above the roar of another aircraft.

Bernard walked to the curb, shook Akil’s hand, and blew his sister a kiss.

The taxi sped off.

Akil returned to his flat and peered through binoculars from his upstairs bedroom. The planes on LaGuardia’s Runway 4 were backed up and averaging four minutes of hold time between departures.

He opened his Qur’an.

Surah 48. Victory, Conquest

1.
Verily we have granted thee a manifest victory.

2.
That Allah may forgive thee thy faults of the past and those to follow; fulfill His favor to thee; and guide thee on the straight way.

3.
And that Allah may help thee with powerful help. . . .

4.
And that He may punish the hypocrites, men and women, and the polytheists, men and women, who imagine an evil opinion of Allah. On them is a round of evil: the wrath of Allah is on them. He has cursed them and got hell ready for them, and evil is it for a destination. . . .

5.
We have truly sent thee as a witness, as a bringer of glad tidings, and as a warner. . . .

6.
Verily those who plight their fealty to thee do no less than plight their fealty to Allah. The hand of Allah is over their hands: then anyone who violates his oath, does so to the harm of his own soul, and anyone who fulfills what he has covenanted with Allah, Allah will soon grant him a great reward.

Decatur, GA

Thursday, May 14

LINDA ROBERTSON sat up in bed, jarred awake by footsteps in the hallway. The clock on the nightstand suggested dawn, but the room was nearly black, thanks to the room-darkening window blinds. There had been a recent string of morning break-ins in their normally crimefree suburb ten minutes northeast of Atlanta. Her mind raced to remember if she’d activated the alarm system. She slithered her hand under the covers and tapped her husband. Michael didn’t respond. A pinch produced a mild snort.

The noise in the hallway stopped.

“Someone’s in the house,” she whispered.

Michael sat up, and when he did, he felt instantly nauseous. His eye sockets throbbed as he squinted across the room. Incredibly, the French door handle began to turn. He watched helplessly as light and something long and slender eased inside.

The unmistakable outline of a rifle barrel.

Michael felt as if he was living an out-of-body experience. He could see and comprehend what was happening, but he couldn’t move a single muscle.

“That’s far enough, buddy,” he managed to say. “If you come in this room, I’m going to tie you to a tree outside and squirt you with the garden hose.”

Ignoring the silly threat, the assassin calmly approached the bed and took aim.

Helpless, Michael did the only thing he could to save his life.

He whipped the covers off his wife.

Linda screamed, taking hits to her arms and chest. She jumped out of bed, fled into the bathroom, and slammed the door.

Unmerciful, the assassin turned his weapon back to Michael.

“All right, that’s enough!” Michael laughed.

Stuart, their six-year-old son, dropped the Nerf gun and proceeded to turn the bed into a circus trampoline.

“You didn’t wake me when you got home,” he pouted.

Linda opened the bathroom door. “You were sound asleep,” she said. In seconds, she had tackled her son to the mattress and caressed him tightly. “Mmmm, I missed you. Where’s your brother?”

“Playing video games on his computer. Did you bring me anything from Eye-taly?”

“Italy,” Linda said. “Did you behave?”

“
Mom
,” he protested the obligatory parental question. “We always do. You can even ask Aunt Tina. Did she go home? We played a game called Molopoly Junior, and me and Christian were a fast race car, and we had all the houses, and Aunt Tina was a iron. She said that’s the one you always pick. We won because we bang-rupted her. Did Dad win? What’s a morgadidge? We saw a cool black snake outside.”

“Yes, your father won, but he doesn’t feel well.” She handed her son a fistful of Nerf darts and gently pointed him to the door. “A mortgage is a piece of paper that says you own something and have to pay for it. Aunt Tina left last night. Time to shower up, please. School today.”

Grumbling, the assassin shuffled off.

Linda ran a brush through her hair. “Are you going to campus?”

“I have to,” Michael said, twisting his neck from side to side.

“You don’t look very well. Do you want me to call the doctor? I’m sure he could give you something.”

“Nah, I’ve just got a funny feeling. It’s probably nothing.”

“Your stomach?”

“NASA, what else? Or, to be more specific, NASA’s budget. Everything in that agency is about money. If they can’t make a commitment, my drone project is screwed and so am I.”

“Professor, stop worrying,” she ordered. “I’m sure it’ll work out. And if it doesn’t, then you’ll just have to find someone else who’s interested.”

“Sure. There’s all kinds of companies planning trips to Mars. Maybe I could write to Steven Spielberg.”

“What about that oil field security thing with the Saudis?”

He frowned. “The flying cameras? I’ll find out more about it today, but I guess it’s moving forward. Faiz is arranging an on-site trial for some delegation. I’m not giving it much credence. The drone wasn’t designed for security. I didn’t want to burst any bubbles, but I’ve got a feeling they’ll take a close look at the mechanics and pack the system right back up. It’s not that sophisticated.”

“You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. I like being kept in the dark about my own project.”

“You like being in control.”

He smiled at his wife’s perceptiveness. “I don’t like being irrelevant.”

She kissed her finger and touched his chin. “Stop fretting, and stop selling yourself short. You just earned a huge award. It’s something you can be proud of for the rest of your life. No one can ever take that away. Your drone is a great invention. Whatever happens, I love you.”

“
Daaaad
, could you come here?”

Michael placed his hand on his stomach and gingerly walked upstairs.

“Hey, bud.”

“Hey,” ten-year-old Christian Robertson acknowledged, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. “Josh lent us Spider-Man. Check it out.”

The boy’s thumbs and fingers expertly pressed buttons on the game controller. In synchronized rhythm, the screen character sprang sideways, from building to building, simultaneously shooting streams of webbing at an array of menacing attackers dressed in black camouflage and brandishing automatic weapons.

Michael nodded. “That’s pretty good, mister. How about your reading?”

“Spider-Man can stick to things sideways just like your drones,” Christian said. His fingers made a final series of clicks on the controller. The video character leaped to a flagpole high above the cityscape and then raised both arms in victory. Music filled the speakers and a voice offered congratulations at defeating level three of ten. “Do you think I could fly one again sometime?”

“Sure.
If
you improve your reading grade.” The sound of running water flowed through the wall. “Okay, Spider-Man. Hop downstairs and say hello to your mother, and then hop in the shower after your brother.”

Michael picked up the controller and casually examined the buttons. He pressed one. The video game came to life. A swarm of attackers appeared, weapons blazing. He frantically tried to rouse the motionless hero. Streams of bullets easily found their mark. The game ended abruptly with a demonic laugh.

“Sorry, Spider-Man. You lose.”

Kenosha, WI

FAIZ AL-ARAN pulled his Kia Sorento into the Brat Stop Restaurant’s parking lot at the intersection of I-94 and State Highway 50. He shut off the engine and yawned deeply, arching his body until his fingers touched a fiberglass suitcase in the backseat.

Someone tapped the passenger’s window.

Al-Aran unscrewed the cap on a thermos before unlocking the door.

“Nice to see you again, Professor,” Akil said pleasantly, sliding inside. There were customers milling outside the restaurant, so the men refrained from traditional greeting kisses. “Follow the road behind the restaurant and turn left on—”

“Patience, my young
lutador
. We will sit a moment and talk . . . in English.” Akil folded his hands on his lap. “In four days, America will feel a devastating wind, yes? You are prepared?”

Akil nodded once. “Everything’s cool.”

Al-Aran smiled, pleased with Akil’s Western demeanor. It was both refreshing and comforting to know that his best operative had adapted so well in a culture he was seeking to destroy. “Are you learning from the Internet?”

“There’s a boatload . . . er, hundreds of sites and videos of remote-controlled drones,” Akil said. “I found one that lets me practice with a simulated joystick.”

“You are comfortable with your surroundings?”

“My landlord here likes me a lot. He’s offered me a bartending job. He’s a disgusting alcoholic, and it will be a pleasure to end his life. My LaGuardia lady trusts me like I’m her son. Both locations have perfect perimeter access. O’Hare may be tricky. The runway is near a huge FedEx building. It’s always busy, but I think I can maneuver around it.”

“And San Diego?”

“I’m working on a traveling partner,” Akil said with a thin smile.

“She’s a Latina with kids.”

“Your MoneyGram is arranged. All you need is a reference number and ID,” Al-Aran said, handing Akil a white envelope. “You’re gaining weight.”

“Nearly ten pounds,” Akil said, tucking the envelope into his jacket and exposing his Qur’an. “Why didn’t you fly? And what’s a
lutador
?”

“May I?” Al-Aran extended his hand toward the Qur’an. Akil passed him the book, and Al-Aran thumbed the worn pages. “
Lutador
is a Portuguese word for ‘freedom fighter.’ Flying means airport scanning machines and surveillance cameras—all baggage opened and inspected by security is photographed. No one must see our toys. And no one must see this.” He kissed the Qur’an and handed it back. “The tactics have changed. Have you set the Milwaukee timetable?”