Drone Games (35 page)

He opened the cell door and nodded to the two agents inside. They removed Robertson’s hand and leg restraints.

“I sure hope you’re in charge, mister,” Robertson said, rubbing his wrists.

“My name is Jack Riley, and as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Well, you’re going to pay, Mr. Riley, because I demand to call my lawyer. You had no right to do what you did to me. You had no right. Why won’t anyone tell me anything? I’m going to sue you and your whole department, whatever it is.”

“Homeland Security,” Riley clarified, pulling up a chair.

“I want a phone and my lawyer. His name is Ray Mills.”

Riley produced an evidence bag and slid out a piece of red plastic. “Do you know what this is?” Robertson glanced at it briefly, then turned away. “I don’t have time for games,” Riley said sternly, repeating the question.

“Of course I know what it is. It’s a wing. A drone wing. I want a phone. I won’t say another thing to you or anyone else.”

Riley moved closer. “Sir, this wing was recovered from the wreckage of United Flight 605 in Bellevue, Nebraska. It was stuck to one of the landing gear tires. We believe it had something to do with the crash. We also presume that someone smuggled it aboard or otherwise placed it on that plane. Trust me, you’ll feel a whole lot better if you tell us how it got there.”

Robertson pointed his finger. “Mister, you storm into my home, place me in handcuffs in front of my wife and my boys, and then cart me off to jail like I’m Timothy McVeigh. I’m a decent, God-fearing man who’s lost every ounce of patience. I’ve been sitting in this stink hole for over five hours, and no one has said a thing to me about why. I demand to be released, I demand a public apology, and I want my lawyer.”

Agent Cheng cracked the door. “Jack, could I see you a minute?” Riley stepped into the corridor. Cheng opened a notebook. “This guy’s a professor. He works downtown at a Georgia Tech research extension on Fifth Street. He’s in charge of some kind of remote-control drone project. He’s got a list of accomplishments on Wikipedia a mile long. He has an exemplary academic record and recently received worldwide attention in the scientific community for inventing some kind of a flying insect. I’ve got one right here. It’s called an Ento—”

“Mopter.” Riley examined the device.

“Uh-huh. Entomopter. According to his wife, he hasn’t been out of Atlanta since they got back from Italy. He won some prestigious science award there. She’s a high school teacher and seems credible. She’s really furious. Maybe they’re both in on it?”

Riley gave Cheng a doubting look. “We need to be smarter. Why did Ellis have to drag him out of his house like that? All we need is a front-page photograph of federal agents manhandling an innocent citizen. If he’s not involved, then we’re going to be up to our ears in lawsuits. Do me a favor and have Ellis track down a local attorney named Ray Mills. He’ll want a piece of us too.”

Cheng jotted the name. “There’s one more thing. His wife is on her way down here with a bus load of students. The media is already setting up outside.”

Riley returned to the cell with the drone and a paper cup of water.

“Professor, I just wanted to tell you that we probably could have brought you here in a more respectable manner. I’m sorry. And if you’re not involved, then I’ll give you your public apology. It may take a while. Please try and be patient.”

Robertson slammed his hand onto the table. “Involved in what?”

“The loss of three aircraft and the death of 264 passengers.”

Robertson choked twice. “You think . . . the airline accidents . . . that I . . . seriously, do I look like some Arab terrorist?”

“Looks can be deceiving, pal. They’re not all Arabs.”

“All right, that was inappropriate,” Robertson admitted. “I’m sorry, but truly, the drone is nothing more than an exploratory tool. I built it exclusively for NASA. It was supposed to be part of the manned mission to Mars until it got cancelled. That’s all there is. I have absolutely no idea how a piece of one ended up in Nebraska. These drones aren’t secret, and neither are the components. Anyone could’ve picked one up and walked off with it.”

Riley sipped his water. “This can really fly?”

“It can fly.”

Riley felt his leg twitch.

“For carrying tools or rocks,” Robertson said. “They can also hold it in position—on the roll bars of a moving Mars rover, for example.”

That roused Riley’s curiosity even more. “Anyone else make these?”

“I can name hundreds of universities and corporations all over the world working on aerial robotics. For its size, ours was the first of its kind. We had high hopes until—”

“Mars got cancelled. You mentioned that before.” Riley set the drone down. “So, if this can carry a rock, then why not something else?”

Robertson knew what Riley was thinking. “I’m sick and tired of people assuming that my invention can instantly adapt to all these bizarre commercial or military applications. It wasn’t built for that. It’s not a guard dog, and it certainly can’t launch Hellfire missiles.”

“What do you mean bizarre applications?”

“A pie-in-the-sky security monitoring venture that has some people at Georgia Tech blinded by dollar signs.”

Riley leaned forward. “What kind of monitoring?”

“Oil rigs and other fixed assets. One of my colleagues is in charge. I don’t care to even bring it up.”

“Oil rigs where?”

“In the desert outside Dhahran, Saudi Arab . . .” Robertson’s mouth simply stopped working. He swallowed something rising in his chest. Deep lines appeared on his forehead. He closed his eyes.

Riley rose from the table, tipping his chair. “What did you say?”

Robertson’s mind raced. He mumbled something, shaking his head repeatedly.

“I asked you a question,” Riley pressed impatiently. “What did you just say?”

“Saudi Arabia,” Robertson answered softly. “We gave six drones to someone from Saudi Arabia.”

“Who did?”

“The university . . . my project . . . my colleague . . . no, it’s not possible.”

Riley leaped for the door. “His name. What is it?”

Robertson sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap.

“Professor Robertson! What is his name?”

“Al-Aran. Faiz Al-Aran.”

Atlantic Ocean

Queen Mary 2

“WOULD YOU repeat that, please?” Captain John Francis asked the caller on the other end of the telephone. He calmly walked across his cabin and touched his finger to a computer screen’s navigational icon. He perused his ship’s course and speed.

“The
Centro Nacional de Inteligencia
orders you to return to port,
señor
,” Alberto Tadich spoke in broken English. “Immediately.”

Spain’s National Intelligence Center (CNI) had responsibility for all international terror threats. Domestics were handled by their Spanish Interior Ministry.

Francis had served in Britain’s Royal Navy and was a NATO strike force commander before an arrogant German general relieved him. He’d carried a grudge against foreign authority ever since. He bristled at the Spaniard’s tone.

“Orders me? On what grounds? Good grief, man, that’s completely off our itinerary. Do you really expect a ship of our size to simply up and turn around without any explanation? We’re on an extremely tight schedule.”

“It is my duty to inform you of this instruction,
Capitán
. Return to Las Palmas.”

“Then you’ve done your duty, sir. I’ll take the request under advisement. Good day.” Francis hung up. His face had a smug expression. The ship had already reached international waters.

Chief Officer Clifton Remmers knocked on the cabin door. “Captain, sir, we’ve just gotten word from MI5 in London. It seems they’d like us to detain one of our passengers. A fellow named Al-Aran. They say it’s urgent and to use extreme caution.”

“This is absolute madness,” Francis grumbled, snatching the dispatch from Remmer’s hand. “Send a detail at once.”

“Right away, sir.” Remmers reached for his radio. “I think it’s something about the US flight ban, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t let me in on the details.”

Francis touched his computer screen’s security icon and scrolled through the passenger list. Al-Aran’s name came up highlighted and flagged by the ship’s SmartCard System as a non-returning passenger on embarkation.

“Belay that, Clifton.”

“Sir?”

“The chap never reboarded. He’s still in the Canaries. It’s their problem now.”

—

North Lanzarote Island

Canary Islands

Greef’s Charter Fishing

“AL-ARAN, AL-ARAN. Yeah, I’ve seen him. A tall, dark-skinned fellow,” Rollin Greef recalled. Dressed in dock shorts and knee-high rubber boots, Greef carried a filet knife slung over his back. “He’s out on one of my runabouts. He took a tub full of squid and half a dozen rods. I thought he was a bit of a dill to go shark fishing alone with nothing but a fancy briefcase. But he kinda persuaded me, if you get my meaning, eh?”

“In other words, he gave you money,” Cheng clarified.

Greef winked. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a tin container. “You look a little knackered, mate. Where did you say you lit off from?”

“Atlanta.”

“This Al-Aran must be in some big trouble if the American FBI sets off on a four-thousand-mile walkabout. Drug runner?”

Cheng shook his head. “How long has he been fishing?”

Greef craned his neck at the boathouse clock. “All of five hours now. I’d say he’s due back this way anytime.”

—

Atlantic Ocean

28° 47'04.80"N 13° 12'52.58"W

Thirty-three Miles Southeast of Orzola

FAIZ AL-ARAN removed a handheld GPS receiver from his briefcase and verified his position. He checked the time and peered through his binoculars. To the south, a freighter appeared on the horizon. Its silhouette grew steadily larger until gray-white lettering was visible. He flung the receiver and binoculars in a wide arc and watched them plop into the water, narrowly missing a curious pilot whale. Next, he heaved the squid overboard and churned the runabout’s propeller through the blood-soaked entrails. The first shark appeared in less than a minute. Finished, he stripped off his clothes and laid them in a neat pile on the floor. He slipped into a swimsuit and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He pressed the engine’s throttle.

The freighter had slowed to four knots.

Al-Aran brought the runabout alongside the big ship and leaped to the portside boarding ladder. Three crew members watched with mild amusement as this odd tourist-seafarer scrambled up to the main deck.

The runabout puttered away aimlessly.

A man in a white turtleneck sweater appeared on the freighter’s bridge and eyed Al-Aran suspiciously. He lit a cigar as he walked down the metal steps, a bundle of clothing tucked under one arm.

“Why do you board the
Abuzenima
, the finest ship in the National Navigation Company? And why are you so far from shore in the trade lanes? Surely you have had bad luck, but I’m afraid you will be with us for a while. Rabat is another five hundred miles. Do we know each other,
señor
?”

“My name is Faiz Al-Aran,” he said, shivering. “I am a friend.”

“I am Captain Riad Naimi, and I choose my friends carefully.”

“I have a message from your brother, Ali Naimi,” Al-Aran announced. “The animal that visits your garden each night is not a mongoose. It is an Iberian lynx.”

The captain smiled broadly, offering Al-Aran a towel and a set of workman’s overalls.

“Come, we will dine together. You must tell me of the interesting life you’ve had in Ameri—” Riad lifted his binoculars. “Your runabout,
señor
. You left something aboard on the console—a briefcase. Do you wish to retrieve it?”

Al-Aran tightened his belt. “Your brother is well and sends Allah’s love.”

North Lanzarote Island

Canary Islands

Greef’s Charter Fishing

LAS PALMAS authorities and curious locals crowded the dock watching Rollin Greef secure his recovered runabout. In the Canaries, the drowning of one cruise ship passenger carried more significance than a capsized migrant raft from sub-Saharan Africa. Tourists meant money.