Kill Decision (44 page)

The man registered not the slightest hint of surprise. At a gesture from him the bird flew off, across the living room and out her open sliding glass door.

“Do you normally leave your doors unlocked and your alarms deactivated?”

“I didn’t want you to break anything. I’m having a party tomorrow night.”

“And your security detail?”

“Sent away for the same reason. I’m not foolish enough to resist the U.S. military.” She appraised the man before her. “You’ll have to forgive Henry. He’s a bit naïve and self-impressed. But then, that’s what the young are. The moment he called me, I knew to expect your visit.”

The man said nothing.

“What can I do for our friends in The Activity?”

With his other hand he produced an insectlike robot the size of a toaster oven from around the corner and tossed it into the center of her dining room table. It left several nasty indentations on the rosewood before it clattered to a stop, facing her like a dead black spider.

She grimaced. “Ah, drones.”

“Autonomous drones.”

“And because we’re promoting autonomous drones on Capitol Hill, you think we have something to do with these attacks against the United States.”

“The drone strikes here are just the beginning. I’m more concerned about swarms of kill-decision drones overturning thousands of years of military doctrine and rules of conduct. That’s a lot of hard-won experience to throw away without any debate.”

“Well, we advise everyone from African dictators to country-western recording artists, to supermarkets—and, yes, aerospace. But we have nothing to hide from you.”

“You’re going to tell me who’s running the project.”

Marta pushed the book away. “You of all people should know these things are compartmentalized. Even if our side was somehow behind this, why would I know? And why would I know who knows? Tell me, Mr. . . .”

“You call me Odin.”

“Mr. Odin—you don’t seem like someone who needs to be told what to do. In truth, despite the fact that everyone wants you to stop, you’re still searching for the people behind these attacks.”

He just stared, unreadable.

“That’s because an expert knows what needs to be done. That’s why they’re an expert. I’m a public relations expert. My clients include aerospace interests, and I know that drones are the future. Dozens of nations plan on using drones to shift the balance of geopolitical power—to undo U.S. aerial and naval supremacy at a bargain price. We need to win that struggle. Are we behind the attacks? How the hell should I know? And, frankly, it doesn’t interest me.”

“You have no idea what this will unleash.”

“And if we don’t do it, everyone else will.”

“Clarke and his people were manipulating social media. You were the one giving him access to raw telecom, geolocation, and Internet data—telling him who and what to oppose. How do you get access to that data? Are you NSA?”

She gave a tight smile. “It works the other way around, Mr. Odin. The NSA gets their data from us. A little-known fact got lost in the uproar about warrantless wiretapping: It wasn’t the NSA that did the tapping. The work was outsourced to experienced companies that had already tapped most of the world’s fiberoptic grid for other governments—some not so nice. Privately held companies the public’s never heard of. Those companies have three thousand clients in a hundred and fifty countries—and one of those clients is the NSA. Do you get my meaning?”

“Did it ever occur to you that all this surveillance and data tracking has actually put the country in danger, instead of protecting it? It’s being used to target drone attacks.”

“That’s a use I hadn’t heard of. Although, this is the problem with a surveillance state; once you build it, it always grows. Do you realize how many industries use this data? How many people are busy building the systems to gather and analyze it? How much economic activity that’s generating? Ah, but then, you’ve seen the valuations of social media companies and mobile start-ups. That list will continue to grow, and it will create inertia that resists any attempt to tear the surveillance system down. You’re fighting against the tide of progress, Mr. Odin. It’s not a matter of stopping me. I’m nothing. And there is no one person or group driving this. It’s progress. You can’t stop progress.”

“This isn’t progress. It’s regression. We’ve been here before. Consolidation of power is as old as history. Power in the hands of very few. That’s fundamentally at odds with democracy.”

“I should think you’d be happy to have machines fight your wars for you.”

“Whose wars? Who’s to say who controls an autonomous drone? They can build their army in secret and fight wars anonymously, using surveillance data as the targeting mechanism. By that measure, America is more vulnerable to drones than just about any society on the planet. We’re essentially giving an ant-level intelligence policing authority over us.”

Marta took a sip of wine. “Well, I can hardly prevent that. And as you’ll learn, there really isn’t a central authority. There are only . . . interests.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is there anything else I can do for my friends in The Activity, Mr. Odin?”

He stared at her, again unreadable. Marta usually prided herself on her ability to read people. This man was like a stone obelisk. His training, probably.

The man pulled an index card from somewhere with a close-in magician’s dexterity. He approached Marta and left the card in front of her as he collected the carcass of the shattered drone.

“If this surveillance system can find anything, then you’re going to make it work for me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t use it to find who’s behind these drone attacks, Mr. Odin. I thought I made clear that there is no single entity resp—”

He put the card into her hand. “Read it. I want raw intercept data on anyone who’s been dealing with that precise combination of chemicals over the past six months.”

Marta sighed and read the words printed neatly on the index card. She sounded the words out slowly. “Perfluoromethylhexane . . . dimethylcyclohexa . . .” She looked up. “What are these?”

“You have three hours to get the data. The where, the when, the who.” He nodded at the card. “Have your people send it to the FTP share on the card. We hijacked it, so don’t bother attacking the owner. If you don’t comply or try to double-cross me, I’ll take it as a declaration of war from you personally.”

Marta held up her hands in acquiescence. “As I said, I’m always happy to help The Activity, Mr. Odin. And if this data pull will get you to move along, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.” Marta again lifted her wineglass. “You do realize, though, that whoever is doing this might not be so happy to see you?”

Odin cast a parting glance at her as he carried his dead drone toward the exit. “You have three hours.”

Marta watched him go before studying the list again in more detail—and taking out her cell phone.

CHAPTER 27

Proof-of-Concept

L
inda McKinney watched
an alien world through the slit of her all-encompassing black
niqab.
The restrictive garment felt like armor—disguising her. After all, Gaddani, Pakistan, was a place she’d never thought she’d be. About thirty miles north of Karachi, it was the third largest shipbreaking yard in the world. An operation conducted almost entirely without the aid of heavy machinery.

As she watched, a rusted freighter three hundred feet long steamed at full speed toward the wide beach. The vessel rode high in the water, its load line twenty feet above the waves, and its interior frame evident in the grid of worn, dented metal plates that showed its age. The tops of the propellers chopped the water into froth as the freighter pushed toward a wide beach littered with derelict ships, winches, rusting scrap metal, and dilapidated worker housing. Sparks and the hiss of a hundred blowtorches cutting through steel extended into the distance. Scores of men waited on the beach to receive the new freighter, their own blowtorches at the ready.

The ship plowed into the sand with an echoing, deep
boom
and groans of fatigued metal—like an office building running aground. In a moment it lurched to a halt. Even as the engines shut down, the men moved in to secure it with winches and chains.

McKinney glanced over at Odin and Foxy, who sat on the bench across from her in the back of a canvas-covered Bedford truck. They both wore shalwar kameez with black
shemagh
headscarves covering most of their faces. They held stubby AKS-74U carbines across their laps.
The idea of people carrying around unregistered automatic weapons in public was something she never got used to, but then she knew Pakistan was a restive place. “How far does this scrapyard go?”

Odin swept his hand northward. “Five miles or more.”

She gazed out at small hills of cut-up, rusted inch-thick steel. Lines of men were carrying newly cut metal plates up their slopes in a way so reminiscent of leaf-cutter ants it was uncanny. “I can see why you thought it was strange that large chemical shipments would be made here.”

Odin nodded as he unfolded a printed map. “They go through a lot of acetylene and other volatile gases, so the chemical shipments wouldn’t attract much attention from locals.” He gazed out at the hills of scrap metal around them. “Plus, this place is busy enough and big enough to conceal a drone project. Welding wouldn’t attract any attention. And it’s a twenty-four-hour operation.”

McKinney warily scanned the hazy sky. “Can you trust your contact?”

Foxy and Odin nodded confidently. Odin added, “He’s not a company asset. We’ve known Azeem for years. Syrian. Ex–suicide bomber.”

McKinney’s look showed that had done nothing to ease her mind.

Odin shrugged. “He got disenchanted after he found out how much corruption there was. Wherever there’s fighting, criminals capitalize on the chaos. They thrive in lawless environments. A lot of faithful teenage jihadists arriving here found themselves in rough company—heavily armed men more interested in moving heroin than defeating the infidel. We rescued Azeem from a criminal gang. He’d lost a lot of his idealism. He stuck around to rescue other idealists from their clutches and send them back home. That wasn’t popular with my high command, but it opened up channels of communication.”

The truck’s diesel engine rattled in low gear as they navigated a tangled warren of dirt roads bustling with workers walking to and from their shifts, vendors hawking food, or phone cards, or cheap electronics. The carcasses of rusting cargo ships being cut to pieces loomed over the flat, dry landscape. It all seemed so dirty and industrial—not what she imagined Pakistan would look like. It made her realize that life goes on wherever you happen to be. She could see the tired faces of Pashtun workers treading along the roadside, goggles up on their foreheads, and tools over their shoulders. Some squatted in front of shacks, heating up tiny pots of tea with blowtorches. Not many of them had beards—a measure of practicality amid a daily shower of sparks. She could see just how hard these men worked, and she did not doubt that they supported families in distant villages. Life was a struggle.

McKinney heard Smokey’s voice in her radio earpiece.
“We’re arriving at Mantoori Industries. I see Azeem at the gate with two other men—both armed. He’s giving the all-clear signal.”

Odin nodded and examined the Rover video tablet to see a raven’s-eye view from Huginn and Muninn, who were covering them from overhead. “I don’t see anything suspicious in the work yard. It looks aban-
doned. Keep weapons at the ready, and let’s go in.” Odin looked up at McKinney. “The presence of women here is unusual, Professor, but I need your expertise. So please don’t speak or look any of these men in the eye. Basically, act like you don’t exist. You and I will confer in private, like man and wife.”

McKinney winced.

“We’re undercover. Goes with the territory.”

The engine of the truck slowed, and soon the Bedford truck turned to drive through a battered rolling gate painted in bright colors. The truck came to a stop. Odin and Foxy immediately opened the tailgate and leapt down, weapons held casually but at the ready.

Several Pashtun men, also in shalwar kameez, approached, weapons slung over their shoulders. A young, neatly groomed Arab man in his late twenties flashed a bright white smile and straight teeth. “Odin . . .” The two men shook hands and kissed each other on the cheek.

Odin nodded,
“As-salaam alaikum, Azeem. Kayf haalak?”

Azeem nodded. “Fine, praise God. We should speak English. My friends here do not know it.”

Odin gestured to his own companions. “You remember Foxy.”

“Of course, my friend. . . .” They also exchanged handshakes and cheek kisses.

Ripper, Mooch, and Smokey emerged from the front cab. Ripper was likewise covered head-to-toe, but in a light blue burka. At least McKinney had company in this indignity. Azeem shook hands with the men but completely ignored the two women.

Odin was already studying the wide scrapyard, littered with rusting pieces of steel and derelict equipment. “How long has it been abandoned?”