Sting of the Drone (8 page)

“Well, maybe a series. Get a topic, a theme, and travel around covering it from different places. Viewers could follow them, see how they have to travel, the backstory, get to know the reporter as well as the topic.” Karen was thinking out loud.

“Got any ideas for a series, Bryce?” Garrison asked.

“Sure, lots.” Duggan said. “How hard it is for millions of people to get drinkable water, the struggle young women are having challenging customs in the region, the growing gap in education—”

“Hard news, Bryce, wars. We want to make you into a war correspondent,” Garrison countered.

“Right, the next SCUD stud. Who was that guy in the First Gulf War who was always standing outside while everyone ran into the shelters when the SCUD missiles were falling all around him?” Karen said. Garrison suppressed a smile.

“Well, we could do children made orphans by several different wars, we could try doing something on the drone strikes and how they are often counterproductive, or we could—” Bryce replied.

“Drones, that’s it, drones. You go to each country where the U.S. is secretly flying drones. There was a great report on it from some university the other day, long thing, it’s on my desk,” Garrison said. “But, Karen, that would cost money. Eight, maybe ten, countries. Team of three, plus Bryce, some local security guys in some of these places, a little baksheesh, you know, walking-around money.”

“I’ll find the money, including the raise. Give me a budget tomorrow morning, Fred,” she replied. “Nice to meet you, Bryce Duggan.” She kept her eyes on him as he walked back into the newsroom.

7

SATURDAY, AUGUST 15

JAMSHED DISTRICT

KARACHI, PAKISTAN

“I hate this city,” the older Arab said.

“You hate everything. That is why it so difficult for you to recruit new followers,” Bahadur replied.

“We love Islam and we have no problem recruiting. We have enough people in America to do the attacks,” the younger Arab added.

“Then why do you need us?” Bahadur answered. “If al Qaeda is still so strong, why us? Why don’t you do the attacks in America without us?”

The older Arab looked Bahadur in the eye for a moment before replying. “We have learned not to expose our men in America. Too many have been lured into thinking they were talking to brothers, getting an assignment, a mission, only to be arrested by the FBI. The new people we have do nothing to risk being identified. They do not visit Islamist Web sites. They go only to the regular mosques. They buy no guns, no bomb material. They do no planning of missions. They wait. Our men will do the missions, but we need someone else to be the controllers, to set up the operations.”

Bahadur hoped no one had followed the Arabs to this small appliance store in the Jamshed district of the sprawling city. Qazzani gang spotters were out in the neighborhood looking for signs of surveillance.

“How did you find those people?” Bahadur asked.

“Our friends in the U.S., the Ikhwan, they are often teachers, or bankers, or doctors. They look for young men who want to do a special Jihad. They send them out of America for vacations, never an Islamic country. Trinidad, Brazil, Mexico. There we meet them. We test them. Those who pass, we instruct on how to wait without attracting attention. Then they go back.”

The younger man looked to the older Arab for confirmation that he could give more detail and then added, “Some of them we appoint as a cell chief. Each cell chief knows five to ten other men. The men know only their cell chief, but each one of them we give a special code word of his own. We give it when they pledge loyalty to al Qaeda. If someone recruits them to do a mission, if he does not say the code word, the men know the recruiter is FBI.”

“We need you to build the bombs, to survey the targets, to coordinate the attacks,” the older Arab said, “but we have good people.”

“These people, they are all Arabs?” Bahadur asked.

“No, very few. Some are Somalis. Some Nigerians, but my friend,” the younger Arab smiled, “all are Americans. Either they were born there or they became citizens. No visas needed. They all have American passports.”

Bahadur was beginning to think that perhaps Rashid Qazzani was right to take this contract from al Qaeda. They did need help, but not for everything. In the decade after 9/11 al Qaeda had gone underground in America. They had used good security procedures, cells in which most members knew only a few others. They were long-term sleepers who did nothing to attract attention. The Qazzanis would activate some of the networks, give them explosives, assign them targets, and leave before anything happened. For this simple task, they would get most of the special reserve fund that AQ Central had been building over the years, three hundred million euros.

“And they will all die for you?” Bahadur asked.

“No, most will not,” the older Arab admitted. “This is a new generation. They will not be suicides.” He lowered his head and his voice. “And they will want some money, maybe one million dollars each.”

Bahadur smiled. “That will be in addition to our fee. Unlike you, we do what we do for money, not for Allah.” Suiciders were erratic, too much trouble, he thought. People who worked for one million dollars would be more reliable. And if they died in the blast anyway, or later when they came for the money, then that million might be something he could keep personally.

“Very well,” the older Arab replied. “At least make
zakat
with some of the money.”

“We do, but we have our own charities.” Bahadur laughed.

The older Arab stared at him and then said, “I am told to offer you the names of some of our friends in the ISI, brothers who will assist you in fighting the drones. Some have quit the ISI, but still have connections; others are still on active service. We trust them. A few of them knew about Abbottabad.”

He handed Bahadur a small notebook, code names and contact procedures. “Those at the beginning are the ones in the U.S. The ones in red at the end are the Pakistanis, the ISI. Loss of these names will mean men die.”

Bahadur took the small green moleskin. “For us, this is business, but do not worry. We are very good at business.”

8

FRIDAY, AUGUST 14

DEGREES BISTRO

THE RITZ-CARLTON, GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

She was already seated in the restaurant when Ray arrived, late. He had texted her to apologize that he was running behind schedule. He had left his car with the doorman, along with a big tip, and taken the big metal stairs, two at a time to the second floor. He worried she would take his tardiness as an insult. Instead, she seemed fully absorbed in her iPad, and a glass of Viognier. The bottle was on the table.

“So sorry. No excuses,” Ray began.

“No problem. I’m reading the new Alan Furst novel,” Sandra said, shutting down the iPad. “Hope you don’t mind I ordered the wine. I wanted something a little sharper than Chardonnay.” She poured him a glass. “Let me know what you think of it.”

He sipped the tangy white wine and remembered why he had hit it off with her so well when they first met at a U.S.-UK intelligence liaison conference in London. She did not defer to him in the least. She did not make a point of doing things to prove she was his professional equal, she knew she was and had entirely internalized that. “So does the Agency book you into the Ritz now?” he asked.

“Hell, no. I’ve just got so many Marriott points that I occasionally upgrade myself. The Agency had me in the Key Bridge over in Rosslyn, but this place is kind of funky. Red mood lights, high ceilings. Feels like a movie set from
Batman
or something. Big redbrick factory.”

“It was a giant trash incinerator building that they, ah, repurposed as a hotel,” Ray explained. “Hence the name of this restaurant, Degrees. It used to get very hot in here.”

“So, is it really getting very hot in here, in DC, for the drone program? You’re the big shot Washington insider,” Sandra said with a smile. “So maybe you can answer a question that has been floating around in my head as I try to fall asleep at night.”

“This doesn’t sound good,” Ray replied.

“No, really, it’s about work. It’s this: behind all the politicians posturing, why do you think so many regular Americans have a problem with drones? Because I just don’t get it. They’re just airplanes after all.”

“Well, look, they aren’t really just airplanes. They’re different. I think they are less likely to hit the wrong guy or create a big blast on the ground, but people see them as Flying Killer Robots,” Ray said. “And people have a deep fear of armed robots.”

“Well, yeah.
Terminator
. Who saw that movie and identified with the Schwarzenegger character? No one. We all wanted the human to beat him,” she said.

“Right and no one rooted for the Borg bots in
Star Trek
. They were terrifying and seemed unbeatable. There are a dozen or more movies over the decades, all of which have conditioned us to fear killer robots, and now you get told that the U.S. has Flying Killer Robots?” Ray was on a roll. “There are all sorts of legitimate concerns about our drone policy being counterproductive or precedent setting, but at root, for a lot of people, there is a subconscious fear of armed robots going crazy and killing humans.”

Sandra shook her head in a combination of disgust and disbelief. “Well, let me assure you that my drones do not have minds of their own. They’re not going to all gain consciousness one day, like in
The Singularity,
and start flying themselves and picking out their own targets.”

“Maybe not, but I happen to know DARPA is funding some initial work on unmanned fighter planes that would shoot down enemy fighter planes with no human in the loop. Also bombers that would seek and destroy enemy tanks and missiles. Not quite minds of their own, but closer,” Ray said, playing devil’s advocate.

“I’d have a real problem with eliminating the human in the loop,” Sandra replied.

Ray chuckled. “That’s because you’re that human who’s in the loop. You just want job protection.”

In an ever so delicate way, Sandra smiled and shot Raymond Bowman her middle finger.

Ray laughed. “Do we always have to talk about work?”

“You should talk,” Sandra replied. “Mr. Workaholic. Speaking of which, I heard you split up. I’m sorry. Permanent?”

Ray nodded affirmatively. “Afraid so, but it wasn’t just me who was more married to the job. She was always running off to refugee camps. First, it was the Horn of Africa, then Jordan. Last I heard from her she was in Chad. That’s where she was when she signed the divorce agreement. Almost a year now.”

“First year’s the worst, trust me,” she said. “Frankly, I am a workaholic and I admit it. It’s what gives me pleasure. So without having to worry about Josh, I am a much happier little spook.”

They were halfway through the main course when she realized they had emptied the bottle of white. She signaled to the waiter. “Can you bring us a bottle of the Papapietro?”

“Italian?” Ray asked.

“Yes, I am. Can’t you tell? Vittonelli. But the wine is from the Russian River. Sorry, I should have consulted you.”

“No, no. I defer to you. You seem to know about wine. I’m forty-three-years old and still into beer. Arrested development,” Ray replied.

“Shit. Are you really only forty-three? And now that Schwartz is retired you’re running the PEG? Maybe I’m the one with the arrested development,” she said, as the waiter brought the Pinot Noir.

“And you are an old lady at forty-five? Running the joint DOD-CIA coordination center for all drone flights? Pretty damn important job. Better than station chief in Tunis.”

Sandra Vittonelli stared into the deep purple fluid as she rolled it around in her glass. Still looking at the wine she said, “So you know my age and the job I was scheduled to take. Mr. Bowman, have you been illegally reading my personnel file?”

“Yes. I mean no, not illegally,” he said as he felt himself blushing. “I had to go through the jackets on all the candidates for the drone Global Coordination Center’s Director.”

She tasted the wine and stared across the table at him. “You pick me for the job?”

“Burrell did,” Ray lied.

“Winston Burrell wouldn’t have known me from Madonna prior to today.”

“You’re wrong,” Ray said. “He’d know Madonna. You were by far the best person for the job. And it is a big job. Lot better for your career than Tunis.”

“Assuming I don’t fuck it up,” Sandra replied. “So I beat out all the boys on points, huh? It had nothing to do with our little fling at the You Suck talks?”

Ray choked on his wine. “Excuse me,” he blurted out, coughing. “I suck at what?”

“The U.S.-UK conference. We call it the You Suck Talks. Don’t tell me you never heard that.”

Ray was laughing loudly, attracting looks from others in the restaurant. “I had a lot of fun that weekend,” Ray replied. “But it had nothing to do with who got this job. I can compartmentalize work and play.”

“Can you now?” Sandra asked. “Well, I wanted to ask you upstairs, but because we’re now supposed to be a team, professionally, I thought maybe not. But if you can compartmentalize.…”

Ray smiled broadly. “I was going to ask to see your room. After all, I’m not really in your organization or chain of command,” he said.

She stared into the Pinot again. “Some understandings then? It’s going to be just for fun. And we’re both in the same business and we can’t really do it with civilians. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of our working together, and, of course, either one of us can say no to getting together anytime and either one of us can call it off with no hard feelings.”

“Well, yes to all that,” Ray answered. “But I am having some hard feelings right about now.”

Sandra turned to look for the waiter. “Check, please.”

9

SUNDAY, AUGUST 16

GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

“And dawn breaks over the FATA,” Colonel Erik Parsons said as he walked onto the Operations Room floor, still carrying his coffee mug from the Camaro. “How’s the night been so far?” Night in Vegas was day in the FATA, Pakistan’s tribal border area. On the large video screen on the Big Board was the color image from a drone’s camera, orange light coming up into the purple sky, the sun rising behind a mountain.