Drone Threat (15 page)

24

Myers was in bed reading a tablet, with a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Even though she was wearing silky lingerie, she looked as if she were studying for an exam.

Pearce quietly entered the room. It was after ten o'clock. He crossed over to the bed and kissed her. “Sorry I'm late. Long freaking day.”

“Aren't they all?” she said.

He loosened his tie. “What's that you're reading? Something racey, I hope.”

“Fifty Shades of Financials. Thought I'd better go over them before the meeting tomorrow.”

“Germany.” Pearce wanted to raise the security question again with her but thought better of it. “Mind if I catch a quick shower?”

“A shower sounds great, especially if you plan on getting lucky tonight, mister.” Myers pulled off her glasses and set them on the nightstand. “How was the hearing?”

Pearce sat on the bed, untied his shoes. “Like a root canal without the novocaine.”

“That bad?”

“Not really. They kept it pretty informal. Mostly they wanted me to commit to keeping the pig trough slopped. I couldn't do it.”

“Good. Lane wouldn't want you to. I can make a few calls if you need me to.”

“I'll hold you in strategic reserve.”

“How did the time with Grafton go? Any success in the calling campaign?”

Pearce placed his dress shoes neatly in the closet rack and tossed his socks in the hamper. “Smiling and dialing. Supposedly I was trying to get votes lined up. It felt more like I was selling vinyl siding.”

“Any commitments?”

“No. I guess that's better than flat-out rejections.”

“They seldom plunge the knife in while looking you in the eyes,” Myers said. “It's a backstabbing, mealymouthed kind of town.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Pearce frowned from a throbbing headache. Loosened his belt.

“Just trying to keep it real. But for what it's worth, the worm turns in both directions. Not committing might be a good thing at this point.”

“It is what it is.” He hung his pants up. Wrestled with telling her about the drone on the White House lawn and the threat from ISIS it contained. If she knew, she might not want to go to Germany. He decided against it.

Myers set her tablet on the nightstand. “How'd the Falcon Shield test go today?”

Pearce unbuttoned his dress shirt. “It's a great system. All we'd have to do is buy a thousand of them and put them everywhere we need them. Not gonna happen.”

“At least it's another step in the right direction.”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Something on your mind?”

He shook his head. “What will you do with the cash if the deal goes through?”

“If you're still thinking about that sailboat, well, I suppose now is the time I should tell you I get seasick.”

“I'll settle for a lake house in the Rockies.”

She smiled. “Someday, I promise. There's just so much to do. Now's not the time to run away.”

Pearce clenched his jaw. He wasn't a coward. Never ran away from a fight in his life. But he was tired. So damn tired.

And he wanted a drink.

He stepped over to the clothes hamper and began to undress.

“I don't want to argue tonight,” Myers said. She softened. “Not that we argue.”

Pearce nodded. “Me neither. Sorry. My head's killing me.” He peeled off his shirt, his back turned to her.

“What's
that
?” Myers said.

Pearce shut his eyes. Shit. He completely forgot. He heard her feet hit the floor. He turned around. She looked good. Mad, but good.

“I totally forgot to tell you. I'm sorry.”

She leaned in close. Stared at the dark river of ink spread across his broad back. “A tattoo? Really?”

“I lost a bet with Ian.”

“It's . . . huge.”

Pearce spread his arms to his sides like Leonardo da Vinci's
Vitruvian Man
. The black ink tattoo was an abstract interpretation of an eagle in flight. The wings extended down the length of his arms all the way to the wrists. The tip of its beak extended up into the base of his skull.

“And you didn't think to tell me about this?”

“It was kind of a last-minute thing.”

Myers sat back on the bed. “When did you get it?”

“This afternoon. Ian flew in with Dr. Rao. They put it on.”

“I don't understand. You're supposed to be the head of a federal agency, not a biker gang.”

He explained the purpose of the tattoo. She was impressed but not completely satisfied.

“I hope you like to wear long-sleeve shirts. You've got to keep that thing covered up while you're on the job.”

“That's the plan. It touches my wrists but shirt cuffs will hide it.” Pearce touched the back of his neck. “I keep my hair a little long anyway and any shirt collar will cover the rest.”

“I feel like you kept this from me on purpose.”

“I just didn't think about it. And it's temporary. It will come off by
itself in ten or twelve days. Or I can use a chemical peel. It's just an experiment. If it bothers you that much, I can take it off right now.”

She shook her head. “No, it's your call. What bothers me is that you're keeping a lot of things from me lately.”

Pearce wondered if she knew about the drone this morning, after all. He gambled she didn't. “Not the important stuff. You've got a lot on your plate, too.” Pearce kicked off his underwear and headed for the glass shower.

“Maybe I shouldn't go tomorrow. You're under a lot of stress, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“No. I'm going to be up to my neck in it for the next few days anyway.” Pearce flipped on the shower. Water poured out of the rain head.

“Okay, but promise me you'll go back to your therapy sessions this week.”

“My schedule is slammed. Missing a few more sessions won't matter.”

“I think that's a mistake, but you know what's best.” She stepped over to the shower. Pearce was testing the water temperature with his hand. The glass was already fogging up from the steam. “I'll get back as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Don't sell the company because of me,” he said over his shoulder.

“I'm not. I'm doing it for us.”

He turned around. “Sorry about the tat. It's no big deal, I promise. I'll take it off tomorrow—”

Myers traced the tattoo with her finger from the edge of his wrist up the back of his muscled arm. “I dunno. It's kind of growing on me.” Myers slipped off her nightgown.

Pearce grinned. “Maybe we can get a matching set.”

Myers pushed him gently into the shower and followed him in. “Let's talk about it later.”

—

TARKOVSKY TOO
K ANOTHER DRAG
of his cigarette, then handed it back to Grafton. They were both naked beneath the sheets in her Georgetown loft.

“I met him today.”

“Who?” She finished the last pull and stabbed out the butt in the ashtray on his chest.

“Pearce.” He set the ashtray on the nightstand.

“Was that smart?”

“It was an accident. We were both at the White House. I introduced myself. He said he was late for a meeting. Seemed like he was in a hurry. Something urgent.”

“It was.”

Tarkovsky rolled onto his side to look her in the eyes. “How urgent?”

She shook her head. “You don't want to know.”

He grinned. Touched the end of her nose with his finger. “Must I torture you for details?”

Her heart raced. He was a beautiful man. The catch of the city. She wanted to show him off to her friends and, better yet, her enemies. Rub it right in Ilene Parcelle's Botoxed face. “Better for you not to know. At least not yet.”

“Tell me about Pearce, then.”

“Surely you have a file on him?”

“Of course. But it is very thin. CIA Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group. Afghanistan, Iraq. But not much more than that. His record was expunged when my department was finally able to access it. Now he is a private security contractor.” He didn't tell her about Ambassador Britnev and Pearce's suspected role in his death. It was a state secret. Worse. He was on a special SVR list President Titov kept.

“You know as much as I do. Except that Chandler hates his guts.”

“Why?”

“He's an arrogant prick.”

“So am I.”

“That's why he intrigues me.”

Tarkovsky rose up on an elbow, laughing. “Should I be jealous of this Pearce?”

“There's something about him.”

“What?”

Grafton sat up in bed. She weighed her answer carefully. “Rage. You can see it pacing back and forth behind his eyes, like a caged tiger at the zoo. I'd hate to see what would happen if it ever got out.”

“You little liar.” Tarkovsky sat up, too. “You like dangerous men.”

She smiled. “All men are dangerous. Some more than others.”

“So Chandler hates him. What does it matter?”

“Pearce has Lane's ear. And worse, Pearce has Chandler's number. Chandler can't move forward with Pearce in the way. Neither can I.”

“Do you want me to dig a little deeper on Pearce?”

“Yes. And someone else. Chandler mentioned an Iraqi general named Majid.”

“Why? What's the connection?”

“Pearce and Chandler have a history with each other, and with him.”

“Do you know what that history is?”

“If I did, I wouldn't need you to dig, would I?”

“I have a contact in the SVR that owes me a favor. I will reach out to him right away.”

She flung the bedsheets aside and crawled on top of him, wet and ready. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

25

Pearce and Grafton were in her office reviewing the list of phone numbers and talking points for the day's round of calls. Pearce was impressed with Grafton's encyclopedic knowledge of the senators in question and even more so with their senior staffs. Nearly a quarter of the Senate was age seventy or older; several were in their eighties. If Hillary Clinton had been flummoxed by fax machine technology in 2009, then how many other septuagenarians were likewise unable to keep up with the startling technological changes today? Whatever thoughts the aging Senate might have on drone tech, they would have to have been informed by their younger, more knowledgable staff, who formulated most of their policy positions anyway.

Pearce and Grafton divided up their workload accordingly. Pearce would call the senators to massage their egos and ease their concerns after Grafton vetted the appropriate staff personnel. It was a decent plan, and Pearce knew Grafton had a long record of success in corralling votes for Chandler.

“You about ready?” Grafton asked. She slipped a sheet of paper across her desk.

“Yeah. I guess so.” He had ten calls to make, the first to Senator Floyd, a follow-up.

She saw his reluctance. “It won't be that bad. Just close your eyes and think of England.”

Pearce picked up the phone. “Isn't Floyd a waste of time?”

“Floyd's been telling his staff you practically bitch-slapped him in
the hearing. But he figures that if you're willing to speak your mind when your nomination is on the line, you won't hold back when it really counts.” Grafton's offered a half smile. “Good job, cowboy.”

Pearce glanced at his iWatch: 9:55 a.m. Better to wait a few more minutes for Floyd to get settled in before he called. But it wasn't Floyd he was worried about. It was today's twelve o'clock ISIS deadline that was really on his mind.

THE OVAL OFFICE

President Lane, Vice President Chandler, and Ambassador Tarkovsky were seated on the couches and chairs facing one another. Coffee and croissants sat on the table in front of them. Chandler tried to hide his obvious enthusiasm behind a mask of thoughtful reflection. Lane's hands were folded, his face dark with skepticism as Tarkovsky spoke.

“The United States and Russia have many more things in common than not, including our enemies, especially ISIS. We share the same strategic imperative to eradicate them.”

“Some of my advisors think you only oppose ISIS because you support Assad, a tyrant and despot.” Lane reached for his coffee.

“We only support Assad for the same reason your country supported Mubarak, Qaddafi, Saddam, and even Assad himself, as well as his father, in the not-too-distant past. Not because you are in favor of totalitarianism, but because you knew they were the strongest hands to keep the lid on the revolutionary and radical forces always simmering underneath.”

“In the long run, it's never in our best interests to support dictators,” Chandler said. “That puts both of our countries on the wrong side of history.”

Tarkovsky nodded thoughtfully. He anticipated Chandler's rebuttal. The two of them had already rehearsed today's conversation by phone. Chandler knew that Lane would get his back up if the two of
them appeared to be making common cause. Chandler decided a little good cop/bad cop was in order.

“The wrong side of history? Perhaps,” Tarkovsky said. “But history has many sides. By abandoning the shah, you got the Iranian revolution. By pushing us out of Afghanistan, you got the Taliban and gave al-Qaeda an operating base. By toppling Saddam, you got ISIS. By toppling your ally Qaddafi, you gave ISIS a foothold in Libya. By promoting the Arab spring in Egypt, Mubarak fell, and the Muslim Brotherhood took power—until a right-wing coup by the army overthrew them. If I may be so bold, you Americans have a strange history of destroying secular regimes in the Middle East, and yet you are surprised when they're replaced by theocratic dictatorships.”

Lane sat up. “May I be frank?”

Tarkovsky smiled. “Of course.”

“My hunch is that President Titov wants to fight ISIS only to bolster his credibility with the West in order to end the sanctions we've imposed on his government for the invasion of Crimea. This is all about economics, not security.”

“Economics and security are inseparable. The purpose of the 9/11 attacks was to collapse the American economy. If ISIS seizes the oil fields of the Middle East, they will have an even greater weapon to use against every Western economy.”

Lane sat back, tenting his fingers in front of his face as if in prayer, thinking. A strategic partnership with Russia wasn't the worst idea in the world—certainly out of the box. But his gut was telling him that something wasn't right.

He glanced up at the analogue clock on the wall. It read 11:55 a.m. He hadn't thought about the letter until now.

He caught Chandler studying his face.

“Something on your mind, Clay?”

Chandler shrugged. “Maybe it was just a hoax.” He spoke cryptically. Tarkovsky was out of the loop.

Lane glanced back at the sweeping second hand. “We'll know soon enough.”