The Kill Room (29 page)

T
HE MOMENT BEFORE SHE LEAPT,
though, Sachs saw that an envelope, not a Glock or a blade, was emerging.

The man noted Sachs’s curious pose with a frown then stepped closer and handed the envelope to Laurel.

“Who
are
you?” Laurel persisted.

Still no response to her query. Instead he said, “I’ve been asked to give this to you. Before you go any further, you should know.”

“‘Go any further’?”

He didn’t elaborate but simply nodded at the envelope.

The prosecutor extracted a single sheet of paper. She read methodically, word by word, to judge from her slow eye movements. Her teeth seemed to clench.

She looked up at the man. “You work for the State Department?”

Sachs’s impression was that, though he said nothing, the answer was yes. What was this all about?

A glance at the document. “Is it authentic?” Laurel asked, eyeing the State Department minion closely.

The man answered, “I was asked to deliver a document to Assistant District Attorney Laurel. I have no interest in or knowledge of the contents.”

Good use of prepositions, Sachs reflected cynically. Lincoln Rhyme would have approved.

“Shreve Metzger had you do this, didn’t he?” Laurel said. “Did he fake it? Answer the question. Is it real?”

No knowledge
of
, no interest
in
…

The man said nothing more. He turned away, as if the women no longer existed, and left them. He paused at the end of the corridor and was buzzed out.

“What is it?” Sachs asked.

“Didn’t some of the intelligence we got from Fred Dellray report that Moreno was seen in or around U.S. embassies or consulates just before he was shot?”

“Right,” she confirmed. “Mexico City and Costa Rica. After he left New York on May second.”

Sachs’s concerns were further allayed when she glanced back and saw the round, dark face of the guard at the door peering in, unharmed and unconcerned about the visitor. She returned to her station and her celebrities.

With a sigh Laurel said to Sachs, “If anybody was thinking that Moreno was going to attack an embassy they were wrong.” She nodded toward the letter in her hand. “He
was
looking for an embassy, but one where he could fast-track his renunciation of U.S. citizenship. He did it on May fourth in San José, Costa Rica. The renunciation was effective immediately but the paperwork didn’t make it into the State Department database until this morning.” She sighed. “When he died Robert Moreno was a Venezuelan citizen, not U.S.”

Sachs said, “That’s why he told the limo driver in New York he couldn’t come back to America. Wasn’t because of any terrorist plot but because he’d be non grata and wouldn’t be allowed in on a foreign passport.”

A phone appeared in Laurel’s hand. She looked down at it. Her face had never seemed so wan. Why all the makeup? Sachs wondered yet again. Laurel hit a speed-dial button. Sachs couldn’t see which priority but of course it didn’t much matter. A 9 is as easy to hit as a 1.

Laurel stepped to the side and had a conversation. Finally she put the phone away and remained for a full minute with her back to Sachs. Her phone rang. Another conversation, briefer.

When she’d ended that call she returned to Sachs. “My boss just talked to the attorney general in Albany. However much Shreve Metzger and his shooter overstepped their authority, there’s no interest in pursuing a charge against him when the victim’s not a U.S. citizen. I’ve been ordered to drop the case.” She looked at the floor. “So. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sachs offered. She meant it.

I
N THE COOL, DIM SAFE HOUSE
in Reynosa, Mexico, al-Barani Rashid completed the list of bomb components and pushed it toward the Fat Man.

That was how he’d thought of the cartel’s chief IED expert when the man had first waddled inside a half hour ago, dusty and with unwashed hair. Rashid had given him the name contemptuously, though accurately—he really was quite heavy. Then he regretted the unkind thought about his physique and personal grooming habits; the cartel’s man proved to be not only very cooperative but extremely talented. It turned out he was responsible for some of the more sophisticated explosive devices deployed in the Western Hemisphere over the past few years.

The man pocketed the shopping list he and Rashid had come up with and in Spanish said he’d be back by evening with all the parts and tools.

Rashid was satisfied that this weapon would do the job very efficiently, killing DEA regional director Barbara Summers and anyone at the church picnic within a thirty-foot circle, possibly wider, depending on how many people were waiting in line at the ice cream station, where the device would be planted.

Rashid nodded toward the room where the Mexican hostages were being kept. He asked the Fat Man, “His company has come up with the ransom?”

“Yes, yes, it’s confirmed. The family’s been told. They can leave tonight, as soon as the last of the money is transferred.” He regarded Rashid closely. “It’s only business, you know.”

“Only business,” Rashid said, thinking, No, it’s really not.

The Fat Man walked to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and, surprising Rashid, took out not a beer but two cartons of Greek yogurt. Eyeing the Arab, he peeled back both tops and ate one then the other with a plastic spoon, standing in the middle of the room. Then he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, tossed the empties into the trash and sipped from a bottle of water.

“Señor, I will see you soon.” They shook hands and he stepped outside, waddling on shoes with heels worn angular.

After the door closed Rashid stepped to the window and looked out. The man climbed into a Mercedes, which sagged port side. The diesel purred to life and the black vehicle bounded down the drive, leaving a dust cloud.

Rashid remained at the window for ten minutes. No sign of surveillance, no neighbors glancing uneasily as they passed by. No curtains dropping back over windows. Dogs stood about unsuspicious and no disembodied barks suggested intruders in unseen places nearby.

From the bedroom suite he heard voices. And then a soft noise he couldn’t place at first, uneven, rising, falling in volume and tone. It grew regular and he knew the sound was a child’s crying. The little girl. She’d been told she was going home but she wouldn’t appreciate that. She wanted to be there
now
, with her stuffed toy, her bed, her blanket.

Rashid thought of his sister, who, with two schoolmates, was killed in Gaza. His sister…not much older than this girl. She hadn’t had a chance to cry.

Rashid sipped more tea and examined the diagrams, listening to the mournful sound of the girl, which seemed all the more heart wrenching for being muted by the walls, as if she were a ghost trapped forever in this dusty tomb.

T
HE PHRASE “KILL ROOM”
suggested something out of a science-fiction movie or the operations center in the TV show
24.

But the National Intelligence and Operations Service’s Ground Control Station was a dingy space that looked like a storage area in a medium-sized insurance business or ad agency. It was housed in a fifteen-by-forty-foot trailer and was divided into two rooms. The office area was where you entered from the NIOS parking lot. Lining the wall were cardboard cartons of varying ages, cryptic writing on them, some empty, some containing documents or paper cups or cleaning supplies. A communications center, unoccupied at the moment. Computers. A battered gray desk and brown chair were in one corner and old, unclassified files littered it, as if a secretary had grown tired of finding the right drawer for them and had just given up. A broom, a box of empty Vitaminwater bottles, a broken lamp sat on the floor. Newspapers. Light bulbs. Computer circuit boards. Wires. A
Runner’s World
magazine.

For decorations, maps of the Caribbean, Mexico, Canada and Central America, as well as of Iraq, and several OSHA posters warning about the dangers of lifting heavy loads with a bent back and not drinking enough water on hot days.

The place was dim; the overheads were rarely on. As if secrets kept better in hinted light.

You tended not to notice the shabbiness of the office, however, because of the other half of the trailer: The UAV operations station, visible through a thick glass wall.

Men and women like Barry Shales, the pilots and sensor operators, tended to refer to the operations station as a cockpit, which nobody seemed to mind, though the word “drone” was discouraged. Maybe “unmanned aerial vehicle” sounded more sophisticated or sanitized. This term was certainly better—from a public relations view—than what UAVs were called among those who flew them: FFAs, or Fuckers From Above.

Wearing dress slacks and a tie-less short-sleeved blue plaid shirt, slim Barry Shales was sitting in a comfortable overstuffed tan leather chair, which was more like Captain Kirk’s in
Star Trek
than a seat in a jet’s cockpit. Before him was a three-foot-by-eighteen-inch tabletop metal control board, bristling with dozens of knobs and buttons, switches and readouts, as well as two joysticks. He was not touching them at the moment. The autopilot was flying UAV N-397.

The computer’s being in charge was standard procedure at this point in a Special Task Order operation, which involved just getting the bird in the general area of the target. Shales didn’t mind being copilot for the moment. He was having trouble concentrating today. He kept thinking about his prior assignment.

The one NIOS had gotten so wrong.

He recalled the intel about the chemicals for Moreno’s IED—the nitromethane, the diesel fuel, the fertilizer—that were going to reduce the oil company’s headquarters in Miami to a smoking crater. The intel about Moreno’s vicious attacks on America, calling for violent assaults on citizens. The intel about the activist’s reconnaissance of the embassies in Mexico and Costa Rica, planning to blow them to kingdom come too.

They’d been so sure…

And they’d been so wrong.

Wrong about avoiding collateral damage too. De la Rua and the guard.

The primary point of the Long-Range Rifle program at NIOS was to minimize, ideally eliminate, collateral, which was impossible to do when you fired missiles.

And the first time it had been tried in an actual mission, what had happened?

Innocents dead.

Shales had hovered the UAV craft perfectly over the waters of Clifton Bay in the Bahamas, sighted through the leaves of a tree outside with a clear infrared and radar vision of Moreno, double-confirmed it was he, compensated for wind and elevation and fired shots only when the task was standing alone in front of the window.

Shales knew in his heart that only Moreno would die.

But there was that one little matter that had never occurred to him, to anyone: the window.

Who could have thought that the glass would be so lethal?

Wasn’t his fault…But if he believed that, if he believed he was innocent of any wrongdoing, then why had he been in the john last night puking?

Just a bit of the flu, honey…No, no, I’m okay.

And why was he having more and more trouble sleeping?

Why was he more and more preoccupied, agitated, heartsick?

Curiously, while drone operators are perhaps the safest of all combat troops physically, they have among the highest rates of depression and post-traumatic stress in the military and national security services. Sitting at a video console in Colorado or New York City, killing someone six thousand miles away and then collecting the kids at gymnastics or football practice, having dinner and sitting down to watch
Dancing with the Stars
in your suburban den was disorienting beyond belief.

Especially when your fellow soldiers were hunkered down in the desert or getting blown to pieces by IEDs.

All right, Airman, he told himself, as he’d been doing lately, concentrate. You’re on a mission. An STO mission.

He scanned the five computer monitors before him. The one in front, black background filled with green lines, boxes and type, was a composite of typical aircraft controls: artificial horizon, airspeed, ground speed, heading, nav-com, GPS, fuel and engine status. Above that was a traditional terrain map, like a Rand McNally. An information monitor—weather, messages and other communications reports—was to the upper left.

Below that was a screen that he could switch from regular to synthetic aperture radar. To the right, at eye level, was a high-definition video view of whatever the camera in the drone was seeing, presently daylight, though night vision was, of course, an option.

The view now was dun-colored desert passing underneath.

Though slowly. Drones are not F-16s.

A separate metal panel, below the monitors, was weapons control. It did not have any fancy screens but was black and functional and scuffed.

In many drone missions around the world, especially combat zones, the crew consists of a pilot and a sensor operator. But at NIOS the UAVs were flown solo. This was Metzger’s idea; no one knew exactly what was behind it. Some thought it was to limit the number of people who knew about the STO program and therefore minimize the risk of security leaks.

Shales believed, however, the reason was this: The NIOS director appreciated the emotional toll that these missions took and wanted to subject as few people as possible to the stress of STO killings. Employees had been known to snap. And that could have far-ranging consequences, for them, their families…and for the program too, of course.

Barry Shales scanned the readouts. He hit a button and noted several other lights pop on.

He spoke into the stalk mike, “UAV Three Nine Seven to Texas Center.”

Instantly: “Go ahead, Three Nine Seven.”

“Weapons systems green.”

“Roger.”

He sat back and was stung by another thought. Metzger had told him that somebody was “looking into” the Moreno task. He’d asked for details but his boss had smiled dismissively and said it was just a technicality. Everything was being taken care of. He had people taking precautions. He didn’t need to worry. Shales wasn’t satisfied. Any smile from Metzger aroused suspicion.

Shales himself had felt a burst of the same searing rage that he, that
everybody
, knew was the NIOS director’s nemesis.
Who
was looking into the matter? The police, Congress, the FBI?

And then, the kicker, Metzger told him that he too should take some precautions.

“Like what?”

“Just remember that it’d be better if there was less…well, ‘evidence’ is such a stark word. But you get my meaning.”

And Shales decided at that moment not to wipe the phone issued to him as Don Bruns. The data—and the emails and texts to and from Metzger—were encrypted, but Shales decided it would be a prudent idea for the evidence
not
to disappear. He also printed out dozens of documents and smuggled them out of NIOS.

Insurance.

And the fact he’d felt compelled to take those precautions made him think: Hell, maybe it was time to quit this crazy business. Shales was thirty-nine, he had a degree from the Air Force Academy and a postgrad in engineering and poli-sci. He could go anywhere.

Or could he?

With a résumé like his?

Besides, the idea of no longer helping defend his country was almost unbearable.

But how do I help my country by accidentally killing a famous journalist and hardworking guard while I’m on a mission to assassinate an unpleasant but innocent loudmouth? What about—

“Texas Center to Three Nine Seven.”

Like flipping a switch. Barry Shales was all go. “Three Nine Seven.”

“You are ten minutes to target.”

The operation command center near Fort Hood knew exactly where his drone was.

“Copy.”

“Visual conditions?”

A glance to the monitor at the right. “A little haze but pretty good.”

“Be advised, Three Nine Seven, eyes on the ground report that the task is alone in target structure. Individual who arrived an hour ago has left.”

The task…

“Roger, Texas Center. I’m taking the aircraft,” Shales said, disconnecting the autopilot. “Approaching Lucio Blanco International airspace.”

Reynosa’s airport.

“Friendly nation ATC has been advised of your flight route.”

“Roger. Descending to two thousand feet. EAD on.”

The engine audio deflectors would reduce the decibel level of the drone’s engine to about one-tenth of the regular sound. These could only be used for a short period of time, though, because they tended to make the engines overheat and there was a power loss, which could be dangerous in rough weather. Now, though, the sky was clear and virtually no wind would trouble the craft.

Five minutes later he guided 397 to about fifteen hundred feet above and a half mile from the safe house where al-Barani Rashid was presently planning or perhaps even constructing his bomb.

“In hover mode.”

Teasing the joystick.

Shales painted the target safe house with a laser. “Confirm coordinates.”

The longitude and latitude of what he’d reported would be matched to those of the stats known to be the target in NIOS’s mainframe—just to make sure.

“Texas Center to Three Nine Seven, we have geo match. Target is confirmed. What is your PIN?”

Shales recited the ten digits of his personal identification number, verifying he was who he was supposed to be and that he was authorized to fire this missile at this target.

“Positive ID, Three Nine Seven. Payload launch is authorized.”

“Copy. Three Nine Seven.”

He slipped up the cover over the arming toggle for the Hellfire missile and pressed the button.

Shales stared at the image of the safe house. Still, he didn’t push the launch button just yet.

His eyes took in the windows, the doors, the chimney, the streaks of dust on the sidewalk, a cactus. Looking for a sign. Looking for some indication that he should not launch the deadly package.

“Three Nine Seven, did you copy? Payload launch is authorized.”

“Confirmed, Texas Center. Three Nine Seven.”

He inhaled deeply.

Thought: Moreno…

And lifted the second cover, over the launch button itself, and pressed down.

There was no sound, only a faint rocking of the screen as the 110-pound missile dropped from the UAV. A green light confirmed release. Another, ignition.

“Payload away, Texas Center. Three Nine Seven.”

“Roger.” In the most bland of tones.

There was nothing more for Shales to do now, except watch the safe house disappear in a flash of flame and wash of smoke. He turned to the video.

And he saw the back door to the house open and two people exit into the courtyard between the house and garage. Rashid was one of them. A teenage boy was the other. They spoke briefly and began to kick around a soccer ball.