Drone Threat (23 page)

40

TORONTO, CANADA

“What about my assignment here?” Tamar Stern's green eyes narrowed as she jogged on the treadmill. The fitness center in the Trump Tower gave her a spectacular view of the city at night, but she was focused on the voice in her Bluetooth. She was glad she had the place all to herself.

The half-Ethiopian, half-Ashkenazi Mossad agent was on the hunt for a Palestinian butcher who killed a young mother and her two toddlers with a knife before slipping into Canada's refugee program. Tamar had every intention of fulfilling her mission to kill him because he was an enemy of the state and she was a good agent. The fact that he'd murdered her cousin and her children only made the task more gratifying.

“You can finish up later. This Brody thing is important. This is straight from the top.”

She tapped the
Off
button on the treadmill and stepped off. “There's nobody else?”

“Not within driving distance. If there were, I wouldn't be sending you.”

“What's wrong with flying?”

“Can't be sure the Americans won't ground their planes again.”

Tamar knew the voice on the other end of the scrambled phone well. The head of Mossad's North American operations was her former team leader in Iraq. Refusing an order from Moshe Werntz simply wasn't an option. Ever.

“You're the boss,” she finally conceded, barely able to hide her frustration.

“I'll keep working on leads for you on my end. By the time you get back, you'll have your target in hand.”

“No one else is to touch him.”

“He's all yours, I promise.”

“I'll contact you when I arrive tomorrow,” Tamar said, ending the call. She toweled off her sweaty face as she headed for the door. Back to her suite for a quick shower, then room service and off to bed. It was going to be a long day tomorrow. Seven or eight hours of driving at a minimum. At least she had a new Alex Berenson audiobook she wanted to listen to, and the long drive would give her a chance to call her old friend Troy Pearce. Maybe he could help her find Brody. After all, it was his backyard and he owed her a favor after Berlin.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Grafton unplugged the blow dryer just as the knock came. She scurried out of the marble-tiled bathroom and into the sumptuous living room in her fluffy white robe and matching slippers with the name of the boutique hotel embroidered on the toes. The slippers were a little much but comfortably plush, and she couldn't bear the thought of walking barefoot on a public carpet, even an elegant one. She opened the door to a smiling, handsome man of Middle Eastern descent standing behind a cart.

“Room service?” he asked.

“Please.” Grafton ushered him in with a wave and held the door for him. He parked the cart in the middle of the Colonial-style living room and began to unload it but she stopped him.

“No need. I'll take it from here.” She pulled a folded twenty from one of her robe's deep pockets and handed it to the man.

“Yes, ma'am. Of course.” He bowed slightly and headed for the door. Grafton locked it and threw the swing bar over the security latch, then pushed the serving cart into the next room.

“How was your shower?” Grafton asked.

Al-Saud pulled the champagne out of the ice bucket, admiring the vintage. “Excellent. Wonderful choice, by the way.”

Grafton stood up on her toes and kissed the royal prince on his cheek, just above his stylish beard. “I'm so glad you approve. This is my favorite hotel in D.C.”

Al-Saud popped the champagne cork and poured their glasses as Grafton set up the dinner service on the table beneath the gorgeous period crystal chandelier. They took their seats. Al-Saud lifted his glass. “To us.”

“To us.” They touched glasses and drank.

“I hope you enjoy what I've ordered,” she said.

“I'm famished. Show me.”

Grafton lifted the first sterling silver plate cover. “For you we have spiced honey-glazed venison loin with pear, a grits cake, burgundy truffles, savory cabbage, and a combination of pistachios and hazelnuts.”

Al-Saud leaned over the plate and inhaled deeply. “It smells fantastic.”

Grafton lifted a second plate cover. “For myself I've ordered roasted medallions of Atlantic halibut, sweet potato, and apple mille-feuille, applewood-smoked bacon, tarragon coulis, and razor clam broth. We can share if you like.”

“Of course. You plan everything so well.” Al-Saud held his knife in his left hand and his fork in the right in the German style. He never understood why Americans insisted on cutting with the right, then switching hands to use the fork.

“I aim to please,” Grafton said, taking her first bite of halibut.

Al-Saud smiled. “Is there anything in which you don't excel?”

“I used to think I could run a room. But today the meeting ran away from me.”

“How so?”

“In my humble opinion, the United States needs to act swiftly and decisively against ISIS. We can't afford to wait for the Russians or anybody else to join in. But Lane still hasn't fully committed.”

“It's understandable, given his campaign promise of no new boots on the ground.”

“But things have changed since the election. If people knew about the letter, or the attacks—”

“Attacks? There has been more than one?”

Grafton nodded. “You can't say anything. It's classified.”

“Of course not.” Al-Saud took another bite of venison. “I could be of more help to you if I were in those meetings.”

“It was Pearce that got you thrown out.”

“Can't Chandler get me back in?”

“He's working on it, but Pearce has got Lane's ear for some reason.”

The prince refilled their champagne glasses. “Tell me more about this Pearce fellow. He seemed rather unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant? He's a pain in the ass. Believe me, I have to work with him.”

“It is difficult to help him prepare for the Senate confirmation hearing?”

“Let's just say he doesn't play nice with others. I don't know what Lane sees in him.”

“My security people tell me he's a very gifted man. The founder and CEO of the world's premier drone security company.”

“All of the CEOs I know are interested in making money. I assumed that's why he was in Washington—to play the game. But I think he fancies himself some kind of patriot.”

“He is a patriot, isn't he? He served in the CIA's paramilitary organization.”

“That's the strange thing. He's the strongest voice in the room against a U.S. ground operation. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was an old-fashioned isolationist.” She took another sip of champagne. “Chandler can't break his spell, either. Maybe it's Pearce's connection to Myers that holds so much weight for Lane. Myers was instrumental in Lane's election.”

“Wasn't the ‘no new boots' policy originally hers?”

“Yes. She was only following public opinion at the time, which has only gotten stronger on the subject.”

“Sounds as if she was leading from behind, to borrow a phrase.”

“Lane's no better. Chandler's pushing the Russian option if Lane won't commit American troops. Speaking of which, how did your meeting with Tarkovsky go?”

“A very charming man. Do you know him?”

Strange question, Grafton thought. She wondered for a moment if he knew about her relationship with the Russian ambassador but instantly decided against the possibility. “Mostly by reputation. I've been in the room with him a few times. Smart guy. Don't know if I trust him.”

“I agree. He's quite intelligent. And persuasive. He's also a big fan of yours. You must have made quite an impression.”

She shook her head. “It's the red hair, that's all.”

“Tarkovsky made a compelling case to me that the Russians should get more involved in the region.”

“Do you agree with him?”

“My government does. Riyadh fears that you Americans have lost your sense of the balance of power. ISIS is an existential threat to the Kingdom, as is Iran. With Baghdad and Tehran getting closer, we fear an overwhelming sense of imbalance that is tilting decidedly against us. At least the Russians have influence with Iran.”

“You said your government supports this. It sounds as if you do as well.”

“Me? Not at all. The Russians would cause more problems for my country than they would solve in the long run. Titov is a dictator in all but name, with grand designs of reviving the Russian empire. I much prefer the Americans as alliance partners. There is much to admire about your way of life and worldview. If your government ever decided to live up to its role as the leader of the Western world, my government would follow suit. Tell me, why do you suppose the vice president is so keen on Russian involvement?”

Grafton took a sip of champagne, trying not to laugh. “He has dreams of winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Al-Saud grinned. “Seriously? How?”

“By forging a grand new security alliance with Russia and NATO.”

“For what purpose?”

“He'd tell you it was to bring a lasting peace to the European continent and to solve the trouble in the Middle East, beginning with ISIS.”

“But what do you say?”

“He thinks a Nobel Peace Prize will guarantee him the White House.”

“And does Pearce support Chandler's position vis-à-vis the Russians?”

“Hardly.”

“So it seems that there are three of us that would like to get Mr. Pearce out of the White House.”

“Yes, but how?” Grafton forked another bite of halibut into her mouth. She was open to suggestions.

“If he can't be pushed out, maybe he can be pulled out.”

“You have any ideas?”

“I'm not that clever.” Al-Saud lifted the last sterling silver cover. “What's this?”

“Dessert, my sweet. Caramelized pineapple, bourbon vanilla coconut meringue and passion fruit–mango sorbet.” The plate rested in a bed of crushed ice.

“I can't wait to try it. Where's yours?”

Al-Saud felt Grafton's skilled fingers wrap around his manhood.

“Mine's right here. But you better eat yours. You're going to need the energy.”

41

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Max Garcia slipped the cherry-red Mustang into reverse as the automatic garage door lifted. He turned around out of habit, throwing his right arm across the top of the passenger seat and steered with his left hand, watching for traffic and kids in the quiet but hilly street in the Silver Lake community. He rode the brake pedal as the car edged down the steep driveway until his phone sounded a familiar tone. A text from his girlfriend. He hit the brakes, threw the transmission into park, and checked the message.

NEED U WANT U NOW!!!

An X-rated emoticon Garcia had never seen before accompanied the text. He grinned beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache. She was ten years his junior and really hot in the sack. He hit the microphone on his keyboard and spoke back the text, “Can't. Big meeting in thirty minutes. Maybe a nooner?”

Another text appeared.

Won't take long. I have a big surprise for you. Hurry!

Another sexy emoticon.

Garcia sighed. She was a real nympho. Always ready to go, which he liked. Didn't need a lot of talking to beforehand, and glad to grab a quick bite to eat or a drink later, which meant she was easy on his wallet, too.
He checked his watch. He had to leave now if he didn't want to walk in late to yet another meeting. His boss at the water district would write him up for sure after the last warning. He spoke another text. “Sorry, babe. I want you, too. Gotta wait. I'll make it worth your while. I promise.”

He watched the three blinking dots on his iPhone as she typed yet another text. He couldn't wait any longer. Traffic on Sunset would start backing up any minute. He threw the car back into reverse when a popping soap bubble sound signaled the arrival of her next text. He backed all the way into the street, turned, then threw the car into drive and sped forward. He picked up his phone and glanced at the text.

Come now or I'll call your wife. Maybe she'd like to come over and we can have a long talk about all those dirty things you like to do to me.

Garcia swore violently. He thought this bitch was cool. They'd had a thing for months now and she'd been a real sport. What was going on with her? Maybe that time of the month, he grumbled. You never knew with women.

“I'll lose my job if I'm late,” he spoke into the phone.

He hit the gas, speeding a little too fast in the narrow residential street, but he had to make the next light if he hoped to beat the first rush of traffic. He heard the popping text bubble again. It was an address in Los Feliz but she lived in Burbank. Had she moved without telling him? She probably wanted to christen the place. Crazy bitch.

15 minutes or I call your wife.

Garcia shook his head. His first divorce cost him a three-bedroom rancher in South Pasadena and half his retirement pension. He couldn't afford to lose the new house to his second wife and he was already underwater on the mortgage. He texted back, “Okay, but it's gotta be quick.”

I'm already wet.

The filthiest emoticon he'd ever seen popped up. He felt a rush of blood to his crotch. He'd figure out a way to explain his tardiness to his boss.

Garcia tapped the address and it pulled up on a Google map. Seven minutes away. Good. He was already getting hard just thinking about what she would do to him, but he popped a little blue pill anyway and washed it down with sip of stale coffee.

Timing was everything.

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Pearce was working over a plate of hash browns and hard fried eggs in the wood-paneled White House cafeteria when his phone vibrated. He picked it up. An unknown caller. Not many people had the number for his phone. Against his better judgment he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Troy, it's me, Moshe Werntz.”

Pearce recognized the thickly accented English of his old friend. He glanced around the room. Nobody was within earshot but he lowered his voice anyway. “It's been a long time, Moshe.” Pearce had heard through the grapevine that his old friend from the Mossad was head of North American operations and chief of station in D.C.

“Too long, my friend. How are you enjoying Washington these days?”

“It's like a slow-motion car wreck. If I manage to walk away in one piece I'll be happy.”

Werntz laughed. “I understand completely. I think a firefight is more pleasurable than the games these politicians play, mine included.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to touch base. I'm sorry I haven't stopped by to see you yet. How are things going with your Senate hearing?”

“Fine. Thanks for asking.” Pearce could tell by the tone of his voice that wasn't the purpose of his call. “So what's really up?”

“I'm sure you have a lot on your plate these days,” Werntz said.

Pearce wondered how much the cagey old Israeli spy knew about the current state of affairs.

“No rest for the wicked,” Pearce said.

“And the righteous don't need any,” Werntz said. “But since I have been a negligent friend, I feel as if I owe you a favor.”

“Happy to collect them. What have you got?”

The Israeli spymaster paused for effect. “It's a delicate matter. I'm sure I can trust your discretion.”

Pearce's eyes kept scanning the room. No one was listening to his conversation, near as he could tell. His phone was encrypted, so even if the Secret Service was scanning calls in the room, they wouldn't be able to hear them. “Of course.”

“I thought you'd like to know that Ambassadors al-Saud and Tarkovsky of the Saudi and Russian delegations, respectively, met just yesterday at al-Saud's private residence.”

Pearce frowned, concerned. That wasn't good news. Interesting that they were both being invited back into the Situation Room in just a few minutes. “Maybe they're in love and wanted a moment alone.”

“Perhaps. But it seems that the Saudi and the Russian governments are suddenly becoming fast friends.”

“Why is that a problem?” Pearce asked, fully knowing why.

“Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps we're just jealous that we haven't been invited to the party with the cool kids. But I thought you should know.”

“What did they talk about?”

The Israeli faked outrage. “Troy, I'm shocked. Are you accusing me of spying?”

“Isn't that what you do?”

Werntz laughed. “I wouldn't be very good at my job if I were to answer such a question, would I? And yet you and I are old friends, so I will tell you that we trust neither the Saudis nor the Russians.”

“Me neither.”

“And yet your vice president seems quite taken with both of them lately.”

“Which is why you called me and not him,” Pearce said.

“We live in such interesting times, don't we? It's important to remember who our true friends are.”

“I do, believe me.”

“Yes, of course you do. But does your government?”

Good question
, Pearce thought.

“Please give my regards to President Myers,” Werntz said. “And President Lane as well, though I've yet had the good fortune to meet him.”

Pearce was frustrated that Lane's advisors had kept the Israelis at arm's length since his election. Powerful factions in Lane's party were doing everything they could to ostracize the Israeli government for political and politically correct reasons. He knew Lane was sympathetic to the Israeli situation but he had a lot on his agenda these days and Israeli-American relations were a low priority at the moment. “I'll see if I can't fix that soon.”

“I'd be grateful, as would my ambassador. Have a wonderful day, Troy.”

“You, too, Moshe. Thanks for the heads-up. My best to your wife.”

Pearce slipped the phone into his pocket. He dug back into his breakfast, processing this new piece of information.
Games within games
, he said to himself.

Games they might already have lost.

LOS FELIZ, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Garcia parked his Mustang in front of the white stucco rental. He double-checked the address. It was correct. He was going to be late to work for sure but there was no way around it. She was crazy enough to rat him out but she was also the best lay he'd ever had. Lucky for him his current wife never checked his text messages.

Here
, he texted.

Great! Come on in! I'm in the back bedroom. Get ready.

Garcia scrambled out of his car and jogged up the short brick path to the porch. He could hear faint salsa music on the other side of the heavy wooden front door. He glanced around the neighborhood but no one was there to see him. He was grateful. He saw a security camera attached to the eaves that pointed in his direction. He'd told his woman she needed to get serious about her personal security. Violent crime wasn't just south of the I-10 these days. It pleased him that she was finally listening to him, but when he found out the front door was unlocked he was irritated again. She didn't have any common sense. Of course, if she did, she wouldn't be fooling around with him.

He stepped inside and called out to her but there wasn't any response. His voice reverberated on the red terra-cotta floors. So did the music, which was much louder now that he was inside. He shut the door behind him.

The house was completely void of any furniture except for a TV dinner tray with the blaring radio. This was getting weirder by the minute. But the little blue pill had kicked in and he was in serious need of relief now. She was easily satisfied and so was he, so this wouldn't take long. The rougher and faster he was, the more she liked it anyway.

Garcia worked his way down the hallway, where another noise caught his attention. A low hum, almost industrial. He called out her name again. No answer. At the end of the hall he saw a closed door and another security camera perched above it.

He approached the door and turned the doorknob and opened it.

His woman wasn't there. The noise was louder.

He paled.

Oh, damn.