Drone Threat (33 page)

59

Pearce woke, groggy and dehydrated. He wiped his face with his hands to wake up. He winced. Remembered the beating he'd taken at the hands of al-Saud. But he noticed his headache was gone. The meds worked. He felt the side of his face. It wasn't as sore and the swelling had subsided.

The space around him was dark, save for the eerie glow of blue LED cabin lights. He raised his wrist to read his watch out of habit, but it was gone. Al-Saud's operatives had destroyed it as a security precaution. A wall clock indicated it was around eight p.m. in D.C. How long had he slept? He did the math on his fingers. Six hours straight. Some kind of record for him, at least lately.

He glanced across the cabin and saw Swift fully reclined and sound asleep beneath a blanket. He needed some caffeine but didn't want to wake her. He raised his seat back up and stood to head for the galley but had to catch himself from falling. He was a little dizzy on top of the grogginess. He used the leather headrests to work his way back.

In the well-stocked galley he found bottled water in the refrigerator and drained one in one long pull. The cold water soothed his parched throat and slaked his thirst but his brain craved caffeine. He found the hot water spigot, and a few minutes later he was back in his seat with a steaming hot cup of green tea. He tapped the display on the headrest and saw the plane's location, altitude, and speed, along with the route they were taking. They were over the Atlantic, about one thousand miles due south of Greenland. The ETA to Dulles was still six hours away.

Pearce noticed another benefit to the meds. He didn't dream. For the first time in a long time he wasn't haunted in his sleep by the ghosts of men he'd killed or friends he couldn't save.

He'd slept like the dead.

The caffeine kicked in after a few minutes and the Rubik's Cube he'd been twisting and turning earlier came back into focus. He wanted to call Myers first and check up on her, but it was only around four in the morning where she was in Germany, so he put that off. It wasn't yet midnight in Washington, so he called Moshe Werntz instead.

“Moshe? It's me, Troy.”

“Where are you, my friend?”

“Somewhere over the Atlantic.”

“On a much-needed vacation, I hope.”

“Not exactly. Look, I know you're busy. I just wanted to follow up on that phone call you made to me two days ago. About al-Saud and Tarkovsky.”

“How can I help?”

Pearce collected his thoughts. “What can you tell me about Ambassador Tarkovsky?”

“Interesting man. Very smart. An ardent nationalist. Part of Titov's inner circle of advisors—but only recently. A rising star. Surely you know all of this?”

“I read his brief. What else do you have?”

Werntz paused. “The first time I met him in person was at an IAI trade show in Moscow he had arranged several years ago. Have you met him?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“Then you know he is charming but unassuming. But he's a big thinker. Not just another bureaucrat. Even back then he was pushing for drone development against the protests of the Russian Defense Ministry. He was seeking our latest export designs.”

“Is he a drone operator himself?”

“He struck me as technically well versed in drone systems, but I
have no indication he's an operator himself. He's a strategist, not a tactician. Why do you ask?”

“I'm trying to find out who's behind the current troubles. He seemed a good candidate.”

“Interesting,” Werntz said, his voice trailing off. “Yes, I can see the connection you're making.”

“You mentioned that he and al-Saud had met privately. What was that meeting about?”

“You put me in a difficult situation, Troy.”

“I'm pulling you into mine.”

“Yes, I understand. So, perhaps I can put it this way. If we had eavesdropping equipment at the ambassador's personal residence—I'm not saying we did—and if we recorded the conversation—and I'm not saying we did—I would suppose one could guess that Tarkovsky and al-Saud are forming a strong personal bond wedded to mutual national interests.”

“Any talk of a terror attack on American soil? Or the use of drone technology?”

“Of course not. I would have contacted you immediately. I'm a friend as much as I am an ally.”

“So what did they talk about?” Pearce wasn't going to allow Werntz to dodge the question again.

“Theoretically?”

Pearce rolled his eyes. A legal fiction but necessary, he knew. “Yes. Theoretically.”

“In theory, al-Saud wanted Russian drones and Russian military intervention against ISIS if your government refused either or both. According to Tarkovsky—theoretically—Russia wants the same thing but prefers to be invited into a partnership with the United States. It would be necessary to lift the economic sanctions levied against them for the Crimea invasion, and it would also restore their status and credibility as a great power nation. But all of that is moot now, isn't it?”

Pearce sighed. “So Tarkovsky isn't our guy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he failed his mission. Lane didn't lift the sanctions and didn't invite the Russians in.”

“Not yet. It's bound to be a long war.”

“You're right. It will be. Better not check him off the list.” Pearce sensed the Israeli spy had more to offer. “Anything else?”

“Yes. They discussed you.”

Pearce suddenly felt as if his head were centered in a sniper scope. “What did they say?”

“We lost contact at that point.”

He couldn't tell if Werntz was telling the truth. The Israeli would be a lousy spy if he couldn't lie effortlessly, he reminded himself. But he trusted their friendship. “Anything else?”

“As we discussed previously, both men have a strong relationship with Vice President Chandler.”

“How strong?”

“I believe Ambassador Tarkovsky has a lunch meeting scheduled next week with Inger-Marie Ragland. She's on the Nobel Peace Prize committee. Tarkovsky intends to float Chandler's name as a possible nominee for the European security initiative the two of them are trying to launch.”

“That's quite the hand job Tarkovsky's arranging for Chandler. Clay always was an ambitious bastard.”

“I have a file I can send you—unofficially.”

“That would be great. I'll forward it to my team.”

“I can send it directly to Mr. McTavish if you prefer,” Werntz said.

Pearce was surprised Werntz knew about Ian. He shouldn't have been. Mossad was the best. “I'll handle it from my end, thanks.”

“Of course. And I'd appreciate it if you kept the source hidden.”

“Not a problem. It's very generous of you. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do. So I'd like to cash in the favor now.”

“Name it.”

“Two of our agents have gone missing. Daniel Brody and Tamar Stern.”

Hearing Tamar's name was like a cold slap in the face. “Hold on one second.” Pearce put Werntz on mute and quickly scrolled through his phone log.
Shit.
Tamar's call from two days ago. He totally forgot. No voice mail. He took Werntz off mute.

“You and Tamar were friends, yes?”

Werntz would know everything about his relationship with Tamar and her husband, Rudy, killed on the operation in Mexico a few years before. “Close friends.” So close, Pearce thought, she ran a risky op in Germany just a few months before that probably saved his life.

“I need your help finding them. I'm shorthanded at the moment.”

“What about the FBI?”

“Brody was the first to go missing. We asked the FBI to send their people out but they couldn't pick up his trail. We didn't inform them that Daniel was one of our agents because he was on assignment. When they came up short, we sent Tamar to find him. Now she's gone missing as well. Any chance you can spare some of your people to take a look around?”

“I'll go myself.”

“That's more than I could hope for.”

“She's done the same for me.”

“I know. But your country just went to war and they're going to need you.”

“I won't be playing much of a role if Chandler has anything to say about it.”

“That would be a foolish mistake on his part, in my opinion.”

Pearce's phone dinged.

“I've just sent you all of the information we have regarding Tamar and Daniel's disappearance,” Werntz said, “along with what little we have on Norman Pike, the man they were investigating. I'll send Tarkovsky's file along in a few minutes as well. Good luck—and good hunting.”

60

CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN

Pearce returned to his hotel apartment in D.C., still exhausted and sore from the kidnapping ordeal. He reminded himself again that he was getting too old for this shit.

He called Stella Kang, his senior security operative, and gave her a heads-up about the Tamar situation. The two women were close. Stella was glad to be part of the search. He took a long, hot shower and scrubbed off as much of the tattoo gel as he could, then grabbed some grub before heading out. He met Stella two hours later at the Pearce Systems hangar in Manassas, Virginia, with tactical gear and weapons for the op.

He piloted the two of them in the company HondaJet directly to Cheboygan County Airport. It didn't have a tower but it did have one four-thousand-foot runway, which was just enough to accommodate Pearce's aircraft. They landed and rented the only available car, a white four-door Chevy Impala, and drove into town.

On the flight over, Pearce finally managed to speak with Myers and found out that she was not only okay but boarding a nonstop Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to D.C. that evening and would arrive at Dulles the following morning. He filled her in on the big picture but left out the minor detail of the savage beating and near-death experience with al-Saud. It was easy for him to say yes to her proposal that they get away for a few days. Pearce was grateful to the Man Upstairs for sending Margaret into his life.

Stella didn't plug the Cheboygan addresses they were checking out into the Chevy's onboard GPS. Ian warned them repeatedly against
the hackability of modern cars, especially systems that utilized Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, and satellite connections. Their own secure phones used Google Maps anyway, so the Chevy's navigation system was easy to avoid. In fact, Ian remotely hacked the Chevy's onboard computer and took the car offline so that even the rental agency couldn't trace their movements while they were in the area.

The thin file that Werntz sent over on Norman Pike didn't contain much information, but the fact that he had been an IT contractor in Iraq for one of the big multinational security firms suggested he had the skills to break into something as simple as a rental car if he was so inclined. More disturbing, Ian was unable to hack Pike's late-model panel van, which likely meant that Pike had taken similar precautions. Even if Pike wasn't guilty of criminal activity, he was behaving as if he had something to hide.

“It bothers me that some of Pike's file has been redacted,” Kang said, scrolling through her tablet once again. “Why doesn't Werntz want us to know why they were chasing him?”

“Why do you think?”

“We won't like the answer.”

“Bingo.”

Pearce agreed with Kang's assessment—it bothered him, too. The Israelis were running ops on American soil—not an unusual practice. The United States spied on its allies, too. The NSA first hacked into Angela Merkel's phone in 2002, partly because of her membership in the East German Communist Party in her youth. It was part of the great game they all played. Pearce wondered if the damage done to relations between the allies was worth the scant information they actually managed to glean from tapping into the personal and professional lives of Western leaders. Not only were such activities illegal but they violated the trust that was the foundation for all economic and political transactions in liberal democracies. It didn't really matter what he thought. They were going to do it anyway, even if it didn't make any sense.

Pearce and Kang pulled into the marina parking lot and drove past the fish-cleaning house and parked, then walked over to the slip where
Pike's charter boat was permanently docked. They were surprised to discover the ship had been sold to a woman who owned a small fleet of charter boats. She hadn't seen Pike since the sale and wasn't sure how to find him. They showed her pictures of Daniel Brody and Tamar Stern, but she didn't recognize either of them.

Pearce and Kang then visited a local pub where Pike was known to hang out, but he wasn't there. A suspicious bartender with biker tats and a bad attitude loosened up when Pearce slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. He knew Captain Pike, sure, but hadn't seen him for a few days and, no, he didn't recognize the people in the two photos Kang showed him. A lewd comment regarding Tamar's sexual desirability almost got the bartender's teeth knocked out, but Pearce had better things to do than spend the rest of the day in the county jail, so they pushed on. Two more stops were equally frustrating.

The last stop was Pike's house on Black Lake.

BLACK LAKE, MICHIGAN

Pearce and Kang assumed that their inquiries into Pike's whereabouts could have been passed along to Pike himself, since he was a local. That was fine by them. They were shaking the bushes as much as they were searching for him. It would be that much easier if Pike decided to come and find them. They were ready.

It was possible that Pike had disappeared entirely, but it was just as likely that the people they'd spoken to had simply lied to the two strangers searching for one of their own. If Pike were still around, he might be holed up at his home, as obvious as that was. After all, the FBI and Tamar had already come calling there. Pike would know that another inquiry would lead to his place. What better location to set a trap?

Or he was long gone and the house was empty.

It was their last shot for the day, either way. They drove to Pike's place from Cheboygan and arrived less than half an hour later.

The house was situated on Black Lake on two heavily wooded acres
that butted up to the two-lane county road. They parked their rental car off the road and made their way by foot to the edge of the property. It didn't take much effort to locate the security cameras directed at the long gravel driveway leading to his house or on the house itself. Ian was tracking their progress via their cell phones remotely from his office in San Diego. Ian was also busy hacking as much of the house as he could.

“Troy, hold on a minute. Can you shoot a pic of one of the security cameras?”

“Sure,” Pearce whispered in his comms. He zoomed in as best he could on the closest security camera with his smartphone, then forwarded it to Ian. “That work?”

“Wireless. Interesting.”

Pearce heard Ian's keyboard clattering.

“Do you see any kind of antenna or satellite dish on the house?”

Pearce took another look. Pike's house was still some distance away but there was definitely a satellite dish on top. “Yeah.” He shot a photo of that, too, and forwarded it to Ian.

“Thanks. Carry on.”

Pearce wondered what to do about the security cameras. He brought along a silenced .22-caliber pistol for the express purpose of knocking out impediments, such as cameras and lights. But Pike was still only a suspect and a law-abiding citizen as far as the local authorities were concerned. If Pike were in fact innocent, there was no point in destroying his property. He hoped there might be another way to avoid detection.

Pearce glanced at Stella but she had already read his mind. She pulled out a small surveillance drone and launched it. She guided the vehicle above the tree line and took the time to study the house and property, carefully picking her way around to get a three-sixty view of the place. The extra effort paid off. The drone showed that the camera over the front entrance facing the lake appeared to be disconnected. Strange that Pike, who seemed to be a thorough and cautious man, wouldn't have fixed that issue immediately, Pearce thought.
Sometimes Murphy's Law works for you
, he reminded himself.
Not often, but sometimes
.

Pearce and Kang worked their way through the trees, careful to avoid the sight lines of the cameras. With any luck they were triggered by motion detection and were not on continuous surveillance mode. Once they reached the edge of the trees, Pearce signaled for Kang to stay put and remain hidden while he moved forward toward the front of the house.