Drone Threat (35 page)

63

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Pearce was frustrated that he hadn't been able to reach Lane in the last two days. He'd left messages with Lane's chief of staff but his calls were never returned. The meds that Dr. Guth had prescribed allowed him to sleep a lot more than he was used to. Once Myers got him settled back in at her place she went to her lawyer's office to finish up the last of the paperwork needed to complete the German deal. She made Pearce promise to not turn on the television or Google anything about the war—at least not until she got back later that afternoon. She also gave strict orders to Ian that no Pearce Systems employee was to answer any of his calls, texts, or e-mails for forty-eight hours. Pearce was too groggy to fight back.

When his head cleared up enough, he made his way back down to Myers's kitchen. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and knelt down, fishing around until his fingers secured the half-pint bottle of whiskey in the back. It was time to clean house.

He pulled it out, only to find a Starbucks card taped to the front of it, along with a note from Myers: “Green tea is better. Refills are on me.”

Pearce grinned. She was always one step ahead of him. He pocketed the Starbucks card and opened the bottle over the sink, pouring out the last few ounces into the drain, then tossed it into the trash can.

His phone rang.

Pearce checked the number. “Unknown.” He thought about Margaret's admonition to avoid outside contact. He stared at the screen. He couldn't help himself.

“Pearce.”

“Troy, it's Clay Chandler. It's wonderful to hear your voice. You gave us quite the scare.”

Yeah, right
, Pearce thought. Chandler's honey-sweet Georgia accent soured his stomach. “What do you want?”

“Blunt as always. I admire that. So I'll cut to the chase. President Lane asked me to call you directly. Under the circumstances he feels it's best for him to accept your resignation.”

“My resignation? Why? Because I got a knock on the head?”

“Hardly. But I think you know that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That business with Werntz you were caught up in.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Moshe Werntz is Israel's top spy in North America. He used you on a mission to find two missing Mossad agents. Technically, that makes
you
an Israeli spy.”

Pearce couldn't believe his ears. How did Lane and Chandler find out? Did Werntz rat him out? No, not Moshe. Not without reason. He was an Israeli patriot but he was also a friend. Werntz must have a bad apple in his barrel.

“Bullshit. I was doing a favor for a friend. And unless I'm mistaken, Israel is still an allied government in the War on Terror.”

Chandler clucked his tongue. “That doesn't give you permission to do spy work for them.”

Pearce felt the old demon grabbing him by the throat. “Are you accusing me of treason?”

“Not at all. But it's optics we're worried about. We're trying to fight a war. The president can't have one of his closest advisors appear to be a puppet of the Israeli government. The public wouldn't stand for it.”

“That's idiotic.”

“Perception is reality. Besides, you never really wanted the job. Why pretend you want to keep it?”

“Because it keeps me close to the president, and gives me a chance to stop the killing before more damage is done.”

“You've read history, Pearce. Good wars often start for the wrong reasons. You said yourself we need to exterminate ISIS.”

“I said you either exterminate them or leave them alone. We knocked AQ out of Afghanistan and they metastasized. They're in over one hundred countries now. Same thing will happen if we knock ISIS out of Syria and Iraq. You're better off letting them all congregate in one place. Like Pia said, containment might be a better option. But half a war is the worst possible action.”

“You're being naive. Containment? Political correctness will never allow us to contain the Islamic threat. Extermination is the only option. Half a war, as you put it, sets us on that road. Eventually the people of this country will accept that reality.”

“Now you're the one being naive. The American people will never accept the kind of war you're talking about. Lane won't, either. It's not in his nature.”

“With your help we can get him there.”

“No. I'll do everything I can to get him to change his mind and stop the bloodshed now.”

Chandler's honey-smooth accent turned ice cold. “The president has already made his decision. We're at war, Pearce. Congress is voting on the most comprehensive and far-reaching AUMF in history. There's nothing you can do to change that.”

“The president doesn't have all of the facts.”

Chandler chuckled. “Facts are analogue, Pearce. Completely out of fashion. I thought you knew that.”

“I guess I'm old-school that way.”

“The world's too complicated for a reality-based paradigm. Superpowers like us have to create our own reality now.”

Pearce gripped the phone tighter. “My job is to tell the president the truth.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“Then I'll go to the press. They still like facts.”

“Not from discredited sources.”

“How am I discredited?”

“It would be better if you walked away, quietly and with honor. You still have your company. I'm sure the government will still want to buy your drones.”

“You still don't get it, do you? This isn't about money or power. This is about my country. And about shitbirds like you who are going to kill it.”

Chandler sighed. “I was afraid this would be your response. Lord knows I tried.” He rang off.

Pearce stared at his phone, wondering what Chandler was up to and plotting his own next move. Maybe Ian could find a way to break into Lane's secured communication network and get a message directly to him.

The doorbell rang.

Strange. He wasn't expecting any visitors and Myers had a key. He snagged a Shun carving knife out of the block and crossed over to the door, holding the blade behind his back. He opened it. Two FBI agents stood in the hallway. They flashed IDs.

“Troy Pearce?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes.”

The other agent held up a sheet of paper. “A warrant. You're under arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“The murder of Iraqi general Ali Majid.”

64

CUMBERLAND, MARYLAND

Tanaka's iron grip tightened around Pearce's throat but Pearce wasn't fighting back. The Japanese minister's bulging eyes were just inches away from his face, his tobacco breath stale and foul as always. Suddenly Tanaka's grip slackened, and then his ropey arms dropped. He stared contemptuously at Pearce, grunted, and turned away, shuffling through the thick, watery muck around his ankles, back over to the steel cylinder lying on its side. Tanaka opened it and crawled back in, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Pearce's eyes opened. He wasn't sweating or gasping for breath. He was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. Guilt sat on his chest like a familiar dog, heavy and still. But at least he could breathe.

The heavy steel cell door thudded twice. The portal slid open. He saw the prison guard's face.

“Pearce, you have a visitor.”

—

PEARCE SHUFFLED
into the sparse but spacious visitors' room. In the center of it was a steel table bolted to the floor and two metal chairs. His wrists were manacled in front of him to a chain wrapped twice around his jumpsuit at the waist. The muscled guard, the shift supervisor, guided him by the elbow to an open chair.

“How much time do we have?” Myers asked. She sat opposite Pearce across the steel table. A digital clock was high up on the wall, shielded by a metal cage.

“You're scheduled for fifteen minutes.”

“Can we get more time?”

The grim-faced officer tilted his head. “How much time do you need, ma'am?”

“I'd like a month but I'll settle for thirty minutes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. His features softened. “I can make that happen, Madam President.”

Myers smiled. “I'm grateful.”

The guard left, shutting the door behind him. He took up a position square in the center of the observation window as per standard operating procedure.

Myers glanced over Pearce's shoulder. “Does he have to watch us like that?”

Pearce nodded at the camera hanging from the ceiling. “He's not the only one.”

“Good thing this wasn't a conjugal visit.”

“That's disappointing to hear.” He held up his manacled hands. “I even wore jewelry for the occasion.”

“Are they listening, too?”

“I don't think so. The video is just for security purposes.”

She tried to hide her concern. It was the first time she'd been allowed to visit. They hadn't even let her call. “So . . . how bad is it in there?”

Pearce smiled, trying to ease her anxiety. “It's just a medium-security facility. Pretty low-key, actually. I'm in my own private cell, which is great.”

“You hear stories about prison.” Her voice trailed off.

He shook his head. “Only in the movies. The COs do a good job. Mostly white-collar criminals in here, at least where I am.”

“You look like you've lost weight. How's the food?”

“Good. Somewhere between an army commissary and a Golden Corral. I just do a lot of push-ups.”

Myers fought back tears. She promised herself she'd stay strong for him. “I've been so worried.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” He reached up to take her hands in his to
comfort her but forgot about his handcuffs. The rattling chains stopped him short. That made her even more upset. He needed to change the subject. “Did I tell you I started my new job?”

“No. What is it?”

“I'm making license plates.”

Myers shook her head. “You're pulling my leg.”

“No, seriously. Cumberland makes all of the license plates for federal vehicles. Do you have any idea how many cars the feds own?”

“I still think you're pulling my leg.”

“You always said I should be in government service. At least no one is shooting at me in here.”

“How is therapy coming along?”

“Great. The meds are working, too. I haven't felt this good in a long time.”

“Glad to hear it. Still dreaming?”

Pearce shrugged. “Sure. Not bad, though.”

“One step at a time.”

“One step at a time.”

They sat for a moment in an awkward silence.

Myers gathered up her courage, brightening. “I met with President Lane this morning.”

Pearce couldn't hide his surprise. “I'm all ears.”

She smiled hopefully. “The president is prepared to give you a pass on everything you've ever done since the day you swore in at Langley all the way until this very moment.”

Pearce frowned, calculating. “On what condition?”

“None, really. Except that he wants you to step away from the limelight. Make no public comments about the war. Stay away from the press.”

“In other words, shut up and go away.”

“Far away. His advisors feel it will be easier for you to meet the conditions if you left the country.”

“By advisors you mean Chandler.”

“No. Chandler's praying you won't take the deal. But Lane respects
you tremendously and wants to do everything he can to make things right.”

“That's easy. All he has to do is open the door and let me out so I can exercise my right to free speech.”

“It's not that easy. You know that.” Myers leaned in close, whispering. “Besides, you're guilty of the crime they're charging you with, aren't you?”

Pearce thought she was fishing. But he saw the certainty in her eyes. “When did you find out?”

“Lane showed me the files the Russians had on you. It was easy for the FBI to connect the dots after that.”

“And he actually trusts the Russians to not hand him a pack of lies?”

Her eyes bored into his. “Did they?”

Pearce darkened. One or both of Majid's Russian mercenaries must have been working with the SVR. “That Majid guy was a dirtbag. I've killed better men for less.”

“Probably not your best line of defense,” Myers said, trying to make a joke.

Pearce sat back. “No, probably not.”

He wondered if she knew the rest of the story. How he stole Majid's money and gave half of it to a charity he trusted and used the other half to start Pearce Systems. Whenever he was asked where he got his original investment money, Pearce always said he had a silent partner. Well, Majid was silent, all right, silent as the grave. He never felt guilty about it. Majid's stolen cash was Pearce's ticket out of the war and a way to do some good in the world on his own terms. If he had left the money alone, Chandler would have just given it to some other thieving warlord to fund the next circle jerk. Luckily for Pearce, the statute of limitations had run out on that particular felony or they might have charged him with that, too. Or maybe Chandler was just covering his own ass.

“What are you thinking?” Myers asked.

“Lane. I thought he was different.”

“He's a good man but he has a hard job. He's fighting a war he
believes in, and he's fighting it the way he thinks he needs to. Unfortunately, that means he's relying heavily on people like Chandler now.”

“So this is really as much about Chandler as it is about me.”

“Chandler's determined to ruin you. Lane is offering you a way out.”

“The pardon.”

“Probation, actually.”

Pearce was shocked to hear that. But then he processed it. “To keep me on the leash in case I decide to get out of line in the future.”

“Chandler's idea, not Lane's.”

“I'd rather take my chances in front of a jury of my peers.”

Myers shook her head. “It's more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“You're considered a national security risk and the evidence at hand has been classified as Special Access Program. It will take years to bring your case to trial and the restrictions imposed by SAP guidelines means it might also take years to adjudicate. And, no matter what, you won't be able to get your side of the story out to the public.”

“I don't get my Clarence Darrow moment?”

“Not even Atticus Finch.”

“I'd make a great Atticus Finch.”

“I know.”

Pearce frowned. “What do you think I should do?”

“The attorney general's office is assembling an airtight case with irrefutable evidence. Frankly, the feds can't lose no matter how hard you fight them. Chandler wants you to know he'll do everything in his power to get you thrown into the supermax prison in Colorado with a life sentence.” Myers's eyes teared up. “So what do you think I'd tell you to do?”

“I don't know if I can walk away.”

Myers fought back her own rage at the system. Maybe Pearce had been right all along not to trust the government. He once told her that democracy was too important to be left to the politicians. She was beginning to believe it. The people who ran D.C. always did this to warriors like him. Honest soldiers had short careers in the U.S. military
these days. She knew Pearce struggled for years with a dilemma. How does a man serve his country when he no longer trusts his government? She thought she knew the answer. But now that it was clear the government no longer wanted his service, she saw another path for him.

“You can't win, Troy. You can't stop the war. And you'll lose your life behind iron bars. Or there's this.”

Myers pulled a photo out of her purse and handed it to Pearce. He examined it.

“A sailboat?”

“Our sailboat. A Beneteau First 38. It's waiting for us down in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Why did you buy it?”

“Because it's blue, like your eyes.”

“Expensive?”

“Terribly. But you're worth it.”

Pearce studied the photo more closely. He felt his heart lighten. “You want me to be a pirate?”

“I think you already are one.”

“We don't know how to sail.”

“We'll have all the time in the world to learn. Or we can just park the boat and fish off the back deck. You haven't been fishing in a long while.”

“I miss it.”

“I know.”

“What happened to the idea that we need to be useful?”

“I can't think of anything more important than you getting healthy and well, however long that takes.”

Pearce thought about what was happening in Syria. He knew what kind of carnage was taking place over there. He could smell the cordite and burnt flesh. He wanted to stop it. Felt guilty for not already stopping it. And then his mind flashed back to the ghost-white images of the women being butchered by the ISIS killers in Iraq. He couldn't stop that, either.

He was worse than useless.

He handed the picture back to her. “Let me think about it.”

She pushed it back into his hands. “Keep it. It will look great on your windowless cell wall.”

He couldn't help but grin a little. “I'll use it to hide my escape tunnel from the guards.” He turned serious. “Any word from Ian?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He said everything's being taken care of, as per your orders. He wasn't specific.”

“He wasn't supposed to be.”

“You've got to let it go. For you. For us.”

“I am.” He pocketed the photo.

“Really?”

He nodded. “I will.”

Myers leaned forward, peering into his face. “Promise?”

He lowered his eyes. “I'll try. I swear to God, I'll try.”

“What about Lane's offer?”

Pearce shrugged. “I'll think about it.”

“The offer won't last.”

Pearce looked up. “Betray my country or betray myself. Hell of a choice.”

“I don't see it as a betrayal of your country.”

“But I do.”

Another awkward silence. Myers heard the second hand ticking on the wall clock. “We're almost out of time.”

“I know.”

“What shall I tell David?”

Pearce saw the pain in her eyes. He knew his answer.

He just couldn't say the words.