Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

Ray looked at Dugout in a way that made clear he should not answer that question.

“I’ll do what I can to stop them from ordering his suspension, but the Inspector General is fairly independent,” Ray offered. “What I gather is that they don’t have a smoking gun, or they would already have done something. Just an anonymous tip, probably from someone on the staff here, probably someone who has a beef with Erik for whatever reason.”

“But he’s going to know he’s under investigation?” she asked.

“The IG guys arrive late tomorrow. You probably want to tell him today,” Ray suggested.

“Can’t,” Sandra said. “He’s taking Major Dougherty’s body back to his parents in Chicago. Finally got it out of the County Medical Examiner. Erik is really broken up about Dougherty’s death. He thinks that somehow he should have done something more to help him. Instead, he told him go get drunk and gave him his car. Now it looks like maybe he got into the accident because he was drunk. Bruce was a really good pilot, really nice guy.”

Ray glanced at Dugout in a way that said something. Dugout nodded as if he understood.

“I’d suggest maybe we want to let Dugout set up in Room 103, Spook Ops, to run traps on a few things. He might also look at the records from the Red Sea op, without leaving any traces that he has been looking.”

Sandra stared at Ray. She knew not to ask. “It’s already been set up for him. I ordered it when you called last night. Sergeant Miller will take you down there now, Dug.”

When they were alone, Sandra and Ray sat down at her small conference table. “I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t quit,” he began.

“The fuck I can’t. It’s a free country.”

“I’d like to keep it that way,” he said.

“Yeah and all that stands between tyranny and perdition is me and the program. Don’t start with that crap, I’ve heard it all before and it’s not true and you know it,” she said. “It’s just getting too hard and nobody gives a shit except us. Do you think those people out there on the Vegas Strip think the drone program is making them safer? They don’t even think about it. They think they’re perfectly safe, except maybe from whack job fellow Americans with assault guns every now and again, randomly.”

Ray stood up and walked to the glass wall. He looked out at the Control Room, at the Big Board with video feeds coming from drones all over Africa and the Middle East. “They’re not supposed to think about it. That’s the whole point, Americans should not have to worry about terrorism here.” Ray said softly, trying to lower the temperature in the conversation. “If there is another terrorist attack in the U.S. like 9/11, we will lose more of our freedoms in response, just like we did the first time. Warrantless wiretaps, throwing U.S. citizens in military prisons without trial, cameras everywhere, privacy out the window.” He turned back to face Sandy. “We are what stops the next attack. We get them before they get here. That’s what the people on the Vegas Strip want, that’s what most Americans want.”

Sandra walked to her desk and picked up a file. “We’ve been running Pattern of Life flights on a bunch of huts up in the mountains in Yemen. HUMINT says the AQAP bomb maker is up there. The flights show nothing but guys with guns up there for over a week now. No women. No children. Not even any unarmed men. The government in Sana’a says they can’t go up there, too unsafe, terrorist territory. Can I still get a Kill Call?”

Ray took the file. “The AQAP bomb maker? The guy who keeps trying to get someone’s undies to explode on a U.S. plane? I’d say he’s a direct threat to Americans. Someday he’s going to kill three hundred people, many of them Americans, in some 777 coming in from the Gulf and flying in over a U.S. city. Let’s schedule the call.”

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18

FBI OFFICE

PORTLAND, MAINE

“The emphasis is on the second syllable, ah-dam,” Roble Adam told Bobby Gallagher in the Portland FBI office’s interview room.

“You don’t want the coffee?” Gallagher asked. “It’s getting late. You’re tired. You need a little jolt to remember things?”

“I don’t know what you put in it,” Roble replied.

“It’s black. You want milk and sugar?”

“I don’t want your drugs. What drugs did you put in it?” Roble asked.

Gallagher put the two Starbuck cups next to each other in the middle of the table. “Pick either. I will drink the other one. After that, if you want, you can try drinking yours. Or not, I don’t care.” Roble didn’t pick.

“All right, Roble, I want you to know where you stand right now. Even if you don’t say another word, we already have enough evidence to charge you with murder of the police officer, possession of explosives, and terrorism,” Gallagher noted.

“You know what this is, Roble?” Gallagher asked, as he put a key on the table between them.

Roble inhaled and blinked, but didn’t answer.

“The Portland bomb squad is at the storage company now. They have a little robot. It’s cute. You should see it. It’s looking at your bomb right now. I just saw your bomb on the video feed. Is it RDX? That’s not easy to get,” Gallagher said.

Roble closed his eyes.

“Roble, in a little while they’re going to take you away, to Virginia. There are CIA people and others waiting to interrogate you. You know how the CIA interrogates people, Roble? Did you see the movie about getting bin Laden?”

Roble quickly opened his eyes and stared at him. There was fear in his eyes, but also anger, rage.

“Look, I know you’re just the lowest-level guy on the scrotum pole, the guy they got to carry the bomb. I can help you, but you have to tell me before they take you away. Then it will be too late,” Gallagher said. “But there are still things that can happen here in the next few minutes that may change the rest of your life forever. And those things are up to you, but not for long.

“We did some research on you after we figured out it was you in the subway. Actually, you’re not a bad guy and your family, they’re good people. Your mom came here to this country from Somalia during the wars there, came with almost nothing, to make a place here that would be a better place to raise children. She worked hard, all for you, you and your sister.”

Roble Adam glared at him. Gallagher continued, “And you, you made the football team here in high school, you helped out your mom, you protected your sister. Then these guys come along and recruit you, they use you, they spoil it all for you and your mom and your sister.”

“They had nothing to do with it, my mother and my sister,” Roble insisted.

“Actually, in some ways, Roble, you are the victim, the three of you. All of the Adam family has become victims because of what those guys, the recruiters, did to you. They’re the bad guys in this whole thing, not you. I know you didn’t mean for that cop to get hit by the train, he was—”

Roble interrupted, “He fell over, man, I didn’t even push him. He fell and he hit his head or something.”

“It was dark in there,” Gallagher added, “I know, I know. We may not have to make it a murder charge. I just need your help to identify the people who did this to you and your family. That’s all. And they don’t deserve your protection, not after what they did to you and your mother and sister by getting you involved in all this. You just have to tell me, but now, before they take you to Virginia.”

Roble sighed. “Tell you what?”

“Who recruited you?”

“They found me online. Then they came to our apartment one night. After a while, the big man came to town to meet me,” Roble replied. “I thought they were you guys, some fucking FBI sting. But they said they would tell me just before something blew up, something they were going to blow up. And they did. They told me about that Marriott in Kuwait like an hour before it happened. Figured they weren’t FBI after that.”