Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Myers sat back on the bed. “When did you get it?”

“This afternoon. Ian flew in with Dr. Rao. They put it on.”

“I don’t understand. You’re supposed to be the head of a federal agency, not a biker gang.”

He explained the purpose of the tattoo. She was impressed but not completely satisfied.

“I hope you like to wear long-sleeve shirts. You’ve got to keep that thing covered up while you’re on the job.”

“That’s the plan. It touches my wrists but shirt cuffs will hide it.” Pearce touched the back of his neck. “I keep my hair a little long anyway and any shirt collar will cover the rest.”

“I feel like you kept this from me on purpose.”

“I just didn’t think about it. And it’s temporary. It will come off by itself in ten or twelve days. Or I can use a chemical peel. It’s just an experiment. If it bothers you that much, I can take it off right now.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s your call. What bothers me is that you’re keeping a lot of things from me lately.”

Pearce wondered if she knew about the drone this morning, after all. He gambled she didn’t. “Not the important stuff. You’ve got a lot on your plate, too.” Pearce kicked off his underwear and headed for the glass shower.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go tomorrow. You’re under a lot of stress, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“No. I’m going to be up to my neck in it for the next few days anyway.” Pearce flipped on the shower. Water poured out of the rain head.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll go back to your therapy sessions this week.”

“My schedule is slammed. Missing a few more sessions won’t matter.”

“I think that’s a mistake, but you know what’s best.” She stepped over to the shower. Pearce was testing the water temperature with his hand. The glass was already fogging up from the steam. “I’ll get back as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Don’t sell the company because of me,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not. I’m doing it for us.”

He turned around. “Sorry about the tat. It’s no big deal, I promise. I’ll take it off tomorrow—”

Myers traced the tattoo with her finger from the edge of his wrist up the back of his muscled arm. “I dunno. It’s kind of growing on me.” Myers slipped off her nightgown.

Pearce grinned. “Maybe we can get a matching set.”

Myers pushed him gently into the shower and followed him in. “Let’s talk about it later.”

Tarkovsky took another drag of his cigarette, then handed it back to Grafton. They were both naked beneath the sheets in her Georgetown loft.

“I met him today.”

“Who?” She finished the last pull and stabbed out the butt in the ashtray on his chest.

“Pearce.” He set the ashtray on the nightstand.

“Was that smart?”

“It was an accident. We were both at the White House. I introduced myself. He said he was late for a meeting. Seemed like he was in a hurry. Something urgent.”

“It was.”

Tarkovsky rolled onto his side to look her in the eyes. “How urgent?”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

He grinned. Touched the end of her nose with his finger. “Must I torture you for details?”

Her heart raced. He was a beautiful man. The catch of the city. She wanted to show him off to her friends and, better yet, her enemies. Rub it right in Ilene Parcelle’s Botoxed face. “Better for you not to know. At least not yet.”

“Tell me about Pearce, then.”

“Surely you have a file on him?”

“Of course. But it is very thin. CIA Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group. Afghanistan, Iraq. But not much more than that. His record was expunged when my department was finally able to access it. Now he is a private security contractor.” He didn’t tell her about Ambassador Britnev and Pearce’s suspected role in his death. It was a state secret. Worse. He was on a special SVR list President Titov kept.

“You know as much as I do. Except that Chandler hates his guts.”

“Why?”

“He’s an arrogant prick.”

“So am I.”

“That’s why he intrigues me.”

Tarkovsky rose up on an elbow, laughing. “Should I be jealous of this Pearce?”

“There’s something about him.”

“What?”

Grafton sat up in bed. She weighed her answer carefully. “Rage. You can see it pacing back and forth behind his eyes, like a caged tiger at the zoo. I’d hate to see what would happen if it ever got out.”

“You little liar.” Tarkovsky sat up, too. “You like dangerous men.”

She smiled. “All men are dangerous. Some more than others.”

“So Chandler hates him. What does it matter?”

“Pearce has Lane’s ear. And worse, Pearce has Chandler’s number. Chandler can’t move forward with Pearce in the way. Neither can I.”

“Do you want me to dig a little deeper on Pearce?”

“Yes. And someone else. Chandler mentioned an Iraqi general named Majid.”

“Why? What’s the connection?”

“Pearce and Chandler have a history with each other, and with him.”

“Do you know what that history is?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t need you to dig, would I?”

“I have a contact in the SVR that owes me a favor. I will reach out to him right away.”

She flung the bedsheets aside and crawled on top of him, wet and ready. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

Pearce and Grafton were in her office reviewing the list of phone numbers and talking points for the day’s round of calls. Pearce was impressed with Grafton’s encyclopedic knowledge of the senators in question and even more so with their senior staffs. Nearly a quarter of the Senate was age seventy or older; several were in their eighties. If Hillary Clinton had been flummoxed by fax machine technology in 2009, then how many other septuagenarians were likewise unable to keep up with the startling technological changes today? Whatever thoughts the aging Senate might have on drone tech, they would have to have been informed by their younger, more knowledgable staff, who formulated most of their policy positions anyway.

Pearce and Grafton divided up their workload accordingly. Pearce would call the senators to massage their egos and ease their concerns after Grafton vetted the appropriate staff personnel. It was a decent plan, and Pearce knew Grafton had a long record of success in corralling votes for Chandler.

“You about ready?” Grafton asked. She slipped a sheet of paper across her desk.

“Yeah. I guess so.” He had ten calls to make, the first to Senator Floyd, a follow-up.

She saw his reluctance. “It won’t be that bad. Just close your eyes and think of England.”

Pearce picked up the phone. “Isn’t Floyd a waste of time?”

“Floyd’s been telling his staff you practically bitch-slapped him in the hearing. But he figures that if you’re willing to speak your mind when your nomination is on the line, you won’t hold back when it really counts.” Grafton’s offered a half smile. “Good job, cowboy.”

Pearce glanced at his iWatch: 9:55 a.m. Better to wait a few more minutes for Floyd to get settled in before he called. But it wasn’t Floyd he was worried about. It was today’s twelve o’clock ISIS deadline that was really on his mind.

President Lane, Vice President Chandler, and Ambassador Tarkovsky were seated on the couches and chairs facing one another. Coffee and croissants sat on the table in front of them. Chandler tried to hide his obvious enthusiasm behind a mask of thoughtful reflection. Lane’s hands were folded, his face dark with skepticism as Tarkovsky spoke.