Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“And if he denies he’s any part of this?” Chandler asked.

“He signed the letter, didn’t he?” Garza said.

“Technically, he didn’t. It was printed on a laser jet,” Peguero said. “We’re not even sure if he’s alive. Getting some kind of confirmation about the source makes sense, legally.”

“He can always blame a lone wolf working on his own. That way he can take credit but not the blame,” Pearce said.

“If there’s a lone wolf behind this, then we need to shake up every radical mosque in the country. Detain every radical imam as an enemy combatant,” Chandler said.

Peguero’s dark eyes widened. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Vice President. You’re a trained lawyer. Surely you know that would be a clear violation of the civil rights and religious liberties of Muslims.”

Chandler threw up his hands. “Lincoln was a lawyer, too. Didn’t prevent him from suspending habeas corpus. Extreme times require extreme measures.”

Peguero turned to Lane. “I can’t condone that kind of action at all, Mr. President. And neither will the party leadership.” As the daughter of illegal Dominican immigrants amnestied under Reagan, the attorney general was particularly sensitive about the rights of the foreign born.

Pearce couldn’t believe his ears. He fumed . We’re in a war, not a pillow fight. These people still don’t get it all these years after 9/11. These social justice warriors will get us all killed.

“Let’s bring in Ambassador al-Saud for some perspective. I think he’ll agree with me,” Chandler said.

“Bring a Saudi government official into a national security meeting?” Pearce asked.

“Why not?” Chandler protested. “He’s a great friend to our country and a staunch ally in the War on Terror. He’ll tell you that the radical mosques are the rat nests behind a lot of these shenanigans.”

“For one thing, Saudi Arabia has a horrific human rights record, and as far as I know, the Saudi ambassador is not an American constitutional scholar,” Peguero said. “I don’t see what value he brings to the table.”

Lane held up a hand, frustrated. “All right, everybody, let’s put a lid on this. Give me a minute to process.” Lane stood and crossed the room, lost in thought.

Pearce pulled out his smartphone and started scrolling through his list of contacts. Pulled up Dr. Ashley’s. He couldn’t pull off the Gorgon Sky project without her. He sent her a priority text, encrypted.

Lane crossed back over to the table but remained standing. “Jim, I like your idea. Call the director of national intelligence. See if he can get someone in al-Mahdi’s face in the next few hours.”

“The CIA won’t have a direct contact. We’ll have to go third party.”

“Can we get a direct message to him at least?”

“Probably. But it will have to be all hand-carry. ISIS is scared to death of the NSA, even with encrypted cell phones. That means more people in the loop on our end. I can’t guarantee the message will remain secure.”

“We’ll have to take the chance. Let’s do it.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Garza said, signing off.

“Melinda, contact the FAA. Let’s get these planes grounded for twenty-four hours. We’ll use the software glitch as the excuse. And whatever happens, we’ve got to keep the media away from this story for as long as we can.”

Eaton nodded. “Understood, Mr. President.”

Lane turned to Pearce. “Get Gorgon Sky launched as fast as you can. And for heaven’s sake, keep pushing on an anti-drone solution.”

Pearce nodded. Didn’t have the heart to tell the president there just weren’t any good ones at the moment. He asked himself if Ian might have any ideas. Pearce sighed. No. Ian didn’t.

“Everybody, stay close and expect a call from my office. I’ve got a bad feeling the day’s a long way from over,” Lane said. “I’ll want all hands on deck if something breaks.”

“The only easy day…” Pearce muttered to himself, his voice trailing off.

Lane forced a grim smile. “Is yesterday.”

The Cool Breeze bar was packed with tourists and locals perched on high seats around club tables enjoying Manhattans and daiquiris and good Czech beer. The music from the small stage echoed on the ancient stone floors and arched brick ceiling. The place looked more like a medieval church basement than a jazz joint. The band was Indian. They played bass, sax, drums, and a sitar. Most of the patrons were talking among themselves, ignoring the skilled improvisations.

Mehmet Zorlu had never heard that kind of jazz before. He liked it. He sat at the end of the long mahogany bar with the locals. He was bald and clean-shaven, with a thick braid of gold chain looped beneath his double chins. In his sport coat, slacks, and loafers, he looked more like Alfred Hitchcock than a member of the Turkish mafia. One of his underlings nicknamed him “Tony Soprano” a few years back. He liked the American TV show, so he took no vengeance on the fool, a second cousin. He stabbed out his cigarette butt in a crowded ashtray and lit another one with a Zippo.

Zorlu knew the owners, Fipps and Robson, a couple of British expats. They were both behind the bar tonight, mixing drinks and laughing it up with the regulars. His sources inside the MIT, Turkey’s National Intelligence Organization, had vetted the two men three years ago. If they were MI6 or CIA, they hid it well. High-dollar escorts were always in tow and dirty money swam in their cash registers. Some of that dirty money he’d placed there himself over the last year. He liked them, and their whores.

He checked his watch again. The courier was late. He wiped away a bead of sweat from his massive forehead. It was cold outside but hot enough inside to bake pide on the butt-strewn floor. He finished off the martini — his third — with a last gulp, then plopped the olive into his mouth. He caught the eye of Fipps, a blond with a brush cut and bulging biceps. Zorlu pointed at his empty martini glass. Fipps nodded and grabbed a clean glass and got to work.

Zorlu checked his watch again. The call he received came from the very top of his organization. A pickup, then a delivery. Very simple. Only not so simple. “Fail to receive the envelope and you die. Fail to deliver it, and you’ll be skinned alive. You and your wife, your mistress, and your sons.”

Where the hell was that drink?

He knew what lay ahead. He’d made the trip once before. A two-hour ride in the back of car if he was lucky, in the trunk if he wasn’t. Bag over his head, hands cuffed behind his back, straining his heavy shoulders. And then another trip by boat. There he would meet the man who would take him the rest of the way to Raqqa. A man he’d only met once face-to-face. A disturbing face. Cruel and certain, like all such fanatics. His contact in the ISIS oil-smuggling ring he ran between Syria and Turkey. They had a sort of trust, thin as a piece of old thread, but still intact. When Zorlu called him, he heard the suspicion in his voice. Suspicion that made him even more dangerous. Still, what choice did he have? He had his orders and his ISIS contact was his only hope.

The fat Turk stole a glance at the German woman seated next to him. Wide hips, big breasts. Very nice. He remembered his years in Düsseldorf fondly. Money, drugs, or force had spread many pairs of such legs in his youth.

Fipps approached with the new martini and set it down in front of him. He leaned in close. Nodded toward the staircase.

Zorlu turned around with difficulty. The courier, he guessed. A Turkish kid in his twenties. Leather jacket, long hair, dark. A British passport in his pocket, no doubt. One of the infamous Tottenham Turks, a violent gang his own organization used to distribute drugs in the U.K. in exchange for guns. His nervous young eyes scanned the room. No doubt he received the same grim threats.