Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Grafton took a sip of champagne, trying not to laugh. “He has dreams of winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Al-Saud grinned. “Seriously? How?”

“By forging a grand new security alliance with Russia and NATO.”

“For what purpose?”

“He’d tell you it was to bring a lasting peace to the European continent and to solve the trouble in the Middle East, beginning with ISIS.”

“But what do you say?”

“He thinks a Nobel Peace Prize will guarantee him the White House.”

“And does Pearce support Chandler’s position vis-à-vis the Russians?”

“Hardly.”

“So it seems that there are three of us that would like to get Mr. Pearce out of the White House.”

“Yes, but how?” Grafton forked another bite of halibut into her mouth. She was open to suggestions.

“If he can’t be pushed out, maybe he can be pulled out.”

“You have any ideas?”

“I’m not that clever.” Al-Saud lifted the last sterling silver cover. “What’s this?”

“Dessert, my sweet. Caramelized pineapple, bourbon vanilla coconut meringue and passion fruit — mango sorbet.” The plate rested in a bed of crushed ice.

“I can’t wait to try it. Where’s yours?”

Al-Saud felt Grafton’s skilled fingers wrap around his manhood.

“Mine’s right here. But you better eat yours. You’re going to need the energy.”

Max Garcia slipped the cherry-red Mustang into reverse as the automatic garage door lifted. He turned around out of habit, throwing his right arm across the top of the passenger seat and steered with his left hand, watching for traffic and kids in the quiet but hilly street in the Silver Lake community. He rode the brake pedal as the car edged down the steep driveway until his phone sounded a familiar tone. A text from his girlfriend. He hit the brakes, threw the transmission into park, and checked the message.

NEED U WANT U NOW!!!

An X-rated emoticon Garcia had never seen before accompanied the text. He grinned beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache. She was ten years his junior and really hot in the sack. He hit the microphone on his keyboard and spoke back the text, “Can’t. Big meeting in thirty minutes. Maybe a nooner?”

Another text appeared.

Won’t take long. I have a big surprise for you. Hurry!

Another sexy emoticon.

Garcia sighed. She was a real nympho. Always ready to go, which he liked. Didn’t need a lot of talking to beforehand, and glad to grab a quick bite to eat or a drink later, which meant she was easy on his wallet, too. He checked his watch. He had to leave now if he didn’t want to walk in late to yet another meeting. His boss at the water district would write him up for sure after the last warning. He spoke another text. “Sorry, babe. I want you, too. Gotta wait. I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.”

He watched the three blinking dots on his iPhone as she typed yet another text. He couldn’t wait any longer. Traffic on Sunset would start backing up any minute. He threw the car back into reverse when a popping soap bubble sound signaled the arrival of her next text. He backed all the way into the street, turned, then threw the car into drive and sped forward. He picked up his phone and glanced at the text.

Come now or I’ll call your wife. Maybe she’d like to come over and we can have a long talk about all those dirty things you like to do to me.

Garcia swore violently. He thought this bitch was cool. They’d had a thing for months now and she’d been a real sport. What was going on with her? Maybe that time of the month, he grumbled. You never knew with women.

“I’ll lose my job if I’m late,” he spoke into the phone.

He hit the gas, speeding a little too fast in the narrow residential street, but he had to make the next light if he hoped to beat the first rush of traffic. He heard the popping text bubble again. It was an address in Los Feliz but she lived in Burbank. Had she moved without telling him? She probably wanted to christen the place. Crazy bitch.

15 minutes or I call your wife.

Garcia shook his head. His first divorce cost him a three-bedroom rancher in South Pasadena and half his retirement pension. He couldn’t afford to lose the new house to his second wife and he was already underwater on the mortgage. He texted back, “Okay, but it’s gotta be quick.”

I’m already wet.

The filthiest emoticon he’d ever seen popped up. He felt a rush of blood to his crotch. He’d figure out a way to explain his tardiness to his boss.

Garcia tapped the address and it pulled up on a Google map. Seven minutes away. Good. He was already getting hard just thinking about what she would do to him, but he popped a little blue pill anyway and washed it down with sip of stale coffee.

Timing was everything.

Pearce was working over a plate of hash browns and hard fried eggs in the wood-paneled White House cafeteria when his phone vibrated. He picked it up. An unknown caller. Not many people had the number for his phone. Against his better judgment he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Troy, it’s me, Moshe Werntz.”

Pearce recognized the thickly accented English of his old friend. He glanced around the room. Nobody was within earshot but he lowered his voice anyway. “It’s been a long time, Moshe.” Pearce had heard through the grapevine that his old friend from the Mossad was head of North American operations and chief of station in D.C.

“Too long, my friend. How are you enjoying Washington these days?”

“It’s like a slow-motion car wreck. If I manage to walk away in one piece I’ll be happy.”

Werntz laughed. “I understand completely. I think a firefight is more pleasurable than the games these politicians play, mine included.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to touch base. I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by to see you yet. How are things going with your Senate hearing?”

“Fine. Thanks for asking.” Pearce could tell by the tone of his voice that wasn’t the purpose of his call. “So what’s really up?”

“I’m sure you have a lot on your plate these days,” Werntz said.

Pearce wondered how much the cagey old Israeli spy knew about the current state of affairs.

“No rest for the wicked,” Pearce said.

“And the righteous don’t need any,” Werntz said. “But since I have been a negligent friend, I feel as if I owe you a favor.”

“Happy to collect them. What have you got?”

The Israeli spymaster paused for effect. “It’s a delicate matter. I’m sure I can trust your discretion.”

Pearce’s eyes kept scanning the room. No one was listening to his conversation, near as he could tell. His phone was encrypted, so even if the Secret Service was scanning calls in the room, they wouldn’t be able to hear them. “Of course.”

“I thought you’d like to know that Ambassadors al-Saud and Tarkovsky of the Saudi and Russian delegations, respectively, met just yesterday at al-Saud’s private residence.”

Pearce frowned, concerned. That wasn’t good news. Interesting that they were both being invited back into the Situation Room in just a few minutes. “Maybe they’re in love and wanted a moment alone.”

“Perhaps. But it seems that the Saudi and the Russian governments are suddenly becoming fast friends.”

“Why is that a problem?” Pearce asked, fully knowing why.

“Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps we’re just jealous that we haven’t been invited to the party with the cool kids. But I thought you should know.”

“What did they talk about?”

The Israeli faked outrage. “Troy, I’m shocked. Are you accusing me of spying?”