Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“Thanks, August. I owe you.”

Pearce hung up his phone. He felt the familiar, mind-numbing fury burning again in his chest. He wanted to smash something.

“Excuse me,” Tarkovsky said. He pulled out his cell phone. Checked the text message. He turned to Lane, “Unfortunately, I must leave on urgent business. But I’m available for further discussion by phone or perhaps later today in person after this matter is resolved.”

Lane nodded at Tarkovsky’s phone. “Anything I can do to help?”

Tarkovsky smiled as he stood. “No, sir. That is very kind of you. This is an internal Russian matter.”

Lane stood, as did the others. Tarkovsky shook hands with him. “I hope I don’t need to remind you to keep everything we’ve just discussed between us. A press leak at this time would be a disaster.”

“Of course,” Tarkovsky said. “Discretion benefits us all. If you don’t mind my asking, have you made your decision?”

“Not yet. But I’ll be in touch.” Lane turned to al-Saud. “With you as well, Faisal. Again, I urge your discretion.”

Tarkovsky left as al-Saud gripped Pearce’s hand. “I’m sorry to hear about President Myers. Please convey to her my country’s best wishes and my personal concern for her health. If there is anything I can do for her, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Pearce peered into the ambassador’s dark eyes. “I will on both counts. Thanks.”

After al-Saud shut the door behind him, Lane turned to Chandler.

“Can we trust either of them, Clay?”

“No, but you can trust their ambitions. We stand to gain a lot more than we’ll lose if we invite them into the fight. It’s better than going it alone.”

Lane turned to Pearce. “Troy? Of the two, whom do you trust more?”

Pearce’s mind was on Myers. He was scared to death for her. Everything in him told him to bolt out of there and head for the nearest plane and go to her. But duty called and she was in good hands.

“Neither, sir. But if it were up to me, I wouldn’t go back in, with or without them.”

“I think you’ve made your position clear enough,” Chandler snapped as he sat back down on the couch.

Pearce ignored the vice president. “But if you do decide to go in, I know you’ll do it because you think it’s right for the country. Whatever you do, trust your gut.”

“If the American people knew what you knew, David, they’d demand you launch an attack,” Chandler insisted.

“Your instincts have gotten you this far,” Pearce said, casting a withering glance at Chandler. “Ignore the noise.”

Meghan Osweiler’s phone rang. Hardly unusual for the assistant managing editor for foreign and national news at the Los Angeles Times . What surprised her was the message from the unidentified voice on the other end. A woman. It was familiar but she couldn’t place it.

“How do you know about this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the voice said.

“It’s not possible.” Osweiler’s head ached. She’d missed breakfast and her late lunch was still an hour away. “I have sources in the water department. I would’ve heard about this already.”

“Not if it was labeled a national security issue.”

“How did you get my direct number? It’s unlisted.”

“All that matters is that you confirm what I’ve told you and get the word out. For God’s sake, it’s a public safety issue.”

“I’ll confirm it first. What we do with it after that is up to the managing editor.”

“I know you’ll do the right thing.” The voice went on to provide an address as well as the name of an FBI special agent from the L.A. bureau office, someone Osweiler happened to know.

Osweiler’s phone disconnected. She wasn’t sure if she should shout with triumph over the story of the year — she was already thinking Pulitzer — or race home, gather up her two shelter cats and Yorkshire terrier, and jump on the next plane to Alaska.

Her throat suddenly parched. She glanced at the half-empty glass of water on her desk. She picked it up gingerly with her thumb and forefinger and poured the contents into the wastebasket, then tossed the glass in after it. She called her assistant and told her to bring a can of cold Diet Dr Pepper and a couple of Tylenol from the break room.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

Grafton slipped her cell phone back into her purse, flushed the toilet, and stepped over to the sink, still stinging over the snub of getting cut out of today’s meeting with Lane, Tarkovsky, and al-Saud.

Damn them. Damn them to hell.

She washed her hands. This was the best way for her to keep control of the narrative. Osweiler was a bulldog. She wouldn’t let this story die even if her boss tried to spike it. Osweiler would go over his head or, more likely, step on it — and get his job in the bargain.

Grafton stared at herself in the mirror. Checked her lipstick and her long red hair. Didn’t like what she saw. She frowned. Her hair looked tired. Maybe it was too long.

Time for a change , she decided.

Tamar had been studying Pike’s lake house from a distance all morning. She couldn’t hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel driveway but she watched the black windowless Chinook Charter panel van pull out of his driveway and onto the two-lane asphalt road. She checked her watch. It would take him approximately twenty-five minutes to reach his charter boat in Cheboygan and probably another thirty minutes to load everyone on board for the afternoon excursion, which was scheduled to end at five o’clock. She’d wait fifteen minutes before she moved toward the house just in case Pike forgot something and decided to turn around.

She checked her phone again, hoping Pearce had called her back. She would’ve liked an extra pair of hands on this job, especially his, but he was a big shot in the American government now and probably up to his blue eyes in paperwork and committee meetings. She chuckled.

Poor bastard.

Tamar made her way on foot through the trees, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the security cameras on the house she’d observed through her binoculars. The cameras didn’t surprise her. If Pike was the threat Mossad thought he was, he’d have a security system in place. If not, it was reasonable for a person in a remote location like this to secure his property from thieves. Either way, she’d anticipated the presence of them and had prepared accordingly.

Fortunately the camera over the entrance facing the lake had been disconnected. Probably needed to be replaced, she assumed. She worked her way around to the side of the house, hugging her shoulder bag close. She was reasonably confident that she couldn’t be identified. She wore a ball cap to cover her angular face, dark hair, and clear green eyes. Her skin was hidden beneath long sleeves and slacks, and she wore blue surgical gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. The goal was to keep Pike from knowing that anyone had entered his house at all. She easily picked the keyed lock on the electrical panel and opened it up. She flicked off the main power switch, disabling the cameras and likely alarm systems on the property.

Confident that she could move freely about, she dashed to the front entrance, quickly picked the sliding door lock open, and pushed through the heavy curtains. Without lights and the curtains drawn the house was dark. She pulled out her tactical flashlight and smartphone and shot video as she passed through each room as quickly and efficiently as possible, careful not to disturb anything. At this point she was only trying to locate a hidden safe, military-grade weapons, or, best of all, his personal computer — anything to confirm Mossad’s suspicions and, ideally, help locate their missing agent.