Drone Games (40 page)

“Chandra? Your daughter is very lucky, ma’am,” Feldman announced. “The pencil missed her eyeball and punctured the area next to the bridge of her nose. She’ll need a patch bandage, but she’s going to be fine.”

He turned to Griffin and sat down, flipping a page on his clipboard. “Ma’am, is your name Neela?”

“Tom Ross,” she choked. Her eyes welled up instantly. “Is he . . . ?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Feldman smiled. “He’s got a nasty wound just above the left temple, but he’s stable. He’s going to be okay. It’s a good night for near misses. We’d like to keep him for a while. He’s mildly sedated, but he’s been asking for you. He’s in Number 3 South. Follow me.”

—

JACK RILEY arrived at the hospital and managed to limp his way to the second floor. The nurse in charge kindly directed him to a room. He peeked inside. A patient was lying in bed gazing blankly at the ceiling.

“Mary, my name is Jack,” he announced softly. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Timmons smiled, the diazepam taking hold. “Are you a policeman?”

“Sort of, ma’am,” Riley answered, gently lifting her hand, careful to avoid the deep purple wrist bruises. “Mary, I need to ask you some questions about Kenneth Wory. It’s important.” She nodded once. He leaned closer. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“For the life of me, I don’t know,” her voice cracked. “I went next door to see if Kenny was hungry, and when I walked in, he came up behind and pushed me to the floor. He tied a rag over me eyes and dumped me in that tub. He never said a word. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Then he taped me up. It was all I could do to breathe. Is he . . . gone?”

“He’s dead, ma’am,” Riley said. “Would you describe him for me?”

“Why would Kenny do such a thing?” she whimpered, tears drizzling down her cheeks. “Such a handsome, nice lad. Always so neat and polite. He used to show me that trick with those coins.”

“Coins?”

“They was in me mailbox. Now they’re in me sweater.” She turned her face toward the closet. “Kenny always said he’d bring them home. I knew he would.”

Riley rifled through the pockets and found a small plastic case.

Amaze your friends
with
Scotch and Soda

“Ma’am, did Kenneth ever have any visit . . . ?”

There was no response. She had drifted asleep.

Riley made his way to Ross’s room and found Griffin at his bedside.

“They say you’re going to make it, pal,” Riley said. “How’s the head?”

“It feels as if I’ve been kicked by one of your wife’s horses,” Ross managed weakly. He noticed the dried blood below Riley’s ears. “Are you okay?”

“My knees are banged up, and I can’t hear so well, but that might be a blessing.”

“Can I go back to the NTSB now?” Ross spoke louder.

“Be my guest. I’m finished with you.”

“Jack? That night at the Outback, you refused to tell me what goes on in the Florida Keys. Would you reconsider?”

“He’s all drugged up, right?” Riley asked Griffin.

“A little bit. But now I want to know too.”

“Paradise goes on,” Riley said matter-of-factly. “Come see for yourself.”

Ross struggled to sit up. “The terrorists. Did you get them?”

“Him,” Riley corrected. “It was one person using multiple false names. I doubt if we’ll ever know his real identity. We’ll have a composite sketch drawn up and share it with known witnesses. He was pretty much blown to pieces. Can’t say that I’ll lose any sleep over it.”

“Jack? Something else got blown to pieces,” Ross admitted. “Your fish.”

Riley’s face darkened, then brightened again with a shrug. “You did good, pal.”

“What’s that?” Griffin asked, noticing something in Riley’s hand.

“A coin trick. Apparently, our terrorist was into magic. It’s a circumstantial link, but right now it’s further proof that it was him. We’ll have it analyzed.”

Griffin placed her hand in front of Ross’s face. “How many fingers?”

Ross smiled warmly. “Are we ever going out on a date?”

She kissed his cheek and gently adjusted his pillow. “I’ve accepted a job with Fox’s DC bureau. Who knows? You might even get your shirt back.”

“I guess I’ll leave you two alone.” Riley winked at Ross. “I’ve got to tell the president that his country can start flying again.”

Port of Rabat, Morocco

Cargo Vessel
Abuzenima

Captain’s Quarters

“WE MUST part ways, Faiz, but only for a short time. I assume your struggle is over?” Captain Riad Naimi said, handing Al-Aran an envelope. “You are now Habib Saloume, named from the rural village of your birth in Senegal. The real Habib served on my crew and was lost in a storm three years ago. He had no friends or family. You could be his twin. Do the authorities know you?”

“You might say that I managed to avoid the bureaucracy and fingerprinters.” Al-Aran set his pipe down and examined the documents. “Is Aljezur safe?”

“My friend, I am a man of faith, and I support your work, but I do not wish to know the details. I will provide everything that you require in life as a service to my brother, Ali. You will lack nothing. You may help raise my vegetables and assist with my animals. I have a small but reliable servant-staff. On my land, your time is your own. The town of Aljezur is filled with tourists who mind their business. No one will ask anything of you. You may walk among the stores freely or browse the world’s information in our Internet cafés. We have some of the most beautiful beaches on the Western Atlantic. Praia de Monte Clérigo has a fantastic view of the coast and a convenient lay-by where you may stop and admire the sea. The cliff tops are a mass of color in spring. The region is completely uneventful. It will be as if the old professor no longer exists.”

Riad glanced at his watch. “The
Abuzenima
sails for Lisbon today. After some business in Antwerp, I will return and we will both rest. Perhaps the time may come when you admit you have done enough for Allah.”

“Perhaps,” Al-Aran agreed. “But only Allah can determine that. In twenty-one days, I must travel to London. My work begins again.”

“As you wish,” the captain said, extending his hand. “May I ask you a question? The crew has noticed you in your cabin studying something late into the evenings. A large winged insect made of plastic. Perhaps a toy? You disassemble it and then reassemble it over and over. A hobby,
señor
?”

Al-Aran turned for the door, then paused. “Your farm,
Capitán
. . . what animals do you raise?”

“Goats and a small herd of livestock. A plentiful and local source of meat.”

“You are a fortunate and prosperous man,” Al-Aran praised. “You may take comfort in the fact that your meat does not come from America.”

—

Duck Key

Tom’s Harbor Inlet

RILEY DIALED his cell phone.

“Tom Ross.”

“I can’t believe you’re back to work,” Riley chided. “Tell the NTSB you need more medical time.”

“I did, and they went ahead and promoted me anyway.” Ross laughed. “They took the word
acting
out of my title. How’s paradise?”

“Congratulations, pal. I’m sitting under a tiki hut with a mango smoothie. Kissi’s flying down tonight on a private jet, compliments of the Secretary of Homeland Security.”

“That’s not enough. For what you did, it should be Air Force One.”

“I suppose,” Riley said halfheartedly.

“Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Mixed emotions. I just feel empty about the way things turned out falling into place the way they did. It seemed too perfect.”

“Do you have sunstroke?” Ross asked. “What’s wrong with perfect? You led a successful investigation that identified and tracked down a terrorist who killed Americans. You stopped a real threat that almost brought this country to its knees.”

“He did bring the country to its knees.”

“You know what I mean. It could have been worse. A lot worse.”

“Frankly, I wanted more,” Riley admitted. “Like a name, for instance. We never even knew his real name, not to mention where he came from or how he was able operate those drones so freely right under our noses. And there’s still two more unaccounted for. Think about that. How many more are out there? It reminds me of when I was a kid in Georgia. We used to play in the woods near a creek. One day, a cottonmouth snake bit my friend, and the next thing you know, the whole place was roped off. He lost his right leg. They found and killed a snake, but we never knew if it was
the
snake or if there were others. They simply assumed. They hung signs and told us not to play there anymore, just to be safe. Something bothers me about that Saudi professor. The one who supposedly swam with the sharks. I can’t put my finger on it. Something keeps buzzing around in my head. A little voice keeps telling me that he played us. What if he set the whole thing up?”

“You have absolutely no evidence to support that,” Ross said. “And for the sake of argument, if Faiz Al-Aran
is
still alive, he’d be a marked man all over the planet with no place to run or hide. Someone would pick him up.”

“But it proves my point that there might be a heckuva lot of snakes out there,” Riley quipped. “Poisonous snakes. Tom, I fear this is only the beginning. We have no idea what the world is about to experience in a new drone age.”

“All right, I order you to snap out of this cynical funk. Get your butt into your boat and go catch your fish.”

“Already on my way,” Riley said. “I’ll call you when I’m back in DC. When you’re one hundred percent, we’ll have you and Neela over for a horseback ride.”

Riley finished his drink and gazed north to Tom’s Harbor Bridge, which separated the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean. A light breeze gently tickled the US flag above his pier. He turned the handle on his elevator boat lift, and the L-shaped aluminum beams lowered
Just-Duck-Key
onto the water. The boat’s engine started faithfully, and he eased the craft forward. It took only minutes to reach his fishing hole. It was just off a deep-water canal halfway between his dock and the open ocean. He swung the bow into the tide flow and dropped anchor. The iron flanges gripped the bottom and held firm. He methodically rigged three lines with chunks of fresh mullet and set each rod in a holder. Just as he sat back in a padded captain’s chair, his cell phone chirped. It was his home number.

“Good morning,” Kissi Riley’s voice sung. “What’s the temperature?”

“Eighty and sunny. There’s a nice breeze off the Gulf. I miss you. Are you packed?”

“Yes. Are you sure about this?”

“Trust me. All you have to do is show up at Dulles. The Secretary’s jet will be fueled and ready to go. It’s his way of saying thanks.”

“How long is the flight?”

“A little over two hours. It’s exactly one thousand miles. You should arrive in Marathon Airport around six. Don’t eat. We’re doing something special.”

“Aren’t you the romantic one?”

“Hey, you deserve it. We both do. I’m looking forward to some nice time off—” A fishing line twitched. “Kissi—I’ll call you right back. I gotta go.”

Riley clicked off and set the phone on the console.

He gripped the rod, and as he did, the line instantly went limp. He counted to ten. Nothing. False alarm. His phone chirped before he could redial. He brought it to his lips and spoke seductively.

“Sorry, honey. I almost forgot . . . be sure and bring that black see-through thing I bought for your birthday. Tonight, you’re going to live up to your name. You’ve got a great body, and I want it all.”

There was silence.

“I don’t know about great, but I have been working out,” the president’s voice finally spoke.

A series of waves bounced off the canal seawall and rolled the boat sideways. Riley dropped his phone but quickly retrieved it. “Mr. President, geez . . . I’m sorry. I thought you were . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

“No harm done, son,” the president said, laughing. “I just wanted to offer my personal thanks for what you did for the country. You made us proud.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but I had a lot of help. It’s bittersweet, though. I mean, I wish we could have discovered and prevented those attacks beforehand. It would have . . . well, the economic problems and all. I hope you know what I mean.”

“I do, Jack, and I tend to agree. Sometimes victory is bittersweet. I pray that the American people can think in those terms. It’ll help us all recover.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jack, how old are you?” the president asked.

“Forty-four.”

“That’s a good young age, son. It’s rather comforting to know that you’ll be around a bit longer. I suspect that we’ll need all the sharp minds we can muster if we expect to win the war on terror. Anyway, thank you again from my heart. Have a good vacation and enjoy your . . . birthday present.”

Riley set his phone down and noticed his line move again. This time it was different. It was straightening. He gently lifted the rod from its holder. He lowered the tip and heaved backwards.

The fish nearly pulled him into the water, and Riley could hear the rod’s graphite filaments cracking. In an instant, the air was filled with the reel’s high-pitched buzz. The line peeled out toward a deep hole next to the seawall.