The Drone Read online

  Then they would be back.

  ‘I got it,’ Tommy-Lee had muttered. ‘Secure at all times. I know the procedure.’

  ‘Good.’ Paul had nodded. ‘You are also to stay in here with him. No going outside, even under cover of darkness. There are farmers here, and occasional passing traffic, so you sleep, eat and drink inside.’ He’d paused for a couple of beats and stared hard with eyes bright as a buzzard Tommy-Lee had once seen in a wildlife center. ‘To make sure, I’m going to lock the door from the outside. But you’ll be OK with that, right?’

  ‘Sure.’ Actually, it wasn’t because even with his background he hated being locked up. Didn’t matter that it was a wooden box he could probably bust out of if he had a mind. But no way was he going to say that to this guy.

  ‘And I need your cell phone.’

  ‘Say what?’ Tommy-Lee didn’t exactly have a busy address book of people he liked to touch base with, but the idea of handing over his cell came as a surprise.

  ‘You’ll get it back, I promise. It’s just a precaution. In any case, out here there’s no signal.’

  Tommy-Lee shrugged, suddenly too tired to argue. ‘Sure. Why not?’ He handed it over. Battery was near dead, anyway. He’d left the charger at Dougie’s place. He’d probably sold it on eBay by now.

  ‘Good. Any questions?’

  He shook his head. Truth was, he had a whole lot of them, mostly about who the prisoner really was and what was going to happen to him aside from being locked up in this shitty box. But with the look Paul was giving him he didn’t figure it would be a good idea to ask. He also wanted to point out that there was a whole ton of laws about kidnapping and taking a person across state lines and probably even more about messing with military brown-nosers. But that, too, could wait.

  ‘No. Everything’s cool.’

  Now the smell of fear and faeces was hanging off the man on the bed like a cloak. It was humiliation, the first part of a process Tommy-Lee had learned in Iraq a long time ago while interrogating insurgents. He’d been good at it, too. Had gotten himself a good rep for making prisoners talk, even when they didn’t want to. Some had said he was the best there was. But that was before one of the inmates had gone and died on him and an investigations commission had brought the roof down on his head.

  He spat on the floor and stepped over to the other bed, hunkering down so that his eyes were on the same level as the prisoner’s. Time to earn his money. He was holding the hunting knife in front of him so the man on the bed could see it clearly, and smiled at the way his eyes went wide and wild like a cow about to be slaughtered. It was another part of the process: the threat of imminent punishment.

  The man was making grunting noises and shaking his head, and Tommy-Lee watched, fascinated, as he tried to shrink his body away through the wall behind him. It was a reaction he’d seen and enjoyed countless times before; the response to absolute power over another human being. He reached for the bottle of water and dribbled some across the man’s face, deliberately hitting his eyes and nose. More grunting noises, this time high-pitched like he was about to explode.

  Not quite water-boarding, Tommy-Lee knew, but the threat was the same. Block up a man’s nose and mouth and they can feel death sitting right there on their shoulder, waiting to take over.

  He waited for the man to go still, then reached over and ripped the tape away, taking some skin and stubble with it. He held the knife right in front of the man’s eyes so he could see it close up, see his own shit-scared reflection in the blade’s shiny surface.

  ‘Be still,’ he cautioned, and was surprised at how good it felt to actually speak in this tiny airless space; how clear and commanding his voice sounded. ‘I’ll give you a drink, cross my heart. And I’ll take off the cuffs so you can piss and wash yourself. But first you have to know something that might just save your life. You listening to me?’

  Another part of the process: the offer of potential release. Didn’t matter how tough a man thought he was, how committed or brain-washed by hate or politics or religion or arrogance; they all wanted to grab a hold on life. On freedom.

  The man nodded and went still.

  ‘First thing is, you should know that there’s a bunch of ragheads out there who I think want to do bad things to you.’

  The man’s lips parted and a noise came out, but it was unintelligible, a croak through dry vocal chords and a gummy mouth.

  Tommy-Lee held up a finger. ‘Don’t speak. Just listen. If we get along here, and you cooperate, everything will be just fine.’ He dribbled more water over the man’s lips and averted his head when he choked and coughed, spraying the liquid into the air. ‘Easy, pal,’ he said softly. ‘You gotta calm down. Spit on me again and I’ll leave you to go dry. Hear me?’

  Another eager nod, this time with eyes fixed on the water bottle in Tommy-Lee’s hand. The man’s tongue flicked out, fissured with dehydration, and dragged itself across cracked lips.

  ‘Please.’ The word was squeezed out, the whisper no louder than a breath of air.

  Tommy-Lee tilted the water bottle, slowly this time, so the man didn’t convulse or choke. Last thing he needed was for the guy to die on him before Paul and his pals got back. A dead body would probably get him nothing but a whole lot of trouble he didn’t want.

  As the description entered his head, he wondered for the first time why his subconscious kept seeing those words. Then it hit him. On the way here from Kansas City, the men in front had barely spoken to each other. But just once, through the alcoholic haze that had taken him in and out of sleep, he’d heard some vaguely familiar words coming from the one called Bill, before Paul had choked him off and told to shut up, but in English.

  Tommy-Lee had never learned much Arabic, other than a few brutal commands needed to get a prisoner’s attention. But he knew enough from what Bill had said to have guessed which part of the world these three men really came from. And it blew any story about friends, and military jail and an over-eager officer right out of the water.

  What surprised him more than anything was that he really didn’t give a damn.

  He had a job to do and he was going to do it.

  8

  The StoneSeal offices were located in a glittering, wedge-shaped tower of steel and tinted glass on an intersection close by some rail tracks in New Jersey. Surrounded by other buildings bearing the pallid air of new builds as yet untouched by the acid bite of city fumes, it gave Ruth the impression of a company hiding in plain sight; there but beyond the reach of ordinary mortals unless by invitation.

  Vaslik led the way into a large reception atrium, where an attractive young woman was seated behind a long counter. Around her was an impressive bank of camera monitors and computer screens. Two uniformed security guards were seated close by, with another patrolling a mezzanine floor at the top of a whispering escalator. Other than the men in uniform, the atrium floor and mezzanine were empty.

  ‘Ever had the feeling we’re being watched?’ Vaslik murmured.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Ruth said. She was feeling self-conscious. She had a slight tear in her jacket sleeve where she’d been knocked over by the spotter, and a puffy area of redness under one eye. In spite of that she knew she’d been lucky to have got away unscathed. Vaslik had suggested calling it a day and getting her checked over by a doctor, but she’d refused. They had too much to do and wimping out wasn’t her thing. After making sure the attacker’s hardhat and knife were safely bagged up for examination later, she’d suggested they get to the StoneSeal offices.

  ‘How can I help you?’ The receptionist was polite and brisk. If she noticed the fight damage to Ruth she was too well-trained to show it.

  Vaslik gave their names and added, ‘We have an appointment with David MacInnes.’

  ‘I’m sorry – he’s been called out of the office.’ The response was automatic and conveyed no discernible flicker of regret. ‘Can I take a message?’

  Vaslik checked his cell phone. ‘In that case how a
bout John DeGeorgio?’ Ruth glanced past his shoulder. The screen showed the names of the three top individuals in the company; MacInnes was CEO, DeGeorgio was Operating Director and a woman named Karen Simanski was the Financial and Technical Director.

  ‘Sorry, but he’s unavailable. In fact there’s a major client conference going on and they’ve asked not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Miss Simanski?’

  ‘Her too.’ She stared up at Vaslik as if waiting for him to drop another name on her. One of the security guards got to his feet and edged closer as though a signal had been activated. He was large, with the bearing of an ex-cop, and wearing a holstered gun on his waist. He said nothing but stared at Vaslik and Ruth in turn. The other guard gave a flick of his hand and the man on the mezzanine began walking down the escalator towards them.

  ‘I’ll show you to the door, sir – madam.’ The first guard said, and moved round from behind the desk to lead the way out.

  Vaslik hesitated for a moment, then reached into his inside breast pocket and produced a small wallet. He flicked it open and Ruth saw an ID card with his photo, and the familiar logo of the Department of Homeland Security. ‘That’s not necessary,’ Vaslik said. ‘We won’t be leaving just yet. You might like to get hold of your head of security or head of personnel – I don’t care which. Or are they in the client conference, too?’

  It stopped the guard in his tracks, and he threw a confused look at the receptionist as if he hadn’t been prepared for this. His colleague made a hurried gesture and the man on the escalator stepped off and stayed where he was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said, her face flushed. ‘I didn’t realise. I’ll get Janna Conway, our Human Resources vice president.’

  Five minutes later, Vaslik and Ruth were seated in a third-floor conference room. Across the table sat a woman in her forties, with a tinge of a Caribbean accent and a ready smile.

  ‘My apologies for the misunderstanding downstairs,’ she murmured warmly. ‘But our front-of-house staff hadn’t been made aware that the appointment with David MacInnes was made by a government agency.’ She waited for a response, but there was none, so continued: ‘And the client conference came up rather unexpectedly which meant our senior team was called away at short notice. How can I help?’

  ‘James Chadwick,’ said Vaslik shortly. ‘We’re trying to locate him.’

  A flicker of an eyelid and Mrs Conway nodded. ‘I see. I’m afraid all I can tell you is that he has taken an unexplained leave of absence.’

  ‘So you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. He didn’t inform us of the details.’

  ‘That’s because he’s gone missing.’

  A momentary hesitation. ‘That’s not what I was told, Agent…’ She looked for the security pass attached to his jacket. ‘…Vaslik.’

  ‘I guess you were misinformed. The facts are that you don’t know where he is, nor does his family. We have good reason to believe that he might be in some kind of trouble and we’d like to find him.’

  ‘Then I’m not sure how I can help, Mr Vaslik. I can pull his staff file, but I know for a fact that it contains his home address and financial details as permitted by law, but no personal details that would indicate where he might be now.’

  ‘Perhaps we can see his workplace, then,’ he countered.

  She hesitated and sat up straight. ‘I’m not sure that’s allowed. This is very irregular, you know. Are you aware that StoneSeal is on the approved contractors list to the federal government? We have important security issues here.’

  ‘I’m sure you have, Mrs Conway. As do we. Which is why it would be unwise to be seen to stonewall an investigation into the disappearance of one of your employees. If he’s in any kind of trouble, the least your company can do is allow us to start tracing his movements so that we can relay some information to his wife and son, don’t you think?’

  Ruth was impressed, and had to fight to maintain a blank expression. She wondered where Vaslik was going with this, and how far he’d get before somebody decided to check with the DHS and bring the ceiling down on them for impersonating US law enforcement officers. But since she was powerless to stop him now he’d gone this far, she was going to have to sit it out and wait to be locked up.

  ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to give that impression at all, Agent Vaslik.’ Mrs Conway’s voice had lost some of its warmth, and now held a slight veneer of panic. ‘I should have mentioned that our consultants don’t spend much time here, and therefore don’t have assigned workstations. They hot desk on an as-needed basis.’ She stood up and smoothed her skirt. ‘As a matter of fact there are a few of Mr Chadwick’s personal possessions here. We thought it best to keep them in our secure room until we knew what to do with them. But I’m sure I can let you have a look through them if it would help?’

  Vaslik smiled. ‘That would be most kind. Thank you.’

  Seconds later they were following Conway at a brisk pace down two flights of stairs and into a long corridor with doors either side. The décor was clinical and cold, and each door carried a key-pad and swipe mechanism. Ruth wondered how much hot desking was going on behind the doors. It certainly wasn’t giving off the aura of a busy office building.

  Conway stopped outside one of the doors and used a card on a metal chain around her neck to swipe the lock. The space inside was a storage room, with shelves around the walls holding a variety of office equipment, boxes and filing cabinets. She bustled over to a plain cardboard box on a shelf and lifted it onto a table in the centre of the room.

  ‘This is all there was, I’m afraid. We don’t really encourage our consultants to keep much here for security reasons.’ She gave a brief smile, and when Vaslik showed no sign of looking into the box, she got the message and moved towards the door. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be right outside.’

  As soon as she had closed the door behind her, they looked in the box. Conway had been telling the truth; there wasn’t much inside. A small leather briefcase, which was empty, a calculator, several pens, three coloured markers, an envelope containing a mix of currencies, mostly in coin, a Bartholomew folding map of Central United States, and a conference brochure for an event in Denver, Colorado.

  ‘He wasn’t exactly the hoarder type, was he?’ Vaslik murmured. He checked the briefcase again and dropped it back in the box. ‘Darn. I was hoping for something like a desk diary at least.’

  ‘He’s a consultant,’ Ruth reminded him. ‘They do everything on tablets and smart phones. It goes with the image. This is interesting.’ She picked up the brochure, which was a glossy folder for a conference on unmanned aircraft systems.

  Vaslik looked over her shoulder and pulled a face. ‘I used to fly model gliders as a kid. This stuff is way out of my league.’

  ‘What, you playing with toy planes? Somehow I can’t picture that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’d send them up but they didn’t always come home again. In the end I ran out of money and enthusiasm.’

  ‘But this isn’t about airplanes or gliders; it’s about drones. Big boys’ toys.’ She opened the folder and checked the list of events, which included speaker panels, workshop sessions and demonstrations, all aimed at, among others, end-users, suppliers and service providers.

  ‘So?’

  ‘His wife told me he was supposed to be taking his son to a model aircraft exhibition this week in the UK, but failed to confirm. It’s one of the reasons she started throwing a hissy-fit when I mentioned his name.’ She flicked the brochure. ‘Anyway, it couldn’t have been this one – it’s here in the US and this one’s in three months.’

  Vaslik took the brochure and thumbed through it. As he read, his face became more serious. ‘These are pretty hard core. It mentions military and aerospace, along with academics and technical contractors. This isn’t for beach flyers on a weekend away.’

  Ruth was already unfolding the map. She laid it out on the table. It looked fairly new but showed signs of having been
unfolded and refolded several times. The inch-wide margins around the edges contained some scribbled jottings, while the map itself had been marked with circles and question marks, but these seemed almost random with no specific connection, and were spread across the central states. She folded the map again. It would be interesting to take a closer look later.

  ‘What are the chances,’ she said quietly, ‘of getting these things out of the building without the heavy mob and Miss Frosty Pants at the front desk throwing the furniture at us?’

  Vaslik produced his wallet and DHS ID. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Are you sure about using that? What if they check?’

  He smiled. ‘Did I forget to tell you – I’m on the reserve list for Homeland Security. Once in, never forgotten.’ He put the brochure in his inside pocket and waited for Ruth to tuck the map inside her jacket, then turned towards the door. ‘Come on – let’s go.’

  They stepped outside and found Mrs Conway waiting as promised. She pulled the door closed and checked it was locked, then turned to lead them back along the corridor.

  ‘Stop right there!’

  Three men were striding towards them, blocking the narrow space. The man in the lead wore an expensive suit and an air of outrage. He was accompanied by two armed security guards.

  9

  Tommy-Lee lifted his head off the pillow. He’d picked up the faint sound of a vehicle approaching. It was no more than a distant hum, but out here in these flat lands any man-made noise could travel for miles without hindrance. And this one was getting closer. Since noon he’d heard only three other vehicles, all beaten-up trucks or pickups that had gone by without stopping.