Jones thought for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “Half an hour, tops. Zee made a really great online training video that walks through everything from boot up to fuel to modular part replacements. Why do you ask?”
“I need you to gather six drone frames and all related components. We’re lending the system out for a while.”
“Huh?” Jones asked incredulously. “To who?”
Al-Aran relit his pipe and shook his head. “Six years of higher education should have taught you something about the use of subjective versus objective pronouns. To whom, Mr. Jones. A Saudi evaluation team is considering trialing the system. They’re interested in controlled flight maneuvering in and out of derrick rigs and grasping and holding onto metal structures to film and observe desert operations. It’s called asset monitoring.”
“Are you serious?”
“Arabs are always serious about security, particularly when it involves oil.”
“Don’t we need some kind of permission?” Zee questioned.
“You’re absolutely right. I almost forgot.” Al-Aran reached in his pocket and flashed a piece of paper.
The first thing Zee noticed was that the check was drawn on the Bank of Riyadh. But then his mouth dropped open when he spied the dollar amount. He had no clue that it was a complete fake.
“And this is only the down payment. If our drones perform well, there’ll be another just like it. I know it’s late, but I need you to have everything packaged and in my office before you leave. Do me another favor and print out a detailed set of operating instructions. Something that’s complete but easy to follow.”
“Sure, but what about Professor Robertson?” Zee asked. “He won’t be back on campus until Thursday. Shouldn’t we at least let him know? Who’s going to explain the system?”
Al-Aran folded the check and tucked it away. “I am.”
Chapter 10
Akil sat with his feet propped on the kitchen table in a brick, two-story, side-by-side, rented flat near the corner of Ditmars Boulevard and 81st Street.
He finished his second Big Mac and made a point to recover the last French fry from the bottom of the bag. He lifted his shirt. His stomach was expanding nicely.
He scanned a flyer that some protesters handed out at the McDonald’s drive-thru exit. LaGuardia’s Runway 4/22 was just four hundred yards away, and area noise pollution was a constant thorn in the sides of the residents. The concrete noise reduction wall across the street somewhat muffled the airport’s ground activity, but it did little to quiet airborne traffic.
The flyer showed Akil’s house centered in the photo along with his Toyota. Thankfully, no other meaningful identification was apparent. He crumpled the flyer into a tight ball and buried it in the trash can. There was work to do.
Akil retrieved the last two plastic gallons of bleach from ten cardboard cases in the bedroom. He filled a measuring cup with potassium chloride granules until the needle on a small vegetable scale read sixty-three grams.
He poured one bottle of bleach and the granules into a large metal pot on the gas stove and turned the burner to medium-high. The liquid reached a slow boil in six minutes. He dipped a battery-charged suction tube into the mixture and watched the plastic balls float upward to the full-charge calibration line. He turned off the heat and set the pot in the refrigerator next to two others. Each was labeled with masking tape to indicate rotation en route to a final cooling temperature of thirty-three degrees. A heavy crust of crystals had formed around the rim of a pot at the front of the production line. Akil gently scraped the excess into a 1-cup gun mesh funnel from a local paint store and tapped the filtered material into a drinking glass. It was already half full. He carefully measured out fifty-six grams of crystals and added them to a container of one hundred milliliters of distilled water. This he also boiled and cooled into a secondary crystallization process.
After another round of gentle scraping, this time with a plastic spatula to avoid sparks, a white powdery substance finally appeared — potassium chlorate. Akil placed the powder in a flat pan and heated it to drive out any moisture. Next to that pan, he heated an even ratio of Vaseline and wax melted with a small amount of white camping kerosene. He poured that mixture over 90 percent of the potassium powder and allowed the kerosene to evaporate. He kneaded the now gooey gray-brown matter together and pressed the finished product into a rectangular plastic tray separated into six-ounce cubes. Finally, he poured a layer of melted wax over the tray until each space was waterproof.
He updated a label on the container with the name and the birth date of each charge — a charge with the explosive power of one stick of dynamite and a room temperature decomposition lifespan of four days.
Akil dug deep in his pants pocket and unfolded a single sheet of paper.
KILLING MADE EASY
PREPARATION OF POTASSIUM CYANIDE (KCN)
Heat ammonium formate crystals by flame in an environment containing as little oxygen gas as possible. The ammonium formate decomposes into formamide (HCONH2) and further into hydrogen cyanide. Condense the gas given off in a rubber, plastic, or glass tube that has one end immersed in a beaker containing a solution of potassium hydroxide (KOH). Position the tube so that any liquid in it will run off into the beaker of potassium hydroxide. The hydrogen cyanide will quickly react with the potassium hydroxide to form approximately 65.1 grams of potassium cyanide crystals. Hold your breath and dilute 900 to 1000 mg in any drinkable liquid. Victims will fall into comas almost immediately. Timeframes depend on stomach contents, but death generally occurs in less than two minutes. KCN is virtually untraceable, and its symptoms mimic heart failure. Antidotes, even if administered directly after ingestion, often cause severe and irreparable brain dam—
The front-door handle began to turn, followed by a squeaking of metal hinges. Akil reached for his Glock 23 Gen 4 .40-caliber pistol and flattened himself against the refrigerator. The door continued to open, stopped only by the latch chain.
“Kenny, are you in there, lad? I thought I fixed that doorbell, but I guess it won’t work.”
Akil crept into the bathroom and twisted the tub spigot.
“I’m in the shower,” he shouted.
Mrs. Timmons pressed her face into the door crack. “When did you get in, lad, and what’s that smell?”
“This morning. I was cleaning.”
“Now, don’t you fuss. You come next door when you’re finished and meet me brother before he leaves. We’re conversing in the living room. You’ll need to hurry because the taxi man is on his way.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Akil answered. “Should I bring anything, Mrs. Timmons?”
“Just that Scotch and Soda coin trick you promised from that mall in Minneapolis. And even though I’m your landlady, there’s no need to be so formal. You might refer to me as Mary.”
Akil heard the door slam shut. This was a problem. Mrs. Timmons was a petite Irish-Catholic in her late seventies with a constant smile and hosiery balled at her ankles. Her husband had passed away a year ago, leaving her to manage the rental property. She was thrilled with the extra income, but obviously ignorant about New York tenant law — barring an emergency, it was illegal to enter a residence without cause or advance notice. Akil was becoming the son she’d never had. He couldn’t tolerate such uninvited intrusions, especially if he wasn’t there.