“What was the name of that entertainment piece you were developing to identify a mystery person in some pop song? Something about narcissism or vanity?”
“ ‘You’re So Vain,’ ” she said halfheartedly.
“Yes, now there’s something newsworthy.”
“That’s not exactly the kind of story that’ll benefit society,” she gently protested. “I have a new lead that exposes a security hole at a major airline. A passenger can gain access to a firearm on a commercial aircraft just by having the right form — a form that no one is cross-checking or verifying. Delta has refused to respond or even comment and—”
“Stop,” Gillespie said, exasperated. “Will you please tone down the drama and keep a lower profile? So far, none of our competitors have picked up on your little Italian stunt. I hope for your sake it stays that way. We’ll wait and see. I’ll give you one more chance. I know we talked about weekend anchor, but I’ve decided to keep you on the tip line and out of trouble. No more special assignments and no more travel. I want you working local and nothing more. It’ll help you learn a thing or two about patience.”
Chapter 15
Professor Michael Robertson unscrewed the cap from a bottle of non-drowsy Dayquil and guzzled a hefty swallow. He flopped into his desk chair and reached for a wad of Kleenex.
His landline phone chirped.
“Welcome back, son,” the voice of Dr. Winford Garton III said. “I suppose, now that you’re famous, you’ll want your own building?”
Don’t call me “son.” You sold me out. “We’re comfortable right where we are,” Robertson said, sniffling deeply.
“I heard you weren’t feeling well. We were quite concerned.”
You don’t care a whit about me or my team. “I had a bad case of the flu, and now I think it’s just a bad cold. I’m about seventy percent, but thanks for asking. The Association of Unmanned Vehicle Systems International is hosting their annual Symposium in DC next month. They’ve asked me to be their keynote speaker. They’d like me to debut my drone.”
“You mean Georgia Tech’s drone,” Garton quickly corrected. “Go ahead and do all the speaking you’d like as long as we lock down the second half of this Saudi thing. I’m sure you know that we’ve finalized a deal with Mr. Al-Assaf. Dr. Al-Aran has made all the arrangements. Good grief… all we have to do is let them fiddle with your bugs for a few weeks, and we get a windfall for the university. I repeat, I want you to make sure Faiz has everything he needs to satisfy their requests. Five million dollars is a heckuva down payment, son. After all those hours of dedication — a tangible and fitting reward. You should be proud.”
They’re not bugs, Robertson wanted to scream. Instead, he said, “I’m not an expert on desert oil reserves, but this Shaybah field is about as hospitable as the planet Mercury. Winds routinely reach fifty miles per hour, dunes stretch one thousand feet high, and the field itself is forty miles long. The drone can’t possibly cover such distances with its current signal strength. This whole idea is an unqualified disast—”
“Nonsense,” Garton interrupted, unconcerned with the technical limitations. “Not another word. Dr. Al-Aran can work through any minor shortcomings. He has everything well in hand.”
“I’m sure he does,” Robertson said through clenched teeth. “Where is Faiz?”
“Why don’t you take a few days off? You’ve certainly earned it,” Garton said. “I’d love to chat, but I have another commitment. And by the way, we mustn’t forget NASA. That’s my favorite kind of project — fat and federal. Between the Pirelli Award and the Saudis, your bug has managed to bring five and a quarter million dollars into our coffers, not to mention keeping Tech’s good name in the spotlight. I know it, and so does the board. That brings solid credibility. If this Saudi venture pans out, perhaps our next research center might bear your name. Look me up next week. We’ll do lunch. That is, if you can stand lowly American food again. I hear the Italians really know their cuisine.”
Garton clicked off.
Robertson Research Center. He envisioned the exterior lettering.
When his digestive system got back to normal, he would eat a cheeseburger for lunch. A large American cheeseburger with fries.
There was a knock on Robertson’s office door.
“Have a seat, Mr. Zibinski,” Robertson said, waking up his desktop computer and clicking the Skype icon.
Kevin Jones’s face appeared.
“Morning, professor. Welcome home.”
“You settled out there?” Robertson’s voice was curt.
“Sort of. San Diego’s a great music town. I signed up to play guitar at an open mic session at Seaport Village next to the harbor. I’m really nervous.”
“That’s awesome, Kev,” Zee spoke up. “Wish I could be there to cheer you on.”
Robertson blew his nose in a loud honk, and the room turned awkwardly silent.
“I know you’re upset, Professor,” Jones finally spoke. “I swear we wanted to call and keep you informed, but Dr. Al-Aran said he’d take care of everything. He just took control. What were we supposed to do?”
“Whoa, why would I be upset?” Robertson said sarcastically. “Someone literally overtakes my project without my knowledge or permission, and you two simply let it happen? But wait… maybe I’m overreacting. After all, I only invented the thing.”
“Hey, Zee?” Jones’s screen face was distorted. “Didn’t Al-Aran say he’d keep everyone in the loop, especially about the hotel demo?”
Robertson raised one eyebrow. “What hotel demo?”
“The Swissôtel,” Zee said. “In Buckhead. I guess one of the Saudi people leased a meeting room for some sort of demonstration. Meal service, private waiters. I think his name was Ibrahim-something. He and Dr. Al-Aran were even talking about making a video.”
“Faiz took my drones off campus and is flying them in a hotel?” Robertson checked his watch. “When?”
The Skype video connection failed, leaving Jones’s face frozen on the screen.
“Um, Dr. Al-Aran said he didn’t need us,” Jones said. “He figured he could handle everything himself.”
“People have gone to jail for this kind of thing,” Robertson seethed.
He recalled a Tennessee professor working on plasma actuators for Air Force drones. The US government considered the actuators to be controlled technical data, and thus sharing it with foreign nationals even inside the United States was prohibited. The professor was convicted on eighteen counts, including charges that he provided controlled defense technology and defense services to University of Tennessee graduate students who were nationals of the People’s Republic of China and the Republic of Iran.
“When does it start?”
“I’m not sure,” Zee admitted. “I think they changed the schedule.”
Robertson’s face flooded red. He dialed his phone. “Buckhead, Georgia… the Swissôtel.”
Administrative Services Supervisor Sharon Tillman cracked the office door. “Excuse me, Professor Robertson. Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. O’Neill from NASA on hold. He says it’s urgent.”
Robertson slammed the phone onto its cradle. “Sharon, would you find Professor Al-Aran for me? I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Al-Aran is out of the office on vacation. He’s on a cruise for the next three weeks.”
Robertson sat, stunned. This can’t be happening.
“Do you want to speak to Mr. O’Neill, or should I take a message?”
“Huh? No, it’s fine.” Robertson touched the speakerphone. “Stuart?”