Chapter 17
Southeast Washington, D.C.
After he’d managed to steal the police UAV from the company that manufactured it, Ken’s initial plan was to develop an automated control unit that would fly the aircraft into a hard target—the White House, preferably.
His al Qaeda contacts had obtained the explosives and then promised additional assistance. Amara apparently was that help.
While it was clear to Ken that Amara could offer no real assistance, the program he had brought with him seemed to be exactly what he was trying to write on his own—except it was considerably more sophisticated.
And yet, in some ways, simpler. It was certainly a control system, though it didn’t work like any conventional control system he was familiar with.
The program was divided into a number of modules. The largest and most complicated seemed to involve learning routines. This section had a series of overrides, and was related to an interface that allowed for the control of an aircraft, though it was much more rudimentary than what Ken had seen in either the Israeli or the German UAV systems he was familiar with.
More interesting was the section whose internal comments made it clear that it was meant for targeting. The section had inputs for GPS data, which Ken expected. But it also wanted physical data on the target itself. There were several pictures of an Asian man that filled the variables.
Those seemed easy to replace; there was a screen that controlled this, which Ken had been able to access upstairs.
Connected to the UAV’s own control section, Amara’s program seemed to have a life of its own. It had certainly taken over all of the laptop’s resources—the machine’s hard drive whirled and buzzed, presumably as different parts of the program ran their operations.
But what were they, exactly? The laptop had a set of diagnostic tools that were clearly top notch, but they couldn’t keep up with the program.
Did it matter? Could he just give it a target and launch it?
He’d been working on this for months now, and part of him didn’t want to stop. That was the scientist, not the warrior in him, as his teachers would have said.
The warrior knew he must strike soon. His al Qaeda contact had warned that the police were searching for the UAV and might close in. And perhaps they’d done so already—he had not heard from his contact in over a week.
Ken left the laptop as its program ran and went upstairs for a break. Amara had gone up to bed a few hours before; he could hear him snoring from the kitchen.
Searching the African’s things took no time at all. Of course he didn’t have a weapon. He had little money. He didn’t even have a phone.
Worthless. But at least he wasn’t an assassin.
Back in the kitchen, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee. The percolator had been a revelation: he loved the slightly burnt, metal-tinged taste the old-fashioned pot gave the liquid.
Just as the liquid began to darken in the top globe, he realized it was nearly midnight—time to check the bulletin board where his contact left messages. He signed on through an anonymous server and went to the assigned chat board. It changed every twenty-four hours; tonight it was a site that gave help to homeowners looking for information about air conditioners.
He started scrolling through the messages. They were inane, asking about BTUs and cooling capacity, and how well sealed a duct should be.
Then suddenly he noticed one had been left by CTW119.
Or as it should be read: 9/11 WTC.
He called the message up:
YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO BUY YOUR SYSTEM. DO SO QUICKLY! TODAY IF POSSIBLE.
To a casual browser it was nothing more than a hackneyed advertising slogan left by a salesman.
To Ken, it was a command that he must strike as soon as possible.
He took his coffee and went back down to work.
Chapter 18
Washington, D.C. suburbs
Zen was mildly surprised that Breanna’s car wasn’t in the garage when he came home. Inside, he found Caroline dozing in front of the television. She woke when he flipped the set off.
“Your aunt call?” he asked.
“No, Uncle Jeff. She didn’t.”
“I thought she’d be back by now.”
“It’s OK. Teri was a doll. I’m going to tuck into bed.”
“All right. See you in the A.M.”
Zen went into the kitchen and got himself a beer. The question of whether to wait up for Breanna was moot—he heard the garage door open between his second and third swigs.
“Hey there, lonesome traveler,” he said as she came through the door.
“Jeff, you’re still up?”
“Just got in from the game,” he told her. “Mark did great.”
“Oh—oh, yeah. How is he?”
“He’s doing better. I think a lot better.” Zen watched her put down her pocketbook and rub her eyes. “Long day?”
“Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”
“Want to tell me what’s up?”
The pained expression on her face told him the answer long before her words did.
“I can’t.”
“This have anything to do with Raven?” he asked.
“Jeff, don’t go there,” she said harshly. “That’s out of bounds.”
“Hey, don’t yell at me,” he said, a little louder than he intended.
“You’re the one yelling.”
“Listen, Bree—”
“Our deal was, we don’t bring work home.” She grabbed her pocketbook and began stalking down the hall. “That was our deal.”
“Wait a second.” He reached for her, but she was just far enough from him, and just quick enough, to elude his grasp. “Breanna. Breanna Stockard.”
She slammed the door to their bedroom.
Zen put down his beer and rolled his wheelchair down the hall after her. The door was locked.
“Hey, come on,” he said calmly. “Open the door.”
There was no answer.
“Breanna.” He struggled to keep his voice down. Caroline was on the other side of the house, but Teri’s room was right next door. And in any event, the house wasn’t that big. “Listen—I argued against the subpoena.”
The door flew open.
“What subpoena?” demanded Breanna.
“The one the committee chairman is going to issue tomorrow.”
“That’s bullshit. You can’t subpoena the executive branch. You’re just doing it for publicity.”
“I’m not doing anything for publicity. I voted against it.”
Breanna started to close the door, but this time Zen was too quick—he rolled forward just enough to block it. She pushed for a moment, then let go.
“Hey, why are you mad at me?” he asked.
“I’m not.”
“Well you’re doing a pretty damn good imitation. Look at this—you made me spill my beer.”
Breanna scowled, then went into the bathroom. She closed the door; it wasn’t quite a slam, but it wasn’t gentle either.
Zen wheeled himself over.
“You know, we really shouldn’t fight about this,” he said. “Unless there’s a really good reason. A really good reason.”
He heard the shower go on. Zen took a sip of his beer. He tried not to reach the obvious conclusion from Breanna’s anger: Ernst was right and something seriously illegal was going on.
The next few days were not going to be pleasant. His responsibility as a senator meant he could not sit by blindly and twiddle his thumbs while the administration did whatever the hell it was they were doing.
Todd must have really screwed up this time.
“I’m gonna check the sports scores and finish my beer in the den,” he told the closed door. “When I come back, truce. No work discussion, no nothing. Promise?”