“Professional courtesy?” Renata echoes, contempt in her voice. “We took out one of theirs, so they take out three of ours? That’s not courtesy. It’s a declaration of war.”
True is thinking the same thing. She remembers what Alex said, that Shaw Walker is not above revenge. “We didn’t just take down one of his Arkinsons,” she says. “We hit his reputation.”
Chris asks Lincoln, “Do we know it’s Jon Helm? Has there been a claim of responsibility?”
“Not so far.”
Chris says, “We need to be absolutely sure before we react.”
“I’m not sure we can afford to react,” True says. She’s feeling sick as she runs a mental tally of their losses. “We had the Hai-Lins insured for accidents but not for acts of war, so there is no way we are going to be able to recover their value. We’ve also lost the income they earned flying as armed escorts.”
“This is a major, major loss,” Lincoln agrees. “We are not going to be able to replace the Hai-Lins. Not right away.” He looks at Renata.
She returns his gaze, hands on her hips. “Are you firing me?”
“No. We might have to subcontract you out, though. We’ve proved our AI can fight. Maybe we can run the software on someone else’s machines.” He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Cash flow is an issue but the security of our people is a bigger concern.” He rests his arms on the table, the riotous colors of his sleeve tattoos enhanced by their contrast to the polished wood. True’s gaze shifts from those illustrations of dragons and koi and snarling lions to find Lincoln studying her. “True, why the hell didn’t you let me know the moment you detected an intrusion at your place?”
Chris leans forward. “You had trouble?”
“No trouble. Not really. It was just a surveillance device. Sophisticated. Not something I’d seen before so I sent video to Tamara.” She turns to Tamara with a questioning gaze. “Did you find anything on it?”
“It’s a custom job,” Lincoln says coldly.
Tamara nods. “You should have copied the boss on it, True.”
Lincoln takes it a step farther: “You should have called it in.”
True doesn’t like being put on the spot. She squares her shoulders, crosses her arms. “It was 0400. The thing had no weapons; it presented no threat. There was no reason to call it in.”
“You think you’re safe here?” Lincoln asks her. “What if that device was sent to confirm your presence in the house before a strike was called in?”
“This is not the TEZ,” she snaps.
“What if similar devices were snooping around the homes of everyone else who just got back from the TEZ? Don’t you think they might have liked a warning?”
True weighs this. It was just a surveillance device. Beyond that, the incident had felt personal—just me and Alex bonding over a common enemy—but she sees, in retrospect, that it was a mistake not to report the incident. “Okay, you’re right,” she says. “I’ve had surveillance drones fly over before but this was different. I should have called it in.”
“I’d like to see the video,” Chris says.
“I’ll forward it.”
Lincoln stands up. “It’s 0800 and we’ve got a company meeting. Staff is already assembled in the auditorium. True, I want you to kick things off with an update on the status of the Hai-Lins. Chris, you’ll follow with a review of at-home security protocols. I’ll go over what not to say when we have our interviews with the feds. They’re due at 0830. We push them through as quickly as we can, and once they’re out of here we’ll meet again and consider our options. Let’s go.”
Interrogations
Are we at war?
Lincoln asked himself that question only last night. The destruction of the Hai-Lins has answered it affirmatively, emphatically.
He wondered as well where the warzone might be. Traditionally, wars have been fought along geographical fronts, but geography may not be a limiting factor in this conflict. Hit ’em where they live, Shaw Walker had said—even if they live seven thousand miles away.
He is returning to his office from the auditorium when he gets an alert that a black SUV with government plates is waiting at the automated security gate. The driver holds up a badge for the camera to see. Two other agents are in the vehicle.
“Let them in,” Lincoln tells Friday.
By the time the trio walks in the door, he’s waiting in the lobby. Handshakes are traded, introductions made. Lincoln scans their badges, confirming their identities, but he’s disappointed. All three are young men, recent college graduates.
Lincoln asks what they know about Hussam’s operation, about the security he had in place, and about regional military companies who might have done business with him—but they shake their heads. Their spokesman says, “We work out of the Seattle office, sir. Our focus is the Pacific. We’re here today as puppets for the department’s Middle East experts.” He slides a tablet out of his coat pocket and holds it up. “They’ll be looking in, overseeing the interviews.”
“I’d like to talk to them,” Lincoln says.
“You will be, when you’re talking to us.”
“I like to see who I’m talking to. Why don’t we set it up?”
“We can’t, sir. Security.”
Lincoln considers this, staring down the young men, who appear increasingly uneasy under his half-mechanical gaze. He has his own questions to ask, but not of these kids. He considers refusing the interviews until he’s allowed to talk to someone more senior. But his business requires a cooperative relationship with the State Department.
“How long do you expect these interviews to last?” he asks.
Their spokesman looks relieved at the concession. “Fifteen or twenty minutes per person, sir. That’s assuming you’re willing to turn over video of the operation.”
“I’ll need a confidentiality agreement and limited liability.”
The youth hesitates, gaze unfocused as he listens to instructions from someone in authority. He nods. “Yes, sir, Mr. Han. I can have signatures by the time we’re done here.”
The legal documents are sent to the DC office, Lincoln assigns rooms for the agents to use, and the interviews commence. When his turn comes, he asks a question for every question he’s asked—and some get answered.
“How did you locate Hussam El-Hashem?” his interviewer wants to know.
Lincoln addresses his answer to the tablet, set up on the table between them, knowing that a senior official is present behind its little camera lens. “I employed local contractors to track him down. What can you people tell me about an outfit known as Variant Forces?”
The kid listens to instructions Lincoln can’t hear, then says, “We believe it’s a syndicate of unlicensed military contractors operating in north and central Africa. Sir, how many local contractors did you employ in your operation?”
“Every reliable one I could find.”
“Could you provide us with a specific number, sir?”
“Under twenty,” Lincoln allows. He doesn’t want to say three because that will lead to too many questions about the surveillance equipment he used—equipment the State Department is not allowed to use, not if they are operating legally. He moves immediately to his own question. “What information have you got on a mercenary with a crippled hand associated with Variant Forces, name of Jon Helm?”
The kid cocks his head, taking several seconds. Then he tells Lincoln, “They say no such man. Seven or eight warlords like to claim the identity. They use it to hide crimes or enhance their reputations. That’s all.”