Weizman held a variety of patents on pilotless aircraft and weapon systems for drones. Over the past decade, Weizman’s California-based company had successfully sold six different drone prototypes to the U.S. Air Force. For the past three years, his attention had been focused solely on direct energy laser systems.
It was Weizman who had sponsored the gaming competition that Charlie had won, and Weizman who had urged the CIA to recruit Charlie. And it was Charlie who in turn had the money to buy his own aircraft and finance Weizman’s research. The CIA didn’t have enough money assigned to drone operations to get the job done.
So it was that the CIA and Charlie became partners.
Charlie had started by financing his own fleet of four, MQ-1 Predators, the first and most commonly-used type of drone, all of which were now operational and combat tested. As Charlie’s fees — and reputation — grew to legendary status, he had plans to buy more aircraft, including the Predator’s successor, the MQ-9 Reaper, and eventually, the biggest one of them all, the RQ-4B Global Hawk.
At last, the old engineer stood back, folded his arms, and smiled. Weizman waved Charlie over to talk. Despite having resided in California for so long, Weizman still spoke with a strong Israeli accent. It was so bad at times that even the men who worked with him had a hard time understanding.
“They’re still saying it can’t be done. But this will show them.” he said to Charlie. “The weight of this DE Laser is only 1,100 pounds. It’s the same weight as the Hellfire system that MQ-1s now use.”
Weizman’s reduction in the poundage of electrical wiring needed to make all the connections, lighter metals in the casings, and the newest lithium batteries, had shaved a half ton off the weight. His innovations allowed directed electromagnetic radiation to melt the wiring in ground vehicles, and more importantly, the guidance and detonation systems of modern missiles. He felt the laser could even destroy the wiring systems in ships.
Hitting stationary or slow-moving trucks or cars would be of course easy, but achieving Weizman’s dream, hitting and destroying missiles in flight, would be tough, very tough.
“No one has ever used the DE system to arm drones, but with this small unit, I will do it. With your skills, Charlie, we’ll make history,” Weizman said.
Charlie slapped the thick lenses on the laser pod. “I’m looking forward to testing these babies.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Keyes parked the Accord in the carport of a two-story fourplex in need of refurbishing. The inside of her second-floor apartment was equally outdated.
“Please, sit down and relax while I take a quick shower,” she said as we walked in. “Then I’ll make us something to eat.”
Half an hour later I was standing at the sink, hand-washing the dishes, when suddenly Elizabeth appeared by my side, startling me. She stood so close I could feel her breath. She smelled wonderful… like a white orchid.
“Your turn,” she said, holding out a fresh washcloth and bath towel. “Go take a nice, hot shower while I throw dinner together.”
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The showers at the jail were short and lukewarm. The food was disgusting, and I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast: two rubbery eggs, burnt toast, greasy fried potatoes, and watery orange juice. After being released, I’d been tempted to get lunch at a café downtown but decided against spending any of the little money I had.
I was famished.
“You know, that sounds really good.”
I walked into the dining room to find Elizabeth carrying two plates of spaghetti and meatballs from the kitchen. Already on the table were a bottle of red wine, a bowl of green salad, and place settings for two. After choking down jail grub, that simple meal was looking good to me.
“Just in time,” she said, smiling. “That was one long shower. I was starting to worry about you in there.”
“Aren’t you worried about being alone with an accused killer?”
“Nah. I trust you.”
“Well, you’re the only one who does,” I said. “And the way the investigation is going—” I stopped myself from saying more.
“You can tell me all about it over dinner,” Keyes said.
“And spoil a perfectly good meal talking about my hideous problems? Let’s just enjoy dinner now.” Then, lifting my wine glass, I toasted, “Bon appétit!”
While we ate the satisfying meal and drank the cheap wine, we made small talk. Every few minutes, Keyes would slip in a question about my case, and I’d sidestep the question or answer it cryptically, then change the subject. As dinner wore on, my discomfort increased. Just being there seemed surreal. I mean, I barely even knew this woman.
The only time I’d previously spent with Keyes was at work, and our relationship was always all business. We rarely spoke, and our communication was limited to matters relating to patients and running the office.
There was virtually no personal information on her job application; she’d even left the space for emergency contacts blank. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and had no personal photos on her desk. She never talked about her family, either, so I had no idea whether she had a husband or boyfriend, or children, or siblings. The only mention of a friend had been the name of the no-show, Anna Duke, who was supposed to have transported her home the day of surgery.
I knew from her job application that she’d graduated from a nursing school in Texas, but I didn’t know if she’d been born and raised there or moved there from somewhere else. When I was opening the surgery center, I’d been so busy that I’d hired Keyes without checking references and after only a ten-minute phone interview.
During the two months she’d worked for me, prior to Dr. Carey’s murder, she had done an excellent job and was always cordial to me and the rest of the staff. But she’d never formed a personal connection with or socialized outside the office with any of us. Now, here I was in her apartment…
Who is she?
Swallowing, I said, “Elizabeth, you know all about me, but I know nothing of you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, where are you from?”
“Texas.”
I waited for some elaboration. None came, so I asked, “What were your parents like?”
Keyes carefully laid down her fork and sat there staring at her plate for a long minute. When she finally raised her head, her facial expression was cold but her eyes were like red-hot lasers boring through me. “What if I’m an orphan?”
“Are you?”
“What difference does it make to you?” she snapped.
“Um, none, I just, I was just. .” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s a long story, and opening that book just opens up old wounds,” she said. “I’d rather talk about how I can help you to clear your name.”
“That’s kind of you, but why are—”
“You helped me, now I’m helping you.” Her smile returned as suddenly as it had disappeared.
Before I could respond, the dusty grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times and Keyes sprung out of her chair.
“Gotta run!” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Just make yourself at home. When I get back, we can talk about your case.”
She rushed out of the apartment, grabbing a leather backpack from a hook by the door on her way out.
I sat there in a daze while a cacophony of thoughts prayed on my mind. By midnight Keyes was still not home, and I was exhausted. I stripped to my boxers and climbed into bed, falling into a deep sleep, seconds after my head hit the pillow.