Drone Threat

63

Pearce was frustrated that he hadn’t been able to reach Lane in the last two days. He’d left messages with Lane’s chief of staff but his calls were never returned. The meds that Dr. Guth had prescribed allowed him to sleep a lot more than he was used to. Once Myers got him settled back in at her place she went to her lawyer’s office to finish up the last of the paperwork needed to complete the German deal. She made Pearce promise to not turn on the television or Google anything about the war — at least not until she got back later that afternoon. She also gave strict orders to Ian that no Pearce Systems employee was to answer any of his calls, texts, or e-mails for forty-eight hours. Pearce was too groggy to fight back.

When his head cleared up enough, he made his way back down to Myers’s kitchen. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and knelt down, fishing around until his fingers secured the half-pint bottle of whiskey in the back. It was time to clean house.

He pulled it out, only to find a Starbucks card taped to the front of it, along with a note from Myers: “Green tea is better. Refills are on me.”

Pearce grinned. She was always one step ahead of him. He pocketed the Starbucks card and opened the bottle over the sink, pouring out the last few ounces into the drain, then tossed it into the trash can.

His phone rang.

Pearce checked the number. “Unknown.” He thought about Margaret’s admonition to avoid outside contact. He stared at the screen. He couldn’t help himself.

“Pearce.”

“Troy, it’s Clay Chandler. It’s wonderful to hear your voice. You gave us quite the scare.”

Yeah, right, Pearce thought. Chandler’s honey-sweet Georgia accent soured his stomach. “What do you want?”

“Blunt as always. I admire that. So I’ll cut to the chase. President Lane asked me to call you directly. Under the circumstances he feels it’s best for him to accept your resignation.”

“My resignation? Why? Because I got a knock on the head?”

“Hardly. But I think you know that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That business with Werntz you were caught up in.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Moshe Werntz is Israel’s top spy in North America. He used you on a mission to find two missing Mossad agents. Technically, that makes you an Israeli spy.”

Pearce couldn’t believe his ears. How did Lane and Chandler find out? Did Werntz rat him out? No, not Moshe. Not without reason. He was an Israeli patriot but he was also a friend. Werntz must have a bad apple in his barrel.

“Bullshit. I was doing a favor for a friend. And unless I’m mistaken, Israel is still an allied government in the War on Terror.”

Chandler clucked his tongue. “That doesn’t give you permission to do spy work for them.”

Pearce felt the old demon grabbing him by the throat. “Are you accusing me of treason?”

“Not at all. But it’s optics we’re worried about. We’re trying to fight a war. The president can’t have one of his closest advisors appear to be a puppet of the Israeli government. The public wouldn’t stand for it.”

“That’s idiotic.”

“Perception is reality. Besides, you never really wanted the job. Why pretend you want to keep it?”

“Because it keeps me close to the president, and gives me a chance to stop the killing before more damage is done.”

“You’ve read history, Pearce. Good wars often start for the wrong reasons. You said yourself we need to exterminate ISIS.”

“I said you either exterminate them or leave them alone. We knocked AQ out of Afghanistan and they metastasized. They’re in over one hundred countries now. Same thing will happen if we knock ISIS out of Syria and Iraq. You’re better off letting them all congregate in one place. Like Pia said, containment might be a better option. But half a war is the worst possible action.”

“You’re being naive. Containment? Political correctness will never allow us to contain the Islamic threat. Extermination is the only option. Half a war, as you put it, sets us on that road. Eventually the people of this country will accept that reality.”

“Now you’re the one being naive. The American people will never accept the kind of war you’re talking about. Lane won’t, either. It’s not in his nature.”

“With your help we can get him there.”

“No. I’ll do everything I can to get him to change his mind and stop the bloodshed now.”

Chandler’s honey-smooth accent turned ice cold. “The president has already made his decision. We’re at war, Pearce. Congress is voting on the most comprehensive and far-reaching AUMF in history. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”

“The president doesn’t have all of the facts.”

Chandler chuckled. “Facts are analogue, Pearce. Completely out of fashion. I thought you knew that.”

“I guess I’m old-school that way.”

“The world’s too complicated for a reality-based paradigm. Superpowers like us have to create our own reality now.”

Pearce gripped the phone tighter. “My job is to tell the president the truth.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Then I’ll go to the press. They still like facts.”

“Not from discredited sources.”

“How am I discredited?”

“It would be better if you walked away, quietly and with honor. You still have your company. I’m sure the government will still want to buy your drones.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about money or power. This is about my country. And about shitbirds like you who are going to kill it.”

Chandler sighed. “I was afraid this would be your response. Lord knows I tried.” He rang off.

Pearce stared at his phone, wondering what Chandler was up to and plotting his own next move. Maybe Ian could find a way to break into Lane’s secured communication network and get a message directly to him.

The doorbell rang.

Strange. He wasn’t expecting any visitors and Myers had a key. He snagged a Shun carving knife out of the block and crossed over to the door, holding the blade behind his back. He opened it. Two FBI agents stood in the hallway. They flashed IDs.

“Troy Pearce?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes.”

The other agent held up a sheet of paper. “A warrant. You’re under arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“The murder of Iraqi general Ali Majid.”