The Drone

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You’ve been briefed about the Chadwick Code Red?’ Ruth asked him.

  ‘I have. Any news so far?’

  ‘A little,’ said Ruth. ‘But so far it’s muddy and not looking great. We’ll circulate a report later for all eyes.’

  ‘I look forward to it. Come this way.’ He led them to an office with two chairs and a desk, and left them to it.

  Ruth called London and got through to Aston, and gave him a brief summary of what they had discovered so far. It sounded disappointingly little in the telling, but Aston was quick to acknowledge that it was early days. His voice on the speaker unit sounded calm and encouraging.

  ‘What do you need?’ he said when she finished speaking.

  ‘The first thing is talk to Elizabeth Chadwick again, and if possible, her son Ben. There’s something that doesn’t quite gel about Chadwick’s expertise with UAVs or drones. So far it’s the only thing we’ve found that might offer an explanation about his disappearance. If he’d got an in-depth knowledge about drones, it might help to know where he got it.’

  ‘Is there anything that stands out?’

  ‘Two things. He’s always had an interest in flying model airplanes. But radio-controlled kits are a long way from drones.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He used to be with Air Force Intelligence.’

  ‘Really? That’s something we didn’t know about. I wonder why he didn’t disclose it. But I think that might be your answer. The US has a highly advanced drone development programme and they’re not all about warfare. There’s a constant spill-over into commercial use with smaller machines. Can you follow up his record locally?’

  ‘Andy Vaslik already tried. Chadwick’s service record was on restricted access… and it got pulled a month ago.’

  ‘It would be good to know why. He left the USAF what – four years ago?’

  ‘That’s right. But maybe they’ve got him on a string as a reservist.’

  ‘Or somebody thinks he’s gone rogue, in which case they’ll be on his trail, too. I’ll leave it to you to do some digging, but be careful. In the meantime I can patch you through to Elizabeth and Ben Chadwick; we’ve got them at a safe house. Hold one.’

  Seconds later, she had Elizabeth on the line. She sounded stressed and irritable, rather than concerned. ‘How long are we going to be kept here?’ the woman demanded. ‘I have a life to lead and Ben needs to be back at school. Have you found him yet – and why are we being forced to hide like fugitives?’

  Ruth bit her tongue and said, ‘Not yet. I’m sorry. We have some leads but I can assure you that James isn’t doing this on purpose.’ She was tempted to tell Elizabeth of their suspicions that her husband had been taken for unspecified reasons, but knew that would do more harm than good. Instead she said, ‘We only moved you because we found information that led us to believe your address and Ben’s school address had been taken during a break-in at James’s Newark apartment. It could be entirely unconnected, but I’m sure you can see why, with James’s disappearance, we didn’t want to take any chances. Keeping you and Ben safe is our main concern. It’s what James would have wanted.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise. I’d be climbing the walls if it were me. The thing I have to ask is, you mentioned James had an interest in flying model airplanes. How involved was he and at what level?’

  ‘What? How does that help find him?’ Elizabeth replied. ‘He flew models, that’s all I know. He always had done since he was a boy, I think. Frankly, it never interested me and still doesn’t.’

  ‘In that case can I speak to Ben, please?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he might know more about James’s interest in models. I know it sounds odd, but the more we know about James, the greater chance we have of finding him.’

  ‘I see. Wait.’

  There was a long silence than Ben Chadwick came on the line. He sounded very young and worried. ‘Hello? Have you found my dad?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Ruth. ‘Ben, my name is Ruth Gonzales. You can call me Ruth. I’m in New York helping to search for him and it looks like we could do with your help.’

  ‘Me? But how? I mean, I don’t know anything.’

  ‘You know about flying models, like your dad does.’

  ‘Oh. Right. What kind of investigator are you?’

  ‘I look for missing people.’

  ‘Do you always find them?’

  ‘Always. Nobody can stay hidden for ever, Ben. Everybody leaves a trace, and it’s up to me and my partner, Andy Vaslik, to find those traces.’

  ‘Are you a cop?’

  ‘I was once. Andy, too. He’s American and was with Homeland Security. You’ve heard of them? Like the FBI.’

  ‘Of course. Man, that’s cool.’ There was a rumble of conversation and he said, ‘Sorry – what do you want from me?’

  ‘How good was your dad with flying machines?’

  There was a short silence, then he said, ‘He was fantastic. He knew all about them. Gliders, kit planes, model helicopters – all of them. He was going to take me to an exhibition this week but he wasn’t able to make it.’ His voice faltered on the last few words.

  ‘Drones. Did he ever talk about drones?’

  The boy’s voice perked up again. ‘Yes. He said drones had changed the nature of warfare. I saw some television programmes about them and I saw what he meant. Reapers and Predators, they’re called, and they carry weapons.’ He paused and his voice went low. ‘They kill people.’

  ‘What about small ones, Ben? Did he talk about small drones, like the kind they use to monitor traffic and take aerial surveys?’ She was aware of Elizabeth in the background probably on the verge of freaking out at all this talk of weapons and killing and in danger of closing down the conversation just when it was getting interesting.

  ‘Yes, a lot. He said they were as different from kit planes as Formula One cars are from family sedans. He called them sedans instead of saloons, but I knew what he meant. You know he’s American, right?’

  ‘I do, Ben.’ She put a smile in her voice and hoped it was apparent at the other end. ‘Your dad’s a bit of a geek about drones, then?’

  ‘Way more than a bit. I’m doing a science and tech project at school, and he’s given me loads of stuff to use. I’m hoping to have a drone of my own one day and he’ll teach me to fly it.’

  It was her opening for the next question. ‘So he knows how to fly them, too?’

  ‘Of course. He’s an expert. He told me once that he gets calls from all over asking him to talk about them. It’s not his job but he does it for fun. He showed me a DVD once where he was racing other drones over a course using GPS coordinates. He won by a mile. You know what that is, GPS, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Ben, I know. Where was this race?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere in the States on an air force base. He tells me this stuff all the time, but I don’t always remember the details, because some of them are complicated.’ He paused. ‘I don’t mean complicated.’

  ‘Confidential?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But he doesn’t tell me anything secret.’

  There was more murmuring in the background and Ruth knew the conversation had run out of time.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Ben hurriedly. ‘It’s been great talking to you, Miss Gonzales. Find my dad. Please.’ Then he was gone and his mother was talking.

  ‘Was all that really necessary?’ she muttered angrily. ‘You got him all excited talking about flying models. How does that help?’

  Ruth counted to five, telling herself that beneath the anger and resentment, Elizabeth was worried, probably as much for her husband as her son’s future. She wondered how she herself would be feeling if she was being kept in a safe house without any information about when she might be able to go home.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth,’ she said calmly. ‘Ben’s been a great help and I appreciate you lett
ing me talk to him. He’s being very brave.’

  ‘Braver than me, you mean? I’m sorry. Call me when you have anything.’

  The phone clicked and she was gone.

  Ruth looked at Vaslik, who shrugged. They both turned as the door opened and Walter Reiks appeared. He looked worried.

  ‘Sorry, folks,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got a couple of people out here waving badges. They say they’re on official business.’

  ‘What sort of business?’ said Ruth.

  ‘They want everything we’ve got on James Chadwick.’

  15

  Vaslik looked at him. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘One is FBI. Him I can deal with. The other says he’s with the Pentagon Force Protection Agency.’

  ‘What is that?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘They’re a civilian agency set up after nine-eleven by the Department of Defence, with responsible for security in and around the Pentagon.’ He looked between them. ‘Seems like our Mr Chadwick has attracted some heavy-duty hitters.’

  He turned and beckoned his visitors. Footsteps echoed along the corridor and two men entered the office.

  Both men wore dark suits, were clean-shaven and in their early forties. But that’s where any similarities ended. The first man brushed past Reiks without formality and stood looking at Ruth and Vaslik, feet apart as if ready for a fight. He was close to six feet tall, thin, with the look of a former military man and an unfriendly glint in his eye.

  ‘I’m Special Agent Lars Bergstrom,’ he announced shortly, ‘Pentagon Force Protection. This is Special Agent Tom Brasher, FBI.’ He gestured behind him at the other man, who was shorter and fleshier but looked a lot friendlier.

  ‘Ma’am… sir,’ Brasher said and nodded.

  Reiks walked over to the desk and perched on the edge. He didn’t offer the newcomers seats, but said, ‘Maybe you could enlarge for Miss Gonzales and Mr Vaslik, here, on what it is you want from us – and why.’ He spoke politely enough but it was clear that, new as he was to the Cruxys organisation, he wasn’t about to give way to Bergstrom’s heavy-handed tactics.

  ‘It’s simple enough.’ Bergstrom ignored Ruth and fastened his grey eyes on Vaslik. ‘We’ve been informed that you have an interest in James Chadwick, who appears to have dropped out of sight for no accountable reason. Correct?’

  Vaslik nodded. ‘That’s right. But how would you know that?’

  ‘We have our sources.’ Bergstrom’s eyes flickered sideways, inadvertently betraying the fact that his source was the FBI. ‘My question is, why are you looking for him? And what the hell is Cruxys, anyway?’

  Ruth cleared her throat to establish her presence. She didn’t like Bergstrom or his manner, and suspected this was his usual method of approach; go in hard and tough and bully his way past objections to get quick answers. She also guessed that he knew precisely what Cruxys was because he would have researched it thoroughly before coming here. She didn’t doubt that, hard-nosed as he was, Bergstrom was also professional enough to have checked his facts.

  ‘We’re an insurance and security company,’ she said calmly, ‘as I’m sure you already know.’ She waited for him to interrupt, but he merely lifted his eyebrows and studied her with a blank expression. ‘We became aware a few days ago that James Chadwick had broken his normal routines and disappeared. He has a security contract with our company – a form of insurance, if you like – and part of our remit is to help and support his family while we find out what has happened to him. That’s what we’re doing here.’

  ‘Yes, I know all about Cruxys… and Greenville, Miss – Gonzales? Seems like a neat business model you have there. You’re British, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me, how did you ‘become aware’, as you put it, that he’d gone off the radar? You must monitor all your clients’ movements very closely.’

  ‘Only those who ask us to.’ She saw no reason to go into details unless he demanded it. ‘We’ve spoken to his wife and employers, who have no idea where he is, and we’re now trying to narrow down the search based on his last known movements and contacts. But it’s a big country.’

  ‘Any luck with that?’ Brasher chipped in. He seemed a lot less aware of himself and spoke with studied calm.

  ‘Not yet. But it’s early days.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Bergstrom muttered. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to show us what you do have.’ It wasn’t a polite request, more like an order, and Ruth wondered what his problem was.

  ‘Show us ours and you’ll show us yours, you mean?’ she said. When he didn’t reply she added, ‘Why don’t you go first.’

  His eyes glinted and the muscles in his jaw tensed. He stared hard at Ruth as if suspecting that she was teasing him and shook his head. ‘We don’t work like that, Miss Gonzales. As a visitor to this country I’d like to remind you—’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Brasher stepped forward and raised a hand. This time he had a harder edge to his voice. He threw Bergstrom a look which told the other man to pull in his head and said, ‘I think we need to put our cards on the table. It’s obvious we have a lead on information here, so maybe we can cut to the chase.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure everybody here knows that what we discuss goes no further unless it has to.’

  Somewhere in the background a door opened and closed. Reiks nodded. ‘Good idea. Before we do, how about coffee? I believe supplies have arrived.’ He winked at Ruth to show he was playing for time, then stood and walked out of the office and down the corridor. Moments later he was back carrying a vacuum container and a stack of cardboard mugs from a nearby coffee bar. He handed them out and dropped sachets of sugar and wooden stirrers on the desk and let everybody help themselves. Then he went out and dragged two chairs inside for the visitors and resumed his place against the edge of the desk.

  ‘Go ahead, Special Agent Brasher,’ he said. ‘It’s clear you know more than we do.’

  Brasher stirred his coffee and took a sip, then sat down and waited pointedly for Bergstrom to do the same before saying, ‘We’d like to know the current whereabouts of James Chadwick. He filed a report recently suggesting he’d been threatened and followed by persons unknown. Recent analysis and review of the details lead us to believe that there’s a facet to his claim that was missed first time round. We think he might have become involved in something serious.’

  ‘What kind of serious?’

  ‘It’s possible he’s become engaged in a potential terrorist threat against the Pentagon and other federal government facilities.’

  16

  The atmosphere back inside the box tasted to Tommy-Lee like licking the soles of his boots. After the brief taste of fresh air outside, he could hardly breathe for the foul smell of body odour, the latrine bucket and the growing presence of flies.

  He placed the DVD player on his bed and listened for the fading sounds of the van heading east along the road into the darkening sky. After delivering his orders and the DVD player, along with spare batteries for the storm lantern, Paul had allowed him to sit outside for a few minutes until Bill and Donny had returned from the hangar. It was, he figured, the only concession he was likely to get because Paul needed him to talk to the prisoner. Quite why he couldn’t do it himself he hadn’t yet figured out, but maybe he thought it was beneath him.

  The moment the two goons were on board, Paul had motioned for him to get back in the room and locked the door behind him.

  He opened the DVD player. It looked store-bought new and smelled of plastic. He wondered how much they’d paid for it. It seemed a pretty odd thing to do, having him play the contents to the prisoner. And he wondered why Paul hadn’t yet spoken to the man himself. In fact he’d behaved pretty much as if he wasn’t even there, shackled to the bed. Like he didn’t exist.

  Still, he’d come across officers in the military like that back in Iraq; they didn’t like to acknowledge that they were part of what the detainees were going through, and came in and got out again like their asses
were on fire. Unlike some of the spooks who came and went all the time; they were all hardcore and ready to do stuff if they had to. But most would walk in, tell Tommy-Lee what they wanted to know, then leave it to him to do what he had to because they’d been told he was good at it and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

  Pussies the lot of them. He wondered if that was Paul’s problem.

  He heard a grunt from across the room and looked up. The man was barely half-sitting, his body twisted at an angle because of the handcuffs. He was looking at Paul, and the DVD player as if he knew it was the next stage in what was happening to him. His next words confirmed it.

  ‘Is that for me?’ His voice was a croak but he didn’t ask for water this time.

  ‘I guess.’ Tommy-Lee nodded and stood up. He opened a bottle of water and held it to the man’s lips. It felt lukewarm but that was all they two of them were going to get.

  When the man had had enough, he lifted his chin and lay back, letting the last of the water roll around the inside of his mouth a few times before swallowing.

  Tommy dragged the chair across so the DVD player could sit right where the man could see it. Then he hit the PLAY button.

  The first thing he saw was a street scene. It didn’t look like any street he’d ever been in and he figured it had to be somewhere foreign; it had that look about it. Then the camera panned across a white street sign with red and black lettering. He couldn’t make out the red letters because it was in some fancy script and the camera wasn’t too steady. But the black letters were easy to read: Sydney Street, and then in red again, only bigger, S.W.3.

  The scene cut and shifted, this time to an elegant building set among huge trees, a mixture of conifers and evergreens, and sculpted gardens among expansive, rolling lawns. A group of teenage boys in smart blazers and grey pants were walking from a side building into the main entrance, with a man in a suit hurrying them along with impatient gestures. Something told Tommy-Lee this was out in the country somewhere; there was that look you get outside of a city, of light and open spaces. Something about the building reminded him of that British television series, Downton Abbey, which his pal’s Dougie’s girlfriend had a thing about. The time he’d had to sit through that crap because Dougie was too pussy-whipped to turn it over. Still, at least he was spared that for now.