Unmanned (9780385351263)

by Fesperman, Dan

  Now, judging by this flyboy headed up his driveway, they were still in cleanup mode. Two days ago they had telephoned to prep him, giving him a role, a script, and detailed instructions for afterward. He was ambivalent about the whole business. For one thing, his old employer no longer seemed to be speaking with one voice. Inquiries to his old boss had gone unanswered. When they contacted him, they no longer seemed to use the usual channels. This suggested a rift, an ongoing competition between rival factions, and with Agency rivalries you inevitably got crossfire. Once that started, even outsiders like him needed to take cover. For all Bickell knew, Cole and he might even be on the same side. Or maybe the pilot was yet another bumbler with a gas can and a lighted match and should be left to burn on his own.

  The first knock at the door came as Bickell reached the hallway closet where the new equipment was installed. Agency techs had turned up yesterday morning in a Verizon van with forms to sign and promises to keep. Easy to operate, they said. All digital, so pay attention. Like he was some sort of relic who could only work a reel-to-reel. He pressed the button for Record just as Cole knocked again.

  “Keep your shirt on,” Bickell called out, watching the needles jump. “I’m coming.”

  Act like you know what you’re doing. That was the thought Cole had clung to all morning as Steve Merritt and he crossed into New Hampshire toward Lake Winnipesaukee with the driving directions spread on the seat between them. They drove a new Toyota Corolla, a rental Steve had picked up at Boston Logan the day before Cole’s arrival at the Trailways terminal on Atlantic Avenue. Cole’s journey east had been a nonstop blur of rest stops and fast food joints, filled by a thousand nervous glances out the bus window as big rigs rumbled past on empty stretches of highway. Nothing in the sky but commercial jets, as far as he could tell. He’d nursed a fifth of Jeremiah Weed most of the way, then picked up a new bottle on the last stop before Boston. He’d already cut his consumption to half a bottle a day. Still too much, and he was feeling a little shaky, but it was a start. Strength, patience, vigilance. The watchwords for making good with the journalists. Not that they seemed very disciplined themselves, except about making sure they stayed caffeinated throughout the day.

  Steve was proving to be an unexpectedly agreeable traveling companion, generous with his encouragement, not to mention his dollars, and minimally intrusive with questions about Cole’s personal life, and his ordeal of the past fourteen months. He prepped Cole for the Bickell interview by going over a list of possible questions, and offered a few reporter’s tips on how to break the ice. The success or failure of the encounter would come down to a single conversation, perhaps a single turn of phrase, and Cole figured he had better arrive looking confident, even if he didn’t feel that way.

  A few miles before reaching their destination they stopped in Moultonborough to pick up a local map. Then they double-checked the directions and plotted their approach. Bickell lived on a small cove on a remote neck, way up a dirt road. As a precaution they parked well short of the driveway to let Cole cover the final stretch on foot, a decision he was grateful for as soon as he spotted the security camera peering down from a tree by the mailbox.

  Just like an old spy to guard the perimeter, Cole supposed. It creeped him out the way these intrusive little eyes kept watching him at every step along the way. He had noticed surveillance cameras at virtually every stop along the bus route—at service stations, convenience stores, fast food joints, even inside the men’s room. Grounded little Predators, from sea to shining sea.

  He knocked, paused, then knocked again until a voice called out impatiently from inside. When Bickell opened the door, Cole was reminded of why the man had once struck him as a perfect choice for a posting to the Muslim world. Olive skin, brushy mustache, brown eyes. With the right clothes he could have passed for a falafel vendor in a Middle Eastern souk, or a hack in Kabul. Cole cleared his throat and began his pitch.

  “Mr. Bickell? I’m Captain Darwin Cole. I’m not sure if you remember me, but—”

  “Sure I do. From Creech. You’re a long way from home.”

  “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time, and maybe some advice.”

  “I didn’t figure you’d come for a cup of sugar. Is this official?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not either. Not anymore. Come on in, I guess. Coffee? An hour old but still hot.”

  “Sure. I’ve been traveling pretty hard.” Then wishing he hadn’t said it, because Bickell seized on it right away.

  “You drove the whole way?”

  “The last leg, anyway.” He didn’t want to mention Boston, and certainly not Steve.

  Bickell nodded, face unreadable. From the threshold Cole saw a sun porch at the back of the house—louvered windows, a panoramic view of the lake, the eaves dripped melting snow. Bickell steered him instead to a darkened living room up front, then motioned him toward a brown couch by a cold and empty hearth. The coffee had yet to materialize, which didn’t bode well.

  “Still flying Preds?” Bickell continued to stand.

  “I’m out of that now. Out of the Air Force. Maybe you heard.”

  “Maybe. Fascinating machines. Amazing what they’ve been able to accomplish.”

  “Hope we were able to help you. Have any luck with them?”

  Bickell shrugged. “What’s this advice you’re after?”

  “About one of your colleagues. Wade Castle.”

  “Last I heard, he’s still employed by the Agency. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Well, this is kind of delicate.”

  “It usually is when it’s unofficial. All the more reason for you to go through channels. I’ve got a number in Langley that will put you straight through to his desk officer. Fellow named Bishop.”

  Cole shifted in his seat, beginning to feel he had come a long way for nothing.

  “You said something about coffee?”

  That at least drew a smile. Bickell grunted and headed for the kitchen. By the time he returned—full mug, no steam—Cole had retooled his approach.

  “What happened to you over there? You retire on schedule, or did they send you home early?”

  Bickell’s eyes flared, but he didn’t answer right away.

  “You don’t exactly seem gainfully employed yourself, Captain.”

  Cole shrugged.

  “This and that. So you’re out for good?”

  “You see me complaining?” Bickell spread his arms to encompass the room. Vintage fly rods were mounted on the knotty pine paneling behind him. On the opposite wall was a crossed set of varnished wooden skis. No sign of a feminine touch. No household noises that a wife might make. Cole was guessing he lived alone. He prodded again.

  “Castle fucked up big-time, but I guess you knew that. He was my J-TAC on a flyover at Sandar Khosh. Called in a dart that killed thirteen civvies. The whole thing felt wrong from the get-go. From what I hear, it wasn’t the only time.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  Why had he come? What could have made them think this visit would be worth the trouble? He pictured Steve’s disappointed reaction when Cole delivered the news that he’d struck out—a big fat zero on his first mission, the long journey wasted. At this rate he wouldn’t last a week. They might not even bother to pick him up at the bus station in Baltimore.

  “Well, I thought you guys trained together because you were going to serve together. Am I wrong?”

  Bickell shrugged and shifted his weight to his other foot.

  “Look, if you really have nothing to say—”

  “After you came all this way, you mean?” Bickell frowned. “I’m sure it wasn’t that hard to tell that I’m not exactly fond of Castle. Nobody likes the prick, if you really want to know, so I don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to him. But he’s not a fuckup. He’s one of the few people over there who knew his ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “That’s a start, I guess.”

  “I
t’s also an end.”

  Bickell gestured toward the door. Just like that, without even a scrap of useful information. Cole’s desperation surged toward anger. He stood, face flushed, and stepped within inches of Bickell, who didn’t budge.

  “So you’re good with all this, then? The fuckups and the mistakes? All those dead kids, that’s okay by you?”

  Bickell came right back at him, and for a moment it felt like being back in basic, or his first year at the Academy, getting reamed out nose to nose by some screaming asshole on a parade ground.

  “Did I say I’m good with it? Fuck, no! But I’m not risking my ass for some weak vessel who’s going to leak secrets all the way back to Vegas. And please tell me you didn’t fly commercial, with a ticket on plastic and two forms of ID. Please tell me you’re not that much of a fuckup.”

  “None of your business.”

  “It’s completely my business. I might be more pissed off than you are about the state of play, but I’ll be damned if I sweep any dirt toward some stupid bastard who might as well be posting this conversation on Facebook. So, to repeat, how did you get here? By what means?”

  “Not by plane.”

  Bickell backed off an inch.

  “Using any plastic?”

  Cole shook his head.

  “Cash only, and a fake ID.”

  “Cover name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Good answer. Next time don’t volunteer all that other shit, even if somebody asks.” Cole reddened in embarrassment. “And you can consider this a favor, Captain Cole, like a free security evaluation. But maybe I underestimated you. Or maybe I just wanted to. Always hated all you cocky bastards on the flight line.” This finally coaxed a smile out of Cole. “Before you say another word I want to show you something. Then we’re going to start over, beginning with your knock at the door.”

  Cole followed him to a hall closet, which Bickell opened onto a recorder, red light on, needles jumping with every sound. Cole blanched, then looked around, as if expecting a team of operatives to emerge from behind the furniture. When nothing happened he drew a deep breath.

  “You tape all your guests?”

  “Only when some Agency geek drops by to set up the equipment. This is their stuff. They were here yesterday.” He let that sink in.

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Everybody was, apparently, to hear my people tell it. Tell me something …” The needles kept jumping. Bickell paused, annoyed, then punched the Off switch. “If you were to find out what actually went wrong, and why—which I don’t know myself, by the way—what would you do with that kind of information? Who’s your client?”

  “Client?”

  “Who’s paying the freight?”

  “Nobody.” He didn’t dare mention the journalists.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say I believe that. Where do you go next, then? Where do you take this kind of material?”

  “I guess that depends on who I thought would be in the best position to make sure these things don’t keep happening. At least not with our birds.”

  Bickell shook his head.

  “Don’t duck the question. This isn’t Amnesty International and you’re not working for some war crimes tribunal. Where do you see yourself going with this? To a desk jockey in the Pentagon? To goddamn CNN, even? Or maybe back up the chain of command, to whoever the hell didn’t officially send you here and didn’t officially give you any marching orders? I know about your court-martial. Was this part of your plea agreement, maybe? Some sort of undercover arrangement?”

  It was an odd but appealing theory, which made Cole wonder what other forces might be in play. It also offered an easy way out.

  “Something like that.”

  “And this superior of yours, who’s he reporting to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bickell smiled.

  “Well, if my people knew you might be coming, that tells me your sugar daddy is compromised, no matter how high up the chain of command. So act accordingly. And wherever you go next, it better not be Creech. Once you’ve started something like this there’s no reset button, no reboot. It’s shop till you drop, understand?”

  “Then where should I go next?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas. But first, a little housekeeping.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BICKELL ERASED THE RECORDING and told Cole what to do next. Cole left the house through the front door and waited on the porch until Bickell called out from inside. “Okay. Silent five count, then let ’er rip.”

  Cole counted slowly to five, then knocked. Twice, like before.

  “Keep your shirt on,” Bickell said again. “I’m coming.”

  This time Cole refused the invitation to step inside. He tried to sound natural as he repeated the lines Bickell had fed him.

  “No offense, but I’d be more comfortable doing this outside. We can walk while we talk.”

  Bickell hemmed and hawed, playing the spider to the fly. But Cole didn’t give in, so Bickell finally came out onto the porch. Having concluded their performance for the recorder, they headed toward the lakeshore, where even on a chilly winter day distant motorboats were plowing the main channel, throwing plumes like snowmobiles. Once they were a safe distance from the house, Bickell got down to business.

  “Let me ask you something. What makes you so sure this is all about the Agency?”

  “It was Castle’s op.”

  “He might have ordered up the bird, but there are plenty of people with wish lists in that part of the world. Privateers and fly-by-nighters. Sheep-dipped Special Forces platoons, green badgers with their own outfits, you name it. Down on the ground it’s a regular fucking carnival.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Sheep-dipped?”

  “Active military, but with a special security clearance so they can work directly for the Agency, or maybe for some green badger with his head up his ass.”

  “And a green badger is …?”

  “Cleared by the Agency, but not an Agency employee. A green badge gets you into the building at Langley. A blue badge means you work there.”

  “Are you talking about contractors? Like Blackwater, or IntelPro?” Cole watched for a reaction, but Bickell was poker-faced.

  “This is even murkier and more incestuous. Maybe it’s an ex-employee doing a contract job. And maybe he’s working with a contractor, or maybe he isn’t. Either way, green badgers can do shit that blue badgers can’t. If they’re caught on the wrong side of the border, well, hell, they’re not government employees, are they?”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  “They can also operate domestically. Right here at home. Places that are no-go for the Agency are always open season for them. Same with the contractors—the Blackwaters and IntelPros—except they operate out in the next orbit where things are even loopier. Not just different rules of engagement, no rules of engagement. The Wild West, Fort Apache, take your pick. The new frontier of covert warfare.”

  “With the drones?”

  “With everything. Firefights by proxy. Security checks on the home front. In some ops, half the guts get farmed out to some hireling, or to a bunch of converted nut jobs with M-16s. It’s a damn good business to be in, that’s for sure. When the Agency got rid of me, who do you think my first visitor was, one day after I got here?”

  Cole shook his head.

  “An international security consultant with two slots to fill. Offering triple what the Agency pays and twice the freedom. Before I even had time to say no, two more called. It’s great for the job market—No Spook Left Behind—but down on the ground?” He shook his head.

  “A mess?”

  “We had an op going last July, sheep-dipped unit near the border pulling an all-nighter on the prairie. They staked out the house of some former source who’d been tipping off our targets. Our Pred is at twelve thousand and I’m in the trailer, watching. Two hours before go time, eight bogeys show up in the opposite quad
rant, moving in on the same party. Who are they? Fuck if we know, but before we can lift a finger they storm the house, clear every room, then leave our bad boy dead on his doorstep. Mission accomplished, but by who? Blue badgers? Green badgers? Contractors? We never did find out. They’re all out there, and every damn one of ’em has his own list of HVTs.”

  “Who’s keeping tabs on them?”

  “I asked that question a month before they sent me home. Took it all the way to the desk chief in Washington. Nobody would give me a straight answer. At first I thought they were stonewalling. Now I’m convinced they just didn’t know, which frankly kinda blows my mind. They’ve got a rough idea for numbers, maybe even names. But ops and targets? Spheres of influence? Or who’s shooting at who? Good luck with all that. So naturally you end up with competition—for sources, clients, results. And competition breeds mistakes.”

  “Who’s making them?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “And that’s what happened with my missile strike?”

  “I’m not the one who can answer that. I just know it’s more complicated than Wade fucking Castle going rogue, or getting his coordinates wrong. He’s king of the hill for this kind of shit, the Agency’s tech guru on both sides of the water. No way it’s just a matter of him being duped by a single source.”

  “Or maybe that’s what you’ve been told to say.”

  “What I was told to say was absolutely nothing. I erased the goddamn tape to cover my own ass as much as yours.”

  “It’s not like you’ve given me much.”

  “I’m getting to that. The name of an op, for starters. Wade Castle’s baby from day one. Magic Dimes. As in dropping the dime. You watch cop shows, right?”

  “Ratting somebody out, you mean? Like a drug dealer snitching to the feds?”

  “Except these dimes do the snitching for you. That’s what gives them their mojo.”

  “Are you talking about tracking beacons?”

  “No bigger than a silver dollar, even though they’re called dimes. Slide one under somebody’s couch and he’ll get a rocket down his chimney faster than you can say Osama bin Laden.”