Predators and Drones

by Richard Herron

  Cindy asked a reciprocal question, asked about the "Gloria" he had mentioned. John made no attempt to hide anything. He replied that he was in fact married AND, he quickly added, while they owned the marital residence on paper, their relationship was no longer a sexual one. Cindy determined that this was something she could understand, and that it would take time to see how it might resolve.

  Over the course of several weeks, their evenings out began to include overnights in some of the city’s four-star hotels, and weeks turned into months.

  One evening, the air was balmy and romantic, and Cindy was swept up in the soft lights, sumptuous food, wine seemingly produced by Bacchus himself, and of course, John's affection. It was that evening when instead of concluding their night at a hotel, he drove to a high-rise building and brought her to one of the upper floors.

  When they arrived at the end of the corridor, John asked her to close her eyes, walked her in through the door there and instructed her to open them. Her eyes opened to an apartment, furnished tastefully and with a stunning view of the city. When she asked who had such an amazing apartment, he had simply replied, “You do,” as he held out the keys.

  49. OFFICE CHIT-CHAT

  Stephanie refreshed her coffee cup, went to the fridge to add creamer when Colleen came in.

  "Hey, Girl! You on lunch?"

  Colleen nodded, came to the open door, retrieved a glass bowl.

  "Col, I told you that Ron had moved in, didn't I?" Stephanie's voice upturned.

  "Yeah, about three weeks ago, haven't heard a word since." Colleen popped the lid, slid the container into the microwave, shut it and hit a button.

  ◆◆◆

  "Probably 'cause it's not going so good..." Stephanie wanted to talk, let it out.

  "Sorry to hear that, Steph." Colleen's voice was cool.

  Stephanie changed tactics. "You know how the boss is always dropping all these cute little sayings, ya know..., like "Loose lips sink ships?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, I'm sorta worried about Ron an me, well... really about Ron."

  "What’d you do?" Colleen's head oscillated gently.

  "Ron’s been pressuring me to get married. I thought we were pretty serious, but now I'm afraid."

  "D'you mean," Colleen paused, "like he's hit you or something?" Colleen's hackles rose all the way to her eyes.

  "No, no, it's not that... but, well, he drinks... and it's starting to look like way too much!"

  "Shit, Stephanie," Colleen shot back, "you better get him the fuck outta there!"

  "Well, that's the good news, Col. He moved out in a huff last night. The problem is, I probably said too much to him when we were fighting." Stephanie's first fingernail was at the corner of her lip, edging closer to trim work by teeth nearby.

  "Geezus, what'd you say?"

  "I try to avoid talking about work in general, you know, avoid talking about stuff... but last night he was swearing at me, saying I was screwing the boss or somebody. He was really flippin' out! I told him the boss had a girlfriend, and it certainly wasn't me!”

  “Oh, shit!” Colleen’s eyes saucered.

  “He yelled more of the same shit, said since I don’t talk about work, I must be doin’ something. I just said that we do some stuff that’s sorta classified, or maybe I said top secret, but anyway, he slammed a big drink, yelled some more shit and split.”

  "Geezus, Steph, you better just zip it," Colleen rolled her eyes, "and hope like hell that parasite keeps going. Did he take all his crap with him?"

  "Yeah, and he shoved his key in my hand as he was heading out the door."

  ◆◆◆

  Ron never understood the significance of his rambling and drunken diatribe while sloshing back rum and cokes at a neighborhood bar that night. The man who followed him into the bar, seating himself in the shadowed corner, did understand some significant issues that Ron only muttered about.

  50. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE

  John emerged from the Chesapeake Building for a sunny, 11:15 a.m. constitutional around the block, then returned via The Grinder. Linda, a blond bombshell, owned the kiosk just a few yards down from the building's entrance. He couldn't help the flirt he threw her way as she whipped him up and made him a cappuccino. As he approached the walk-up window, another customer came from the other direction to get in line.

  "Hey there, Beautiful!" John stepped close, his forearm resting at the ledge.

  "Hi Senator," Linda knew him by voice, turned from cleaning a countertop. "How's your Thursday going?"

  "Absolutely splendid, Linda." He glanced at her black V-neck which made her mouth-watering cleavage pop. "Especially now!"

  He noted that she shook her a head a little, just a small movement and suggestive of a negative slant to what she was thinking, but her smile and subtle twitch at the corner of her eye said she liked it, too.

  In a lower voice now that his head was nearly inside, she asked, "Want your usual, John?"

  "Yes, if you would please, Linda." He watched her and smiled as she nodded, then turned away to prepare his coffee. The customer behind him stepped in close, pressed something hard against his lumbar.

  “Don’t turn!” was a low, whispered but throaty order. John didn't have time to react before the man pressed a bit harder, a poking repeat of his demand. John would never have expected a robbery on the street here, in broad daylight, for God's sake, but he was acutely aware of the tone of voice that told him to pay attention, not act out.

  He turned his head just enough to cast a soft “Whaddaya want?” over his shoulder without looking.

  “We need a chat,” the voice replied. “When you get your coffee, go left down the sidewalk. You dump that coffee in the trash can, for safety's sake, right? I'm going to come up next to ya. You can look at me if you want, it don't matter. You got all that?”

  John nodded, and as Linda brought his coffee to the window, he handed her a five-dollar bill, said nothing to her. He turned to his left.

  “Dump it!” the voice reminded him. John dropped the cup as he walked past a can at the corner of the small building, then continued on, and the man joined him on the right side, matching his pace.

  ◆◆◆

  Linda leaned toward the glass enough to watch as the two men walked away, saw John drop his coffee. He didn't offer any more of his normal, flirty banter, and the usual ten-spot was replaced with a fiver. The man who walked off with him, now at his side looked like joe anybody. Khakis, tucked in long-sleeve shirt, ball cap and shades.

  Something odd here. Linda had never been inside the Chesapeake. She remembered him speaking about a penthouse office. I have his card. I'm sure it's right here in a drawer. If I don't see him return in a bit, maybe I'll dig it out, call the office, or maybe when I lock up this afternoon.

  ◆◆◆

  On the sidewalk, John glanced over as they walked. The man was about his age and build, and looked straight ahead. John slowed his pace a bit and the man turned his head.

  “We'll sit at over there,” indicating with a nod of his head, a place halfway up the block, sidewalk tables and chairs.

  John didn't appreciate this rude introduction in any way, shape, or form, and didn't feel as much in danger as he had during the first moments when something jabbed into his lower back. Out in public, on the sidewalk or at a table, he'd be able to handle things well enough.

  “What the hell is this about?” John demanded, taking a chair so he could face the street. His back to the café's storefront window, cars drifted by anonymously before him, and the office building across the street stood, a blind, stone monolith. The stranger pulled a chair back from the table, sat scooting in and leaned forward.

  “Mr. Turner, or Senator Turner, if you prefer," his voice kept low, "first of all, if it makes you feel better, I apologize for this bold intrusion on your day. May I see your cell phone?”

  “I don’t accept your apology," John blurted, then withdrew his phone, tossed it on the table. "You better have a r
eally good reason why I shouldn’t contact the police!” Before the conversation could continue, it was interrupted by a server who approached, placed two glasses of water on the table and asked if they were ready to order.

  “Not yet!” came the terse reply, face remaining focused on John's phone as he popped the back, pulled the battery. The server turned away.

  “Senator Turner, I'm Mr. Smith. I represent a powerful business conglomerate and we are extremely interested in you and JCT."

  John started to shake his head, a ready-made deflection about to spout, when the man continued.

  "Don't interrupt me. I don't like that..." the man paused, deadpan, then continued, "We're in a position to offer you very generous compensation for helping us get JCT products.”

  “Do you think," John angled his head, "you're the first person, Mister Smith," his words dripping acrid sauce, "to ask for a business relationship with me? I'll tell you this. You're the first to do it with a gun!”

  “You don't know I have a gun, Senator Turner," replied Smith, "but I wanted your attention in a hurry, and it worked.”

  “Here's what's important, and remember, I’m just the messenger. We're impressed with JCT and some of it's cool stuff, specifically, the stuff that goes into Predator drones. We want those products, and we're going to make you very happy when we get them. You'll open an offshore account for our deposit arrangements, and five million dollars will be deposited right at the start. After that, one hundred thousand dollars monthly, as long as you live! You'll never need to contact us, and when we need to contact you, we'll use private and safe ways to get in touch. The products we want will be transferred in secure and discreet ways too."

  John tried to stare into the ice-water glass in front of him, his vision obscured by the condensation that collected on the outside, as the warm Santa Barbara air cooled on the glass. His head pivoted slightly left, right, left.

  “Now, it's possible you've had better offers," Smith continued, "but our offer does come with some sweet icing on the cake, as it were. We got friends all over the world who help us with, well, let’s call them the dirtier parts of business, and our friends have assured us that you are fond of your wife... Gloria, isn't it?”

  Upon hearing this, John’s eyes flashed up to look at Smith, his face feeling warm, but Mr. Smith was not finished.

  “...and our friends also assure us that you are at least equally fond of another woman..." he paused for the briefest moment, a smile on his face, "Cindy." John's face went warm to hot.

  "We wouldn't want anything to happen to these lovely ladies. All in all, and considering what could be at stake, this is a very generous offer, and you'll see that it's the smart thing to do.”

  John was speechless. He had always believed that Gloria was safe from nefarious activities, or at least, when he was in office. Security had been ubiquitous as a member of Congress, and he practiced common sense and precautionary behaviors since retirement. He still had friends, with the Capitol Police, the Secret Service, and some members of the FBI.

  He never thought he would need them these days, and he’d given zero consideration to the idea of danger for Cindy. What could happen? Would someone watch them, pick them off on a sidewalk?... in a restaurant? Hell, even approach them on the boat?

  Resigning himself to the fact that he had just been raked over coals, could still feel the heat, John thought about trying to adapt. Maybe not knowing who was buying would ease the pain of losing a little bit of control over what JCT made, what was sold, and who was doing the buying.

  “How much time do I have to think this over?” John asked.

  "Well, Senator," Smith looked at his watch, "If we eat lunch together, you'll have enough time. I'll give you that.

  “I’m NOT going to sit here, eating lunch with you!"

  "Well then, okay. I'll be in touch so that you can give me your account information. I'm warning you though, don't put off that account setup. When you hear from me next time, if that's not all completed, I won't have any control about the actions that follow. Talk to you soon, Senator!"

  With that, the man pushed back his chair, rose and walked back in the direction they had come.

  John was left staring at an empty chair, then his head turned to gaze after the diminishing back of this 'Mr. Smith'.

  51. GUILT BY ASSOCIATION

  A sunny downtown sidewalk in Santa Barbara received the focus of surveillance as two men met, walked to a sidewalk café and sat down. The drone had no ears to hear the exchange of words, but actual words weren't critical to the big picture. Far more important, that the meeting was taking place. One topic was the individual identified as 'JCT', and confirmed due to an electronic tag. The other target had only been identified as 'JD', for John Doe. The monitor showed the tops of their heads, the table where they sat, passers-by. The electronic blip on the monitor assured distinction between them.

  Turner had been the unknowing recipient of a transponder, placed surreptitiously inside the heel of the dress shoes he wore that day. Clone transponders had been placed in all of his shoes, including deck shoes. Whatever he put on his feet, besides bedroom slippers and beach flips, would send out a tiny electronic signal blip. This ping was visible on the monitor, made identification a certainty, unless someone else was walking in the recipient's shoes.

  ◆◆◆

  The point man directing this recon op was Bill Olson. The two men controlling the drone maneuvered it, or operated cameras. Neither of them knew Olson personally. Both presumed he was NSA or CIA.

  Olson kept his cell phone ready, just a call button away from his ground team, Frank and Greg. These were the same two men who had performed breaking and entering in order to place the transponders six weeks earlier.

  When JCT and JD separated, JCT returned to a building in the immediate area. Olson directed the drone team to release the tagged ‘blip’ and remain on track with the other subject. JD was tracked to a location two blocks away, where he entered a vehicle on the passenger side, and it pulled from the curb, drove away.

  As it did, Olson spoke with Frank on the phone, providing him make, model and color of the vehicle, and update feeds about turns, streets, and direction of travel. The subject vehicle drove 6.3 miles away from the meeting location, pulled into a motel parking lot, and the occupants got out of the vehicle and enter the building.

  Within twenty minutes, the ground team had eyes on the vehicle. Frank drove the Ford into the parking lot, pulled it in close, next to the car. Greg slipped out, dropped to the ground and wriggled underneath it, then placed the strong magnet up onto the car's frame. The transponder was already activated.

  The investigation that followed provided enough information to establish that the driver and his partner had tourist visas. Their tourism activity remained the target of a finely-tuned surveillance over the next few days. Just shortly before their lives were terminated, the vacation was over.

  52. CONFERENCE CALL

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Moore clicked an icon, activating a re-routing program which in turn, connected to one of his private servers. This server's secure, dedicated links would connect to cellular providers world-wide, and those providers prioritized and boosted those signals in any way possible. That was part of the understanding, part of the service on their lucrative contract.

  He entered cell numbers for three phones: two were for his man in the Pentagon, Colonel Faulkner and Robbie Hamilton, both listed as parties to the conference call. The third number programmed in wasn’t revealed to the other participants. They'll never know her name, and she won't speak. When the respective phones rang, each knew who had initiated the call. In nearly mirror-like fashion, individuals stopped what they were doing.

  When all parties were online, waiting, Moore began. He laid out a summary of incidents that had occurred over the course of the last few months involving Turner and JCT, LLC. Based on a new report, he paid particular attention to the facts regarding probable extortion that had
taken place on a downtown sidewalk.

  JCT was now poised to release software and hardware to entities that the Alliance did not consider part of the family. Two individuals involved with that extortion activity had been identified, and their roles in the current problem wasn’t an issue anymore. Others would step in to fill the void. Most important was that a door had opened that needed to be closed. This was an issue of vital national security and more importantly, Alliance security. All concurred, one silently.

  "Colonel Faulkner," Moore's finger pushed a figurative switch, "thank you for your diligence in uncovering this issue. It's time for you to take the necessary steps in order to secure this closure. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Mr. Moore," the colonel responded. "Has there been any distribution of materials yet?" Moore assured him and the others that nothing had exchanged hands so far.

  "That's good to hear, Sir. My teams are stretched thin right now. I'll need to use civilian work on this, but we'll monitor the exercise thoroughly."

  "Excellent, Colonel. Thank you."

  Moore was not done. A path had to be created. It would only lead to a dead end, but the suggestion of a trail, speculation on potentials would help fray an investigation's rope. Just possibilities, that's all he wanted. He turned his attention to Hamilton.

  "Robbie? I'm going to have you take a trip to the coast. When can you arrange that?"

  “Anything you need, Sir. I could be there as early as tomorrow.” Robbie responded without hesitation.

  “Great! I want you to drop by the Senator’s apartment," Moore continued, "and have a chat with his girlfriend. You'll be representing an insurance company that carries a life insurance policy on the Senator, lists our Cindy as the single beneficiary of the policy.”

  “No big revelations," he continued, "we just want Cindy to know that if anything happens to the Senator, she'll be looking at becoming a millionaire. Tell her you need identification for your forms, have her sign a non-disclosure agreement. Perhaps you can suggest that she would void the policy, should she discuss it with anyone, including the policy holder. That might cause her to squirm, but that’s okay. We don’t really care about her. Will you let me know when you have materials and are ready to act?”