“Let me see the computer,” said Ken.
Amara pushed it over. The control program had started on its own, columns of figures filling the screen.
“This is supposed to help me?” said Ken. “How?”
“It’s a control unit,” snapped Amara, no longer able to hide his resentment at being treated like a fool. “It controlled an American UAV. Target data is entered on the screen, and then the aircraft knew what to do.”
“Useless,” said Ken. He pushed the keys, paging the screen up and down. “I asked them for a Predator control unit. I was ready to adapt that. I was assured that it could be obtained from the Sudan. And yet this is what they give me? I can’t use this to fly a plane. Where are the controls? Why are we even working with Africans? They are imbeciles.”
“The man who examined this was Chinese,” said Amara. “He was a genius. He said it controlled an aircraft more powerful than a Predator. He knew what he was talking about.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s dead,” said Amara. Then he added, with a touch of cruelty that he hoped would set Ken back a notch, “I killed him.”
“Then he couldn’t have been much of a genius,” answered Ken, not intimidated.
Chapter 11
Breanna felt a pang of anxiety as she pulled into her driveway and saw Zen’s van. She hadn’t seen her husband since their meeting at the airport the day before. She’d managed to get home after him the night before, and leave before he got up — not that she’d been avoiding him exactly, but the timing was extremely convenient. They hadn’t even texted during the day.
Breanna took her keys from the ignition, opened her pocketbook, then decided that her lipstick needed to be fixed.
That done, she got out of the car, walking slowly to the door. Her daughter Teri met her there, practically tackling her.
“We’re glad your home,” said the third-grader after accepting two kisses, one for each cheek. “Dad and I cooked!”
“He did?”
Zen’s culinary prowess consisted of speed dialing the local pizza joint and hitting the button to talk at the McDonald’s drive-in.
“Lasagna,” said Zen from inside. “And it’s just ready.”
“Eating early?” said Breanna.
“Baseball game.”
“Oh.”
“Problem?” asked Zen.
“I have a meeting tonight.”
“I thought you might. Caroline is in the den, doing her homework.”
“She gave us some hints on cooking,” whispered Teri.
“You weren’t going to tell,” said Zen, mock scolding his daughter. He pretended to chase after her as she ran off laughing.
“She’s in a good mood,” said Breanna.
“Glad to see you home. As am I.”
Zen spun around and went back to the kitchen. Their stove was regular height, which limited his access to the front burners only. He had a small pot of sauce there; to check it, he removed it from the burner and held it over his lap to stir. It wasn’t the safest arrangement, but Breanna had learned long ago not to say anything.
He put it back and opened the oven.
“Mmmm-mmmm. I think it’s ready,” he said, wheeling around to the refrigerator.
“Jeff, about yesterday…”
“Apologizing for not playing hooky?”
“I shouldn’t have run out like that. I know.”
“That’s OK. It at least got me prepared for your stonewalling the committee.”
“Excuse me?”
“Word is, my favorite President told the CIA director to inspect military bases in Alaska for the next three weeks. His schedule is full.”
“I doubt anything like that happened.”
“It’s all right. At least I know where to deliver your subpoena.”
“Jeff, you’re not going to subpoena me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no involvement—”
She stopped short. She meant that she had no involvement in the original Raven program, not in recovering it. But she realized now that she looked foolish — and like a liar.
“I was joking,” he said, though his voice was suddenly very serious.
“I know.”
“Don’t forget who you are,” he added.
“I do know who I am.”
“Yeah. So do I.”
“What’s that mean?” She pressed her lips together, angry — not at him, but at herself for lying.
“Dinner’s ready,” said Zen loudly. He took a thick towel from the center island and put it on his lap, then pulled the lasagna from the oven. “Come and get it!” he yelled, wheeling himself toward the table.
Zen ate quickly. He was running a little late; ordinarily he would have caught something at the park, but he’d wanted to make sure he stayed and talked to Breanna.
It hadn’t gone quite as well as he planned, but at least the ice had been broken. Somewhat.
Hopefully this was just bs and would blow over quickly.
In the meantime, he was looking forward to the game. He drove over to his district office and picked up a friend, Simeon Bautista, a former SEAL who occasionally did some bodyguard work for him. Then he went over to the hospital, where Stoner and Dr. Esrang were waiting inside the lobby.
“Mark, Doc, hey guys,” said Zen, wheeling over to them with a flourish. “This is my buddy Simeon — he watches over me sometimes to make sure I don’t get into a fight with Dodger fans.” Zen winked at Stoner, who simply stared back. Esrang nodded. Zen saw the two hospital security people eyeing them nervously. “We ready?”
“I think we’re good,” said Esrang, leading the way to the van.
Truth be told, Zen would have preferred that the psychiatrist stayed home. It wasn’t that he was in the way, or even a particularly bad companion. But it added a therapeutic flavor to the outing that made things less comfortable than he wanted. It was bad enough that the doctor had insisted on a bodyguard. Simeon at least was low key and affable, though not overly talkative — a perfect combination, Zen thought. The problem was, if Stoner really went on a rampage, it would take a dozen Simeons and an M1A1 tank to subdue him.
The traffic was light and they made it to the game with nearly a half hour to spare. It was a sparse crowd, even though they were playing the Dodgers. In fact, a good portion of the crowd seemed to be L.A. transplants, with more than a spattering of Dodger blue around them.
“Want something to eat, Mark?” Zen asked. “Hot dog?”
“Hot dog?”
Zen took the question as a yes. “One or two?”
Stoner held up his hand, showing two fingers.
This was really a good idea, thought Zen, calling the vendor over.
There were thousands of faces, each one potentially a threat.
Stoner looked at each one, studying them. The habit was ingrained, part of him, who he was.
There was another part, too. Deeper maybe.
He continued looking, memorizing each face. He hadn’t seen any of them before.
“Here.” Zen handed him the hot dogs.
A hot dog. Frankfurter. Red Hot.
Had he had these? They seemed familiar.
He had. He liked them. It was a long time ago. Before.
“You want mustard or ketchup?” said Zen.
“Ketchup?” asked Stoner.
“Ketchup!” yelled Zen to the man pulling the food from the box.
This was all familiar. The man with the box, with the hot dogs — did he have a gun?
Stoner braced, his body ready to react. His muscles tightened, his breathing became almost shallow.
The man took something from his pocket.
Tiny packets of ketchup, which Stoner knew he would do. Somehow, he knew. The pattern was familiar, yet new.