Kill Decision(122)
“Is this what you did for Odin overseas?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s great for mapping the structures of fluid organizations like criminal gangs, knowing who’s important to whom. Dropping bombs on people.”
“I’m starting to realize that.”
The rear door to the van opened, and Odin, Smokey, and Ripper entered—the latter two wearing security guard blazers.
Evans scowled at Odin. “I thought you said your whole team was dead?”
“I said what was necessary to get your cooperation.”
“Asshole . . .”
Odin nodded to the screens as he closed the doors behind him. “Who’d he call first?”
Evan gritted his teeth for a moment. “Looks like a Beltway bandit. He wanted protection. She told him to strap on a pair.”
Odin tossed the stub of a lavender silk tie into McKinney’s lap. “Get us moving.”
* * *
Marta’s city address was an ultramodern penthouse overlooking the Potomac, just west of the Watergate. It had set the firm back five million, but it was essential to have a base of operations suitable for entertaining, close to the Kennedy Center, the waterfront restaurants, and other cultural landmarks. There was an expansive terrace area overlooking the Francis Scott Key Bridge—a terrace with built-in catering facilities and space enough for a hundred cocktail party guests. At night the view was beautiful, but she seldom noticed it—especially tonight.
Instead Marta sat alone at the head of a postmodern cherrywood table in her massive formal dining room, flanked by granite tile and glass walls and valuable modern art, idly perusing the latest foreign policy best seller—penned by a policy wonk she knew. Just another heavy business card. She took a sip from a full glass of very good Cabernet.
Before her hall clock sounded two A.M. she was startled by a hoarse caw and looked up to see a large black raven ominously perched atop the chair-back at the far end of her dining table, twenty feet away. She calmly closed the book and waited.
A few moments later a handsome, athletic man in a gas company uniform, helmet, and climbing harness stepped partway around the corner. He had cold steel-blue eyes and the self-assured gait of a special operator.
“I’ve been expecting you.”
The man registered not the slightest hint of surprise. At a gesture from him the bird flew off, across the living room and out her open sliding glass door.
“Do you normally leave your doors unlocked and your alarms deactivated?”
“I didn’t want you to break anything. I’m having a party tomorrow night.”
“And your security detail?”
“Sent away for the same reason. I’m not foolish enough to resist the U.S. military.” She appraised the man before her. “You’ll have to forgive Henry. He’s a bit naïve and self-impressed. But then, that’s what the young are. The moment he called me, I knew to expect your visit.”
The man said nothing.
“What can I do for our friends in The Activity?”
With his other hand he produced an insectlike robot the size of a toaster oven from around the corner and tossed it into the center of her dining room table. It left several nasty indentations on the rosewood before it clattered to a stop, facing her like a dead black spider.
She grimaced. “Ah, drones.”
“Autonomous drones.”
“And because we’re promoting autonomous drones on Capitol Hill, you think we have something to do with these attacks against the United States.”
“The drone strikes here are just the beginning. I’m more concerned about swarms of kill-decision drones overturning thousands of years of military doctrine and rules of conduct. That’s a lot of hard-won experience to throw away without any debate.”
“Well, we advise everyone from African dictators to country-western recording artists, to supermarkets—and, yes, aerospace. But we have nothing to hide from you.”
“You’re going to tell me who’s running the project.”
Marta pushed the book away. “You of all people should know these things are compartmentalized. Even if our side was somehow behind this, why would I know? And why would I know who knows? Tell me, Mr. . . .”
“You call me Odin.”
“Mr. Odin—you don’t seem like someone who needs to be told what to do. In truth, despite the fact that everyone wants you to stop, you’re still searching for the people behind these attacks.”
He just stared, unreadable.
“That’s because an expert knows what needs to be done. That’s why they’re an expert. I’m a public relations expert. My clients include aerospace interests, and I know that drones are the future. Dozens of nations plan on using drones to shift the balance of geopolitical power—to undo U.S. aerial and naval supremacy at a bargain price. We need to win that struggle. Are we behind the attacks? How the hell should I know? And, frankly, it doesn’t interest me.”