He glanced at her as he stroked the raven’s head. “No, everyone’s okay. You’re safe now.”
“I remember an explosion.” She winced and grabbed her side. “Why am I in so much pain?” There was a stabbing sensation in her ribs. In fact, her whole body felt bruised.
“That’s the Naloxone—it blocks opioid receptors.”
“Nalox . . . why was I . . . what . . . ?” She was having trouble thinking.
“It was necessary to counteract the sufentanil. You’ll be sensitive to pain until it wears off.”
She shook her head in an attempt to wake up and finally succeeded in focusing her vision on the raven. The large black bird was apparently real, and it was studying her right back. The memory of the raven outside her window returned to her.
“I remember a bird. And an explosion.”
“That was Huginn you saw. This is Muninn.” On her confused frown he added, “Norse mythology. The god Odin had two ravens, Huginn and Muninn—‘thought’ and ‘memory.’ They flew across the land bringing him news of the world of men.”
“And they do that?”
He opened his hand to reveal a tiny transponder bracelet. McKinney could see what appeared to be a grid of copper leads on the surface of the device.
“Plenoptic camera. Called a ‘computational’ camera in the trade—lets us change the focal length after an image is taken, remove occlusions through synthetic aperture tracking. Lets us clearly view surveillance subjects through light cover—window screens and foliage.”
“How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough to know you wouldn’t hesitate to help Adwele.”
“Your raven manipulated me.”
“Huginn saved your life. Spotter drones can be difficult for us to detect, but he has a knack.”
“Spotter drones? Who are you?” She tugged at her restraints. “And why the hell am I strapped into this chair?”
“You call me Odin.” He spoke next to the raven. “Muninn, eat. Go on.”
The bird cawed, and hopped away toward the back of the plane.
McKinney gave him a look like she’d entered a madhouse.
“Your restraints are a precaution. Some people react badly to the drugs. Get hysterical. Never a good thing on an airplane.”
She tried to keep her voice calm, despite her mounting temper. “I’m not hysterical.”
He studied her, then cast a look at someone behind them. “Mooch.”
She heard movement, then the swip of steel being drawn as a handsome, neatly groomed man in his twenties with cocoa brown skin leaned over her. He looked of South Asian/Indian descent, and wore a crisp white galabia and white taqiyah skullcap. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He deftly slipped a razor-sharp killing knife through both her wrist straps. In a moment she was free, rubbing her wrists as “Mooch” disappeared again behind her.
McKinney looked around the whole cabin now that she could turn around. Half the interior was cargo space packed with metal cases and electronics equipment. Another bearded man, with pale skin and wild brown rock-star hair, sat one row back. He looked possibly Albanian or Russian with a soft, slightly rounded face and wide-set eyes. He wore faded jeans and a heavy metal band’s T-shirt covered with Arab script. He also had tattoos of horses and fiery skulls running the length of both forearms. He was unaccountably tuning a kora—a traditional West African stringed instrument. Behind him sat a rather plain, olive-skinned woman in a maroon hijab and sari. She was holding a copy of Small Arms Review but had looked up to meet McKinney’s gaze. The woman nodded and went back to reading.
Beyond her was a twentysomething Eurasian kid with hipster glasses and a soul patch. He wore khakis and a dark green pullover, along with a headset and mouthpiece. He was busy at an electronics console in the cargo area.
“Who are you people? Where is this plane headed?”
Odin extended his hand to the row behind him. “Foxy, pass me the Rover.”
The Albanian man sighed and set aside the kora to dig through a satchel on the floor. “Take it easy on her, boss.”
“The Rover, please. Thank you.” In a moment Odin came back with a ruggedized computer tablet. He tapped the screen a few times, then held it up for McKinney to see. The device was already playing what appeared to be black-and-white aerial footage, a view from a thousand feet up, orbiting a jungle village.
McKinney recognized it. “The Marikitanda Research Station.”
“FLIR imagery taken from an MC-12 about twenty minutes ago.” He pointed with his scarred, calloused hand. “See this?”
“My cabin.”