The Drone

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Christ, this is all we need,’ Brasher breathed heavily down the phone. ‘I’ll arrange for the Oklahoma State Police and a forensics team, and some of our own people from the local bureau to get on the way immediately and lock the place down. What the hell were they doing out there?’

  ‘It looks like they were a construction crew shipped in to build the inside of the workshop where Chadwick and one other, like a guard, were held. There was food and water and one of the beds had been fitted with handcuffs. Once the crew was done, it looks as if they’d served their purpose.’ He looked across at Ruth, who waved her cell phone. ‘Ruth’s sending you photos of the scene and shipping labels on some cardboard boxes we think must have been used to bring the drones over. It should be easy to verify with Memphis FedEx by the codes on the boxes, but we’ve seen pieces of one of the missing EuroVol drones, anyway, so that’s pretty much a formality.’

  ‘Got that. Good work. Before I go, I have some intel about the guy who attacked Ruth.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Let me put you on loudspeaker.’ He pressed the button and Brasher’s voice echoed around the hangar.

  ‘Ruth, we’ve come up with a name to match the prints found on the knife and hardhat from that guy who attacked you in Newark. His name is Yusuf Kalil, of no fixed address but appears to be known in Newark and New Jersey as a local hoodlum. He has no known extremist links, but he’s done time for robbery, aggravated violence and a sexual assault on a female minor.’

  ‘Sweet guy,’ Ruth muttered. ‘Have you got him yet?’

  ‘Not yet but we soon will. He arrived here on a student visa from Syria twelve years ago. Our guess is he might be a jihadi sympathiser but more likely he’s a cheap muscle for hire.’

  ‘Did you come up with anything on the man named Paul?’

  ‘Funny you should ask.’ Brasher’s voice sounded upbeat. ‘I issued the photos to all agencies, some with ID- and data-matching resources they don’t like sharing on a general basis. You can guess who I mean.’

  ‘Like Langley?’ said Vaslik.

  ‘In that general area, yes. Anyway, one of them came back with a positive ID. His name is listed as Paul Malick, aka Asim Malak, precise origins unknown.’

  ‘So he’s an illegal.’

  ‘That’s correct. We have nothing on him in the US so far, but from what little we do have he must have been living here under false papers for at least seven years, possibly longer. Our guess is he came in via Mexico or further south, and acquired papers that allowed him to travel in an out of the country on several occasions, mostly to Germany or Turkey, both gateways to the Middle East. The latest intel is that he’s currently wanted in Egypt and Jordan for murder, bombing and organising crimes against the state, and is suspected of membership of organisations like al-Qaeda and specifically being allied to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. If that’s true the guy has some serious history. Either way they say he’s considered highly dangerous and he’s definitely linked to Bilal Ammar and others with known extremist and jihadist agendas.’

  Ruth and Vaslik looked at each other. If they needed proof of something serious being planned, then the links were now coming together, pointing towards a disparate group of extremists who had got together in the name of jihad.

  But that didn’t tell them where this Paul, aka Asim Malak, had now gone, or where he had taken James Chadwick.

  ‘So now will you call off this visit by the president?’ said Vaslik. ‘This is looking more and more like a serious, planned assassination attempt.’

  ‘I already suggested that as soon as we got word on Malak, but got voted down. The president won’t bow to terrorist threats on home soil because of the message that would send to Americans: that the person in the White House can no longer go wherever he likes – even a US military base – because of a threat? No chance.’

  37

  Woods County Jail was a low-slung building set in a quiet, spacious section of Alva, surrounded by stores, dealerships and government buildings. Ruth and Vaslik walked in through the front entrance and found Tom Brasher and a woman waiting for them.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ Brasher said, shaking hands. He introduced his companion. ‘This is Special Agent Karina Wright. She’s been assigned to work with me on this case.’

  ‘Hi.’ Wright nodded briskly. ‘Good to meet you both.’ She was small and slim, with neat, dark auburn hair and the clear skin tone of a woman with a serious health regime. Ruth was surprised; anything less like Brasher was hard to imagine, but she figured Wright had to be more than just a pretty face to have been assigned to this job.

  ‘I can’t let you folks into the interview suite with us,’ Brasher continued, ‘but you can observe from the room next door. We don’t have much time before due process begins. At the moment he’s being held on charges relating primarily to drunkenness, disorder and threatening behaviour, but we hope to upgrade those in a few minutes. Let’s get to it.’ He nodded to a uniformed guard standing nearby who checked in their weapons and cell phones, then led them through security to an interview suite down the corridor. Ruth and Vaslik were shown into a room with a video monitor on one wall, showing another anonymous room with a table and two chairs. Seconds later, Brasher and Agent Wright appeared on the screen and sat at the table.

  Donny Bashir appeared accompanied by two large guards. He looked shrivelled and terrified. With a mop of unruly black hair and a thin growth of beard around his chin descending to a prominent Adam’s apple, he looked every inch the campus geek rather than a man engaged in acts of terrorism.

  The guards made him sit then left the room, and Donny looked around him, shifting nervously in his seat and blinking, but avoided looking directly at the two agents.

  Tom Brasher ran through the preliminaries, introducing himself and Special Agent Wright and confirming why Donny was being held. Donny said nothing, merely waiting, eyes fixed on the table.

  Then Brasher changed tack and nodded at Karina Wright, who said, ‘Mr Bashir, would you tell us how you met Bilal Ammar?’

  Donny blinked hard several times, his head jerking up, but without speaking. In fact he seemed more stunned by Wright’s soft voice than the question she had put to him. He looked away in confusion.

  Wright repeated the question. ‘We know you are friends with Bilal; what we’d like you to tell us is how and where you met him.’

  Donny shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know him – is that what you’re telling us?’

  ‘No.’ He said the word too loud, then hesitated and repeated it softly. ‘I mean, no. He’s not my friend.’ He had a slight accent and his words were precise, as if carefully thought out.

  ‘A colleague, then? You attended the same mosque in Queens, New York, isn’t that correct?’

  Donny nodded. ‘Yes. Correct.’

  ‘So now you remember him.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re a long way from there now, aren’t you? Are you down here on vacation?’

  He looked troubled by the question and stared around as if suspecting a trick. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll be more direct. What were you doing in the bar – Jokers, I believe it’s called – when you were arrested?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Can’t remember what you were doing here or can’t remember the bar?’ Wright’s voice, although soft, was relentless and probing, and Ruth and Vaslik could see why Brasher had allowed her to take the lead. Another reason was evident in Donny’s reaction to her, which was nervous and almost embarrassed, as if he had little understanding or experience of attractive women. ‘I hear you really tied one on down there, is that correct?’ Her voice had taken on a light tone, and he responded with the faintest of smiles in acknowledgement.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘And where was Mr Ammar when you were in the bar? He wasn’t there with you, was he?’

  ‘No. He was asleep. He sleeps heavily.’

  ‘At the motel
down the road.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, not the best of company?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So you decided you needed some fun and went to Jokers, is that right? I mean, that’s what vacations are for, right – having fun?’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘Wasn’t what – fun? Hey, I’m not surprised; you did get yourself arrested. Although I’m pretty sure your friends in NYU might call it fun, wouldn’t they? Sort of rights of passage and that kind of stuff.’

  ‘I guess.’ He frowned, clearly thrown by the sudden shift in the tone of questions. ‘Why are you holding me here? I want a l—’

  ‘Actually,’ Wright interrupted him and raised her hand, which made him flinch and stop speaking instantly, ‘we’re just trying to figure out why an intelligent NYU graduate like you, Donny, is hanging around with a thug like Bilal Ammar. He is a thug, isn’t he?’

  He nodded. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Of course he is. I bet you have more brains in your little finger than he does in his whole body. And what about Paul Malak? Is he a thug, too?’

  Donny looked up, his face going pale. ‘What? I don’t understand… why are you asking about him? I never mentioned anyone called Malick, I—’ He stopped speaking abruptly as if a switch had been thrown.

  ‘Malick. I’m sorry, I should have said Malick, which is what he likes to be called. Although his real name is Asim Malak, isn’t it?’ She bent to catch his eye and said gently, ‘You can tell me, Donny. Nobody else will hear you. It’s just a name.’

  Donny nodded and said softly, ‘Yes. Asim Malak.’

  ‘Good. That’s great, Donny. And where is Asim Malak now, do you think? And Bilal Ammar, of course. Incidentally, we know they’ve left the airfield. And they’ve taken the drones and James Chadwick with them. So, where are they going?’

  Donny stared at her, eyes wide, and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But that was nothing to do with you, was it, what they did inside the hangar? Was it Malak or Ammar, Donny? Somehow I can’t see Ammar being bright enough to be the boss, or Malak wanting to get his hands dirty with the other stuff.’

  ‘Stuff?’ Donny voice was almost a whisper, as if the question had slipped out unawares.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Her voice was silky smooth now, almost gentle in its probing. ‘The conversion of the workshop to a prison cell; the kidnap of James Chadwick; the theft of the drones. And the killing of the construction workers. All that.’ She sat back. ‘Frankly, I can’t see a man like you being part of that. Not really. You seem a nice guy to me. You must have got taken along for your technical skills, isn’t that correct?’

  Donny said nothing, simply staring at her like a mouse confronted by a predator. And blinked once.

  Then a tear rolled down his face.

  ‘Interesting technique,’ Vaslik murmured. But he was frowning.

  Ruth wasn’t impressed, but said nothing. She hoped Wright wasn’t finished yet and that there was more to come. It had been a masterclass in interrogation up to a point, without a voice raised in anger, real or simulated. But the technique was oddly neutralised by Wright’s underlying expression, which came across as slightly cruel, even casual. The smiles were there, along with the soft voice, but so was more than a hint of contempt and condescension.

  They listened as Donny described the process of his introduction to Malak and his subsequent recruitment; a process that had led from a good job in Apple to the cell here in Woods County Jail. It poured out like a flood released, with no pauses for deliberate thought or fabrication. And at the end they had everything they needed to connect Malak and Ammar to multiple murder and a plan to bring terrorism to the United States.

  What they didn’t have was so much as a hint to the current whereabouts of the two men, James Chadwick or the drones. In that, it seemed Asim Malak had been ultra-cautious, keeping his plans very close to his chest and trusting nobody with the essential details – not even the location of the target itself.

  While they allowed Donny a breather and a coke, Brasher had a hurried conversation with Wright in the corridor outside. When they resumed the interview, she focussed on one question.

  ‘From what you’ve told us, Donny,’ she said softly, ‘and what we already know, Malak was planning a hit against an American target, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ He finished his coke and sat back, looking drained.

  ‘Did he ever mention the following locations? Just nod if you’ve heard of them. The places are: Vance. Fort Sill. Altus. McAlester.’ She repeated them and watched his reactions.

  Nothing.

  ‘That’s very good, Donny,’ Wright told him. ‘You’ve been a great help and that will be taken into consideration later.’ She glanced at Brasher, and at a nod from him stood up and walked out of the room.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Donny asked softly.

  ‘Nothing bad,’ Brasher said, ‘as long as you continue to help us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll discuss that later. But it will mean you can go home to Queens again. You would like that, I suppose?’

  Donny blinked and nodded. ‘You want me to tell you about others like Malak, don’t you?’

  ‘Like that, yes. But you don’t have to decide right now.’

  Ruth and Vaslik turned away from the window and stared at each other in consternation.

  ‘Is that it?’ Ruth demanded. She was appalled at the lack of depth to the interrogation and the absence of hard information gained. ‘We’d already figured out most of that – but we still don’t know anything about where Malak is or what he’s thinking!’

  Vaslik opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Wright walking into the room.

  She seemed unaffected by the interrogation session and was picking at a nail, ignoring them both. It seemed as if she had already dismissed the visit here as a job done.

  ‘I think we should talk to him,’ Ruth suggested. ‘There are a couple of questions I’d like to ask.’

  Wright didn’t even look up. ‘Well, you can forget that because it won’t happen. You’re British, right?’

  Ruth bristled at her spiky tone. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Because we work differently here – and last time I looked this was our turf. That little prick is a nobody, a gofer who knows nothing. Frankly, I think this was a waste of my time.’

  * * *

  As Donny’s interrogation came to an end, a white van with tinted windows and a Perspex roof vent pulled up outside the Woods County jail and slid into a space between an old Camry and a Mitsubishi pickup. The two men in the front sat watching the main entrance, while a third man in the back squatted by the side door, releasing the latch and sliding the door open an inch in readiness. The rush of cool air was a welcome relief and he licked his lips, suddenly wishing he could have a long drink to quench his dry mouth.

  ‘This town is asleep,’ said the driver, looking around at the quiet streets and buildings. He had a strong middle-eastern accent and spoke in English for the benefit of the man in the passenger seat, whose family was Libyan by origin but who had been born and educated in the US. ‘We could walk up and down here and nobody would even notice.’ He sniggered. ‘These American don’t know what’s going to hit them.’ He reached down to the floor and patted the stock of an M4 Colt carbine fitted with a 30-round magazine, one of three in the van. Then he picked up three pairs of orange ear-defenders and passed a pair each to the other two, and they got ready to slip them on.

  Because any second now the noise in the van was going to be insane.

  ‘Don’t underestimate them,’ the man in the back warned them. His name was Salem and he was a thirty-year-old former soldier originally from Yemen. He had been recruited for this job because of his military skills and experience, and spoke with certain knowledge. ‘The American police have great forces available to them and w
ill not hesitate to use them. You heard what your leader Malak said: if we fail, they will be all over us.’

  ‘If we fail?’ The passenger muttered sourly. He had made no secret of his disdain for the man in the back, brought into the assignment as if he and the driver were incapable of completing this simple task. ‘You mean you, don’t you? Isn’t that why you were brought along – to show us how it was done?’ He tapped a photograph of a woman taped to the front fascia. ‘Just in case you have forgotten, it’s the woman you have to look for, nobody else. The others are just – what do the Americans call it – damage?’

  The man in the back remained silent. He had seen and done this kind of thing before. And unlike these two idiots he knew the risks involved and the potential outcomes. He was accustomed to following orders, but not from the likes of them, especially the driver who seemed much too excitable for this to end well. As for the passenger, who thought too highly of himself, he reserved a professional man’s contempt for him and his tiresome show of bravado.

  He thought about the man ultimately giving the orders and wondered at the hell he was planning on unleashing some distance from this place. He knew of him only as Malak, and wondered about the almost personal thing he had going with the woman in the photograph, for which he was risking them all to eliminate her.

  He dismissed those thoughts and checked the tube he was holding, ensuring it was ready and that the second tube was close by. No more than three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, the tubes were olive green in colour, fitted with a foresight, rear sight and a trigger mechanism, with a webbing carry strap, although he wasn’t going to need that since he wasn’t going anywhere. They were LAW66 M72A3s – Light Anti-Tank Weapons – or rocket launchers, acquired, he’d been advised, through the same supplier who had provided the M4 carbines through a series of cut-outs in exchange for cash. Not that their provenance concerned him at all. As long as they worked and didn’t blow up in his face, he didn’t care who had done what to get them into his hands.

  ‘Collateral damage,’ he corrected the man without thinking. ‘They call it collateral damage. You should remember those words because there will be plenty of it. If this thing works and you two also do your job there won’t be anybody else standing, doesn’t matter who they are.’