Disengaged

by Mischa Hiller

  She put the early evening TV news on. There was a report from Pakistan about a drone strike which caught her interest because it was on the border with Afghanistan. The report was patchy in detail, some mobile phone footage showing a large crater where some houses had been, locals saying no al-Qaeda were present, just civilians. She switched off the TV and went upstairs to the computer to research UAVs, or drones as they were colloquially known.

  Glued to the Internet, studying a subject sparked by a conversation with Cassie, no less, she tried (unsuccessfully) to avoid thinking about whether she’d actually agreed that Cassie would arrange to have Julian spied upon, to check if he was seeing another woman. It must have been the wine, the moment, Cassie making the suggestion so matter-of-factly. Now she regretted agreeing to it. It was underhand, which made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t just holding stuff back from him like the volunteering; it was being proactively underhand.

  Since it was approaching five thirty she went down to the kitchen, poured herself some white wine from the fridge and headed back upstairs to the small bedroom she had turned into an office, which many years ago she’d secretly planned as a nursery. Maybe she could call the detective thing off. She looked at her phone, newly programmed with Cassie’s mobile number. Maybe Cassie had forgotten about it. If so, to phone her would make it real and embarrass them both. At least this way she had some deniability. Fuck, what was she thinking? She tried to put it from her mind by going back to the screen and concentrating on something of importance. She’d allowed her life to be thrown off-kilter by a younger woman with fake boobs. Maybe, she thought, clicking on yet another video of the after-effects of a drone strike, Third World problems could drown out First World ones.

  An hour of watching videos and reading articles made Sheila’s brain hurt. The beginning of a headache was creeping up from the back of her neck. She’d suspected for a while that she needed reading glasses but had repeatedly put off going to the opticians. Her solution to the headache was a couple of painkillers washed down with more wine. She took her refreshed glass and a sheaf of printouts out on to the patio where the sun was low in the cloud-free western sky. Her research into drones had borne unpleasant fruit. They were used everywhere, well, in lands mostly far away, and had become the weapon of choice in the war on terror, operating in countries where no war had been declared, on suspects (usually dark-skinned) who had not been convicted of anything by any court. Even if one could stomach that, the rate of what was euphemistically called collateral damage, meaning the civilians killed or injured in these attacks, was high, and that was when they hit the right targets. She had numerous press reports in front of her of innocent groups of people, often children, being blown to pieces, often hit by a second missile when going to help the victims of the first – so-called ‘double-tap’ strikes. The reports of killed civilians followed a depressing pattern. Initially dismissed by the US government, they would be subsequently modified when facts on the ground became available. It was as if they deliberately started from a position of denial until they saw what reports from the area emerged.

  She could see the appeal of this unmanned combat to politicians, since it didn’t involve sending voters or their loved ones to face death, and there was zero accountability. She couldn’t really understand why Julian was getting involved in working on such a thing, especially since he seemed to have objected to it earlier, if that snippet she’d heard at dinner with Rami was anything to go by. It’s not that he was overtly political, or banged on about his principles, if he had any. They never really talked politics, but, like most other people, they shared a cynicism about anything to do with the political system. One thing that she had admired him for was his stepping aside from a promising career at British Aerospace Systems to set up with Rami. Perhaps Rami had just worn him down about it in the end; he could be very persuasive.

  She checked her watch and went to prepare some dinner, even though she didn’t have much hope that Julian would be back in time. As she chopped an onion to make a tomato sauce, she wondered whether she shouldn’t have taken more interest in his work, tried at least to understand it. But the computer games stuff had turned her off. War games, they always seemed to be. Always about killing. She’d once been at a friend’s house and remembered being quietly horrified when watching her friend’s son and some friends play at killing on the TV screen. ‘Boys have always played at war,’ his father had said when she’d commented on it, ‘now it’s just computerized.’ And more real, Sheila had thought, more graphic. In fact, the game had very much resembled the remote-controlled missile attacks they’d shown footage of when invading Iraq. It was all done once-removed, on a screen. She remembered that Wikileaks video that was released online, of the pilots targeting some civilians they believed to be acting suspiciously. Their comments had been those of teenagers playing a video game. They probably hadn’t been much more than teenagers themselves, could even have grown up playing the same video game she’d watched those boys play.

  She stirred her tomato sauce while calling Hadfish with her mobile but it just rang. She tried Julian’s mobile, not expecting an answer.

  ‘Hi.’ He sounded breathy, like he was walking and talking.

  ‘Oh, hi. Are you on your way home?’

  ‘Yes, just heading to the car.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’ve got dinner on.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you in twenty or thirty minutes.’

  It was amazing how one could be cheered by a simple, inconsequential call, Sheila thought, as she set the small table in the kitchen. She found and lit the red candles she used to create what Julian, a little mockingly, called ‘an ambience’. She’d printed out some stuff from her research ready to have a discussion about drones. Maybe she wouldn’t ask him about it tonight. Maybe they could have some wine and make love and she could reclaim him that way, just for a while, just to prove to herself that she could. She felt a pang of remorse when remembering her conversation with Cassie. What if he found out about it? But how could he? While the water boiled for the pasta she went upstairs and checked her face. She thought about changing into something he might find more alluring but it seemed a little contrived. The whole idea of having to make herself alluring made her feel tired. She was overthinking, again. It’s what he said she did. He was right – even though it was a little of the pot calling the kettle black – but she found it difficult not to, especially after some wine.

  Back in the kitchen she checked the time and put on the pasta; he’d be here any minute. Eleven minutes later he had still not arrived. Another twenty minutes elapsed and she gave up trying to keep the pasta warm. Thirty minutes later she blew the candles out and put them away. The white-wine bottle was empty and she considered opening the red she’d got out. But she was too comfortable to get up and go into the kitchen. Forty-five minutes after putting the pasta on she heard his key in the door and he came into the living room. He looked pale.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got waylaid by one of the developers. Caught me as I was leaving.’

  ‘I thought you were in the car park when I rang?’ She was enunciating her words carefully so she didn’t sound like she’d been drinking, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  He took off his jacket, revealing sweat stains at his armpits. ‘No, I was just leaving the office. We’ve got this new guy, remember, I mentioned him? Nizar. He needs handholding.’ He put his jacket over the back of the sofa, looked at the empty bottle of wine but not at her, and went into the kitchen. She was pleased she hadn’t changed after all; she would have looked pathetic.

  ‘You didn’t wait, I hope?’ he shouted above his clattering.

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  She pulled herself out of the sofa and made her way upstairs to bed. She was too tired to confront him about drones.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mojgan’s training, befo
re moving to the cyber-monitoring unit Farsheed had set up, had included some actual eyes-on-the-target surveillance, but it was not her specialty, and doing it on your own was problematic and increased the risk of being spotted. Three or four people, at least, were needed to avoid the possibility of detection. But since Naomi was a civilian, and unlikely to suspect that she was even being followed, Mojgan assumed there would be little risk of being spotted if she were careful. Mojgan was more concerned that she’d have to negotiate the London Tube system when she picked up Naomi leaving Hadfish and tailed her down York Way towards King’s Cross. But Naomi had crossed the Euston Road and gone down a side street, then through a small park with a tennis court where she’d lingered, seemingly to admire some aspect of nature. She sat at a bench and Mojgan had to wonder whether this was a sign of counter-surveillance. Mojgan walked slowly round the perimeter, keeping Naomi’s back in view. After a few minutes she got up and left the way Mojgan had. Mojgan followed her on to a narrow street lined with four-storey red-brick buildings that looked newly built. Naomi disappeared into one of them, and when Mojgan reached it she discovered a barred gate, locked, with a bank of eight doorbells embedded in the wall to its left. Doorbells with no names beside them.

  Last night she had ached physically for Farsheed; now she yearned for him professionally. She had come here with no real plan except some vague idea about overpowering the woman, who was a lot older, then perhaps stealing her security card and office keys, buying just enough time to get into Hadfish and do what she needed to do. It was weak, Mojgan knew that; what if she had a husband, or children, for instance? Never mind her abhorrence of physical violence; she just wasn’t physically or mentally built for it. But she’d been informed, via her online word game, that she needed to get on with it. Farsheed had asked her – although she knew he was being pressured by his own superiors – whether they needed to send help, by which she understood someone who could undertake the things she was reluctant to. That, she knew, would be damaging to Farsheed, an admission of failure, never mind the involvement of other departments.

  Someone had appeared on the other side of the gate – an old woman holding a tiny dog with bulging eyes. She smiled at Mojgan as the gate squeaked open, a quizzical tilt to her head. Mojgan made sure she smiled back, her finger hovering over the glowing buzzers.

  ‘I have forgotten what apartment Naomi is in,’ she said.

  ‘Flat four,’ the old woman said, holding the gate open. Mojgan went in and climbed the stairs, discovering that there were two apartments per floor, much like her building back home. Reaching the second she hesitated by number four. How to approach this? Perhaps she would try something she was comfortable with first. She took her netbook from her bag, aware of the handgun in the bottom, wrapped in her headscarf. Opening the computer, she scanned for wireless networks. There were three, the one with the strongest signal, which still had what looked like the generic name that came with the modem, being unprotected. She sat on the floor outside the door and fired up some software that could capture the wireless traffic between it and the lone computer connected to it. It was encrypted, but forcing a disconnect with her software meant she could capture the moment the computer (conveniently called ‘Naomi’s computer’) reconnected with the router. There it all was, not even a password to login. Incredible. Now she could start to peel Naomi’s onion. How impressed you’d be, Farsheed, if you could see me now.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Julian got to Hadfish he put his briefcase on his desk and went straight next door into Rami’s office, intending to talk to him about the unexplained cash withdrawals. A petite dark-skinned woman, rather beautiful in his eyes, was standing before Rami’s desk. Rami leant back in his chair, hands locked behind his head, elbows akimbo. He had that slight smile Julian had seen him reserve for women, an affected grin that he probably thought looked charming, and most probably women found it so. Julian envied Rami his ease with the opposite sex; he could somehow be tactile and flirtatious without causing offence, even making Sheila giggle – something Julian couldn’t seem to manage. Julian found that despite himself he was grinning stupidly at this woman, such was her appeal.

  ‘This is Salma,’ Rami said with pride, as if he had invented her. Salma put some post on Rami’s desk and stuck her childlike hand out. Julian was conscious not to squeeze it too hard.

  ‘You must be Julian Fisher,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get your mail.’ She moved past him to the doorway.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked Rami once she had gone and he’d closed the door behind her.

  ‘Naomi’s replacement,’ Rami said, looking past Julian into the open office.

  ‘Where’s Naomi? She hasn’t got holiday booked, has she?’

  ‘No, she’s off sick, but she arranged a replacement from the agency.’

  ‘Sick? Naomi’s never off sick. What’s wrong with her?’ Rami shrugged and Julian contained his exasperation; sometimes Rami exhibited no natural curiosity.

  ‘OK, never mind, although why does everyone say mail now, instead of post?’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound your age,’ Rami said, picking up the stack of envelopes Salma had put on his desk.

  Julian plonked himself in the chair next to the door. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ He slit open an envelope and started to read, glancing up at Julian expectantly, giving him half of his attention.

  ‘I’ve been looking at some expense statements for last month, and I’ve got some questions.’

  Rami put down his post and switched over to his desktop.

  ‘It’s regarding the expenses credit card.’

  Rami’s face, which Julian was watching, changed just for a second as he looked at the screen, but it could have been a reaction to something in his inbox. He turned an open expression on Julian. ‘And?’

  ‘There have been some cash withdrawals on your card, which is pretty unusual. Nearly three-and-a-half K if memory serves. And a couple of withdrawals in Leeds, if that rings any bells?’

  He scrunched up his face. ‘No, it doesn’t. I probably made a couple of cash withdrawals on the account, but nothing of that amount. What of it?’

  ‘Well, apart from the fact they charge us for withdrawing cash, there are no receipts corresponding to the amounts.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I use the card properly next time. Anything else?’

  Julian wasn’t sure how far to push it; after all, he had other things to worry about. ‘Was it for entertaining the UAV job clients? Didn’t you say they were based in Leeds?’

  ‘No. Maybe, I can’t remember.’ A pause. ‘I might have taken some cash out in Leeds.’

  ‘Have you learnt anything more about them?’

  ‘Not really. They do a lot of military work.’

  ‘Did you know the original job came from Israel?’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  Julian had done a quick Google translate of some of the Hebrew text in the program and ascertained that they were just programming comments. ‘So it’s true?’

  Rami raised his hands and shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t know, Julian.’

  ‘If it were from Israel, why would a country with a pretty advanced tech base and sense of paranoia outsource sensitive work abroad?’

  Rami blew his cheeks out. ‘I don’t know. Lots of governments outsource sensitive work to the private sector, especially IT stuff. Maybe the company who outsourced to us have connections there. Does it matter?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rami. We don’t know if it matters, that’s the problem. I don’t like working blind.’

  Rami ignored Julian’s outburst. ‘How’s the job coming along, anyway?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you that Lebanon is technically at war with Israel? I mean, they could use a drone on your countrymen.’

  Rami sighed. ‘Business is business, Julian. You know that’s always been my motto. And besides, you know my thoughts on some of my so-calle
d countrymen. So how’s it coming?’

  Julian swallowed his anger; after all, it wasn’t as if he had much choice about the job, he was just getting himself worked up for no purpose whatsoever. ‘It’s coming. I think I can suggest a few improvements. Nothing fundamental, though.’

  ‘That’s great. Remember, this is all about the future of the company’ – pointing into the open-plan area – ‘and the people out there. We’re bound to get a lot of repeat business if we do a good job.’