THE LAST ARK

CHAPTER 27: BUG EYES

King David Hotel, Jerusalem T h ree Days Before Temple Ceremony

Jenn wipes the nervous palm sweat on her jeans before she types the command. Jack scans Jerusalem with binoculars from the balcony, concerned someone watches them. “Th is could get us all arrested,” frets Geoff . “You can walk any time,” Jenn replies, removing her fi ngers from the keyboard. T h ey debated for an hour on how to get the FPOTUS to respond to the admiral’s murder. Jenn concocted a plan using a device she discovered last year on Taylor’s old jet, which now belongs to Jack. A DARPA prototype spy camera the size of a fl y with wings. Jack reluctantly retrieved the device and showed her how to pair the app to her tablet. Geoff paces behind her in the hotel room. He should be curious to know more about the FPOTUS situation. In fact, once he learned of her plan, he encouraged her, but now, he’s having second thoughts. “If it helps your conscience, I haven’t fired up the bug yet. I’m just playing with a few thermostats,” Jenn reminds him. Sadly, most hotels and other commercial establishments with rotating maintenance workers are weak spots for hackers and others in the espionage business. Movies will typically show a nerd in a crawl space, but a few modern software tools can do the same through the hotel Wi-Fi network. After finding the presidential suite, Jenn turns off the AC and turns up the heat. That should force them to open the balcony doors for ventilation. “If the FPOTUS is already here, then Israel must be in negotiations over extradition,” Geoff repeats his argument. “Exactly. Israel has no intention of arresting him,” Jenn repeats her position. “Are you sure they can’t detect this bug?” she asks Jack. “Not sure at all,” Jack replies. “Taylor forgot it on the jet, then you two broke up.” “We never dated, so we never split up. I was investigating him,” she replies, oddly self-conscious of discussing Taylor in front of Geoff. Even though it was years ago, she can’t deny a lingering attraction to Geoff’s large, muscular frame. Geoff has a distinct advantage over Taylor in that he’s not a fugitive. With a click, the app for the insect-sized spy drone opens. The super expensive robotic insect sits within the foam of an open box. The drone came with a tiny lever, almost like a mini-game controller that Jenn plugs into her USB. With a gentle nudge, she lifts the drone to hover above the box, nearly silent except for a minor buzz. On the tablet, the camera image turns on with a screen showing directions and controls. “Taylor has the coolest freaking toys,” Jenn says, admiring the tiny device he must have bought on the dark web or from a DARPA engineer with a gambling habit. The drone registers her voice with a tiny voice bar on her tablet app. Jack leans out over the balcony rail to look up. With a nod of his head, he motions with his hand for Jenn to proceed. She wants to move the device into position on the presidential suite balcony before they open the door. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing this,” complains Geoff, standing to look over Jenn’s shoulder. “Think of it this way,” Jenn explains as she navigates the insect drone out of the balcony door and upward. A moderate breeze blows it around a little, but the insect spy continues to climb. “Your job is to keep the FPOTUS safe. Right now, you’re operating blind. I’m giving you some eyes on the man that you wouldn’t have otherwise.” “Sure, illegal eyes that could land us all in jail,” Geoff replies with a deep frown. “Not if we pinky swear,” Jenn says. “What time is it?” “12:58 p.m.,” Jack replies. T hey had arranged for the hotel to deliver a sealed envelope to the FPOTUS suite exactly at one p.m. The envelope contains an anonymous note revealing that Admiral Scott died from Novichok poisoning and the FBI wants to question FPOTUS regarding his conversation with Putin. Jenn printed the letter on US Embassy letterhead, stealing a sheet as they walked by a copy room. The letter is a total fabrication, but she wants to listen to his reaction. As expected, the sliding door opens to allow fresh air. Jenn navigates the tiny spy fly into the room, then upward to rest on the sconce above the drapes. T he fisheye camera lens shows the FPOTUS, with two lawyers sitting on the suite couches working the phones. Computers, Coke cans, coffee cups, and leftover meals litter the room. “If Benet continues to balk at the asylum request, we can press harder for a share of the temple treasure,” a lawyer suggests. “Of course, they owe me,” replies the FPOTUS. “Everyone is saying I helped close the deal. But we need to get asylum. I don’t want to live in Arabia. Too hot, and the food is horrible.” “I’ll call Benet’s team back to offer the exchange,” adds another. “Sir, I already spoke with the king’s lead negotiator,” another aid clarifies. “Chances of you getting a share of the temple treasure are near zero.” A knock at the door causes everyone to look at each other, obviously not expecting any visitors. One lawyer approaches the door to peer carefully through the spyglass. “Who is it?” he yells through the door. “Hotel concierge, sir. I have a hand-delivered letter from the American Embassy,” a muffled voice announces. T he lawyer raises an eyebrow at the former president before he opens the door and takes the letter, peeking down both ends of the hallway before closing and bolting the door. “What is it?” the FPOTUS asks. “Not sure, no label.” The lawyer opens the letter and reads. His eyes widen as he flops on the couch. “It has a US Embassy letterhead, but no signature or name. They claim that Admiral Adam Scott died of Novichok poisoning, and the FBI wants to question you.” “What? Why would they want to talk to me? Look, I didn’t like the guy, he was a real loser, a boy scout, but I didn’t know he was even dead,” the FPOTUS defends. “Don’t sweat it; it’s a fake,” the lawyer replies as he rips the page. “Anonymous, which means someone is trying to rattle your cage. I’ll lean on the hotel to find out who. Stay focused on the negotiations. Now, how can we motivate Jordan to agree to the new terms?” “Dig up more dirt,” the other lawyer responds. “Last year, King Hussein came up in the Pandora Papers. The guy stashed hundreds of millions offshore. Get someone to release a story that he embezzled the funds from the Jordan treasury. Make him look corrupt. Even if it’s not true, it will pressure him when he’s already weak.” “I don’t care how; just get them to offer me asylum,” the FPOTUS responds. Jenn shuts down the screen but leaves the bug on the sconce to record directly to a cloud account. The FPOTUS seemed genuinely surprised. Maybe he had nothing to do with the admiral’s death. Maybe this entire trip was a goose chase, just as everyone has tried to tell her. “Satisfied?” Geoff chides. “The FPOTUS was clueless.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she admits. Catching her reflection in the hotel mirror, the image of desperation stares back at her with a searing self judgment. Matt tried to tell her to leave it alone and let the pros take over. “I should go home.” “Alright, I like it, good plan. We got some sun, ate well, and we’re not under arrest. I call that a win.” Jack claps his hands, clearly excited by the news. “We can fly back first thing in the morning.” Jenn stares at the tablet, wondering if she should have listened longer, but then lets it go. It doesn’t matter. She won’t learn anything that will bring back the admiral. Nothing will relieve her pain or resolve her unanswered questions. Only time will dull the penetrating agony. “Why don’t you let me buy you dinner,” offers Geoff. “We can catch up, and maybe it’ll take your mind off this mess.” “No thanks, I’m going to do a little sightseeing,” replies Jack with a smirk. Jenn chuckles at Jack’s incessant humor, then turns to Geoff. “Sounds wonderful. I’ll be ready at seven.” She doesn’t feel like eating; she wants to storm into the presidential suite to demand some direct answers; she wants to go home and crawl up under the covers; she wants to hear Taylor’s quirky viewpoint. Something isn’t right about the situation, but she’s too emotional for her head to think clearly. Is depression a stage of grief?