don’t appreciate you involving me in your . . . war, or whatever it is. I perform basic research on the natural world.”
He turned more serious. “As one human being to another, I’m asking for your assistance.”
“I turned down all military-funded research grants for a reason. I want no part of this ‘permanent war’ you people are selling. We should be investing in education and health care, not war.”
He flipped through the folder in his hand. “You contribute to human rights groups and antiwar organizations.”
“And I suppose you think that makes me some sort of traitor.”
“No. It gives me hope that you’ll help us.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does.” He leaned close to her. “We have reason to think these enemy drones might be using a software model based on the behavior of weaver ants. A model developed by you.”
She felt the warm surge of adrenaline. “My God . . .”
He started dealing out full-color photographs into her lap. Photos of carbonized and torn bodies, maimed and injured people at bombing scenes—some of them children. “Scores of innocent people are dead. Politicians, scholars, human rights activists, business leaders, students. Someone has bypassed America’s defenses to kill these specific people. And more die every week. What you need to do is tell me how to stop it.”
She searched for anything to say as she gazed in horror at the images. “But I don’t . . . I have no idea how my work could—”
“Tell me why someone would choose to imbue a machine with the mind of a weaver ant. What’s so special about them? Why weavers?”
She felt nauseous, on the verge of tears, looking at the photo of a dead child. A twisted and burned stroller lay nearby. “Because the weaver ant is quite possibly the most warlike creature on the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER 8
Lost in Action
C het Warner had no desire to travel anywhere with the Pakistani army, let alone into the densely crowded slums of Lyari Town. It was like strapping on a deer costume to go out hiking on the opening day of hunting season.
One of the eighteen constituent towns in the city of Karachi, Lyari was a tangled warren of alleys, broken streets, and dilapidated buildings alongside the harbor on the west end of the city. Notwithstanding Pakistan’s population of Taliban sympathizers and Islamic fundamentalists, and orderly military neighborhoods, Lyari was controlled by narcotics gangs armed with machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades; not even the police dared cross into it. Going in with the army seemed not much wiser, since the chief distinction between the police and the army was the color of their armored cars. Warner wouldn’t even have considered going there if it weren’t for Colonel Kayani’s personal assurances that Langley would be pleased.
Warner glanced over to the ornately uniformed Pakistani army colonel sitting across from him inside the cramped BRDM-2 armored car. Kayani must be expecting a photo op, since he had never dressed like this before. It made Warner feel more at ease.
He tried to distract his chronically loose bowels by peering through the narrow bulletproof portal in the side of the BRDM. The convoy was rolling along the Lyari Expressway that followed the river of the same name. As he looked out, the river was just a dusty no-man’s-land several hundred yards wide, bisected by a narrow channel of raw sewage and industrial effluent that reeked of ammonia. On the far side lay the Sindh Industrial and Trading Estate—or SITE town—a place every bit as fetching as its name implied.
Karachi had never been Warner’s choice, but then, he hadn’t distinguished himself in those early years, and accepting a clandestine service post seemed like a way to beef up his résumé—to get some respect. Then, just a few months after he arrived, the Russians started pulling out of Afghanistan. Colleagues sounded surprised he hadn’t known Pakistan was going to
He turned more serious. “As one human being to another, I’m asking for your assistance.”
“I turned down all military-funded research grants for a reason. I want no part of this ‘permanent war’ you people are selling. We should be investing in education and health care, not war.”
He flipped through the folder in his hand. “You contribute to human rights groups and antiwar organizations.”
“And I suppose you think that makes me some sort of traitor.”
“No. It gives me hope that you’ll help us.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does.” He leaned close to her. “We have reason to think these enemy drones might be using a software model based on the behavior of weaver ants. A model developed by you.”
She felt the warm surge of adrenaline. “My God . . .”
He started dealing out full-color photographs into her lap. Photos of carbonized and torn bodies, maimed and injured people at bombing scenes—some of them children. “Scores of innocent people are dead. Politicians, scholars, human rights activists, business leaders, students. Someone has bypassed America’s defenses to kill these specific people. And more die every week. What you need to do is tell me how to stop it.”
She searched for anything to say as she gazed in horror at the images. “But I don’t . . . I have no idea how my work could—”
“Tell me why someone would choose to imbue a machine with the mind of a weaver ant. What’s so special about them? Why weavers?”
She felt nauseous, on the verge of tears, looking at the photo of a dead child. A twisted and burned stroller lay nearby. “Because the weaver ant is quite possibly the most warlike creature on the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER 8
Lost in Action
C het Warner had no desire to travel anywhere with the Pakistani army, let alone into the densely crowded slums of Lyari Town. It was like strapping on a deer costume to go out hiking on the opening day of hunting season.
One of the eighteen constituent towns in the city of Karachi, Lyari was a tangled warren of alleys, broken streets, and dilapidated buildings alongside the harbor on the west end of the city. Notwithstanding Pakistan’s population of Taliban sympathizers and Islamic fundamentalists, and orderly military neighborhoods, Lyari was controlled by narcotics gangs armed with machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades; not even the police dared cross into it. Going in with the army seemed not much wiser, since the chief distinction between the police and the army was the color of their armored cars. Warner wouldn’t even have considered going there if it weren’t for Colonel Kayani’s personal assurances that Langley would be pleased.
Warner glanced over to the ornately uniformed Pakistani army colonel sitting across from him inside the cramped BRDM-2 armored car. Kayani must be expecting a photo op, since he had never dressed like this before. It made Warner feel more at ease.
He tried to distract his chronically loose bowels by peering through the narrow bulletproof portal in the side of the BRDM. The convoy was rolling along the Lyari Expressway that followed the river of the same name. As he looked out, the river was just a dusty no-man’s-land several hundred yards wide, bisected by a narrow channel of raw sewage and industrial effluent that reeked of ammonia. On the far side lay the Sindh Industrial and Trading Estate—or SITE town—a place every bit as fetching as its name implied.
Karachi had never been Warner’s choice, but then, he hadn’t distinguished himself in those early years, and accepting a clandestine service post seemed like a way to beef up his résumé—to get some respect. Then, just a few months after he arrived, the Russians started pulling out of Afghanistan. Colleagues sounded surprised he hadn’t known Pakistan was going to
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