Free Sohlberg and the White Death by Jens Amundsen

give you seventeen million dollars?”
    “No but—”
    “Mister Johnson . . . you told me that they never gave you stock in the company although you were the one who came up with the only working design for the drones that made them hundreds of millions of dollars. Correct?”
    “Yes but—”
    “You told me that they fired you because they thought you were overpaid and too old at age forty-one. Right?”
    “They—”
    “They hired a team of young pothead punks to replace you at half your salary. Isn’t that true?”
    “I—”
    “I what ? . . . You’re the man who made billions of dollars for other people thanks to your designs for the Predator and Reaper drones. I remember you telling me that your moron bosses at General Atomics never gave you bonuses or salary increases. . . . They wouldn’t even give you a little time off when your wife got a blood clot that almost killed her.”
    “I didn’t mean anything by—”
    “That’s the problem with you Americans. You mean nothing whenever you speak or think. There’s nothing behind your pretty words and pretty faces.”
    “Why did you bring me here? . . . To insult me?”
    “I brought you here because I understand that you are working on a new drone.”
    The American’s eyes grew wide. Domenico Pelle instantly knew that his hired and planted spies had been on target . The American detective agency Kroll never failed him.
    “I . . . I was toying around with some preliminary designs. I haven’t even made a prototype.”
    “Make sure that you inform me from now on about any new designs.”
    “Of course. It’s just that I like tinkering with my stuff . . . constantly improving things and then pushing the envelope to unexpected places.”
    “You,” said Domenico Pelle, “have a knack for that. That’s why I reward you so richly. Correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “I always liked the fact that you were the first person to produce an unmanned aircraft that could fly long distances. Your drones first spied on people. Then you made them bigger and better so that they could drop bombs on America’s enemies all over Yugoslavia. Then you and General Atomics moved on to bigger and better and more profitable killing fields in Afghanistan . . . Iraq . . . Pakistan and Yemen.”
    The American’s chest visibly expanded. “I’m proud of that. I’m glad I could help the war against terrorists and evildoers.”
    “Maybe. But you got nothing but a slap in your face and a kick in your butt from your employers.”
    “That’s why I’m glad to be working with you.”
    Domenico Pelle frowned. He wanted the American to tell him that he was damn grateful to be working for him. Actually it was the other way around. Pelle was exceedingly grateful for the American. The clueless American had built and sold him five drones. Each aircraft carried 500 pounds of cocaine every week into five small private airfields in Spain and France from an airbase in Morocco—courtesy of the very corrupt generals and King of Morocco.
    After landing the cocaine was shipped all over the border-less European Union in one-pound packages that easily and quickly eluded detection. Pelle was proud that he had came up with this distribution system. It was a perfect “ just in time ” system that he copied from innovative Japanese and American manufacturers, wholesalers, and retailers.
    “Tell me . . . Mr. Johnson . . . just what tinkering and envelope-pushing do you have in mind for your drones?”
    “I want to go the opposite way.”
    “What?”
    “I started my career by making drones bigger and bigger. Now I want to design them to be smaller and smaller.”
    “Ah yes,” said an interested Domenico Pelle. “Miniaturization.”
    “Exactly. I want to make them as small as birds and mosquitoes. They could like look animals. Just imagine what you could see and hear with a miniature drone that was as big as a fly.”
    “I like that. Such a thing would be wonderful.”
    “You could fly the thing