Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“Couldn’t you have done that with your own resources?”

“Perhaps. But this isn’t our number one priority.”

“Care to tell me what priority number one is for the LP right now?”

“Maybe some other time.”

“You said you had a name,” Quinn said.

“Yes. A freelancer. He’s been around a few years. Our guess is he’s handling security for the group. We suspect he’s only doing this for money.”

“So not the name of one of the principals, then.”

“No,” Hardwick said. “That I don’t have. But this person might be a way in.”

“The name?”

“Tucker.”

Quinn could feel the hair on his forearms begin to rise. “Do you have a first name?”

“Leonard. Goes by Leo.”

Son of a goddamn bitch , Quinn thought.

Tucker was someone he knew. Someone who had no right to be walking around. By all rights, Quinn should have killed him in Berlin a year and a half earlier. He’d had a hand in the kidnapping of Orlando’s son. But they had made a deal, the boy’s location for his life.

“You know him?” Hardwick asked.

Quinn ignored the question. “Yellowhammer? Leo Tucker? And, what? That’s it? Just hearsay from a member of the LP about some nameless group and an operation you have no details on? That’s all you can give me? Is this what got your men killed in Ireland? And DDNI Jackson. He’s dead because of this, too.”

“Jackson’s death didn’t have anything to do with what we uncovered. I’m sure he had a lot of people who wanted him dead. Somebody got to him and stuffed him into the trunk of their car.”

“Jackson died in the tunnel below one of the apartment buildings on your list in New York.”

“What are you talking about?” If Hardwick was red before, he was all white now. Quinn’s revelation was apparently news to him, bad news.

“I found him myself in an old equipment room off a tunnel that ran below the building. The rats got to him first.”

Hardwick’s right hand began to shake. “Jesus.”

“What’s wrong? Hitting a little too close to home? I think you need to tell me everything. Might be your only chance to stop them from coming after you.”

“I’ve … I’ve told you everything. I swear. If there was more, I would give it to you.”

“Is Yellowhammer where this supposed attack is going to take place? Or just a staging location?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are they planning?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the target?”

“I…” There was something in Hardwick’s eyes.

“You know what it is.” As Quinn spoke, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. This time he ignored it.

“No … I don’t. I don’t know.”

Quinn raised his gun a few inches. “Tell me.”

“I… I…” Hardwick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “This is only a guess. No one has told me anything. ”

“Then tell me your guess.”

“Can I show you?”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

Hardwick reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. He hesitated for a second, then handed it to Quinn.

“The timing and proximity seem … advantageous.”

Quinn unfolded the paper. It was a news article printed from the Internet. And at the top, the headline:

G-8 SUMMIT BEGINS SATURDAY

CALIFORNIA’S HEARST CASTLE

READY TO PLAY HOST

CHAPTER

22

THE SON OF A BITCH KICKED HARDWICK OUT OFthe car right there in the parking lot, then drove off. Hardwick almost dug out his cell phone and called the cops to tell them he’d spotted a car he suspected was stolen. But that would have been counterproductive. Hardwick needed everything to stay on course. Quinn, Mr. Rose, the Office, Chercover, they all had parts still to play, and he had to make sure they performed as he’d planned.

The reason why was simple. The LP’s main directive counted on it, the reason why they were in existence at all. His manipulation of events would bring the goal of the organization that much closer to reality. It wouldn’t be long now, Hardwick knew that much. And God willing, he would be one of the lucky ones who’d still be around when the LP’s ultimate objective was realized.

It was all because a couple of intelligent patriots—what else could you call them?—foresaw a future where America’s power would begin to slip, where its position at the top of the economic ladder would no longer be secure. They knew they couldn’t let this happen, realizing even then that democracy wasn’t as important as two cars in the garage, a refrigerator full of food, and a yearly vacation at the beach. One only needed to look at China’s resurgence to see how well that was working.

So they recruited like-minded intellectuals and formed what would one day become known as the LP. They spent years drafting their plan, then doing everything they could to make it a reality. And now, a half-century later, the LP’s figurehead was in place, and already making a name for himself. In a few years, when he announced the creation of a serious third-party challenge to the status quo, the country would be ready, and would beg him to take command. The years the LP had spent fueling the polarization between the Democrats and the Republicans would finally pay off. That, combined with the softening of the electorate toward the acceptance of a third party that the LP had been fostering since before the Nixon administration, would create an atmosphere ripe for political revolt. In electing the LP’s man, the public would feel like they’d accomplished something for once, when in reality all they would have done is exactly what they were manipulated into doing.

After the LP’s candidate took the oath of office, suddenly the nations that had taken a hard line against the U.S. but were really under the control of the LP would start falling in line. Then the economic roller coaster the Western world had been stuck in would level off thanks to the LP’s grip on the financial institutions it had had a hand in re-creating during the great banking consolidation in 2008.

And once all that had occurred, the country wouldn’t even blink an eye when presidential term limits were repealed. It was just a matter of time now. Time that could be measured in years, not decades. Soon the LP would achieve the goals its founders had set out at the beginning: not only controlling the United States of America, but also nearly twenty percent of the rest of the world.

The realization that they were so close calmed Hardwick. He pulled out his phone, but not to call the cops on Quinn.

“It’s me,” he said when his boss picked up the other end.

“How did it go?” Chairman Kidd said.

“I don’t think he was happy to learn who I worked for,” Hardwick said.

“Do you think it was a mistake?”

“No. He needed to know. It’ll help him believe later.”

“Maybe. But I’m not so sure.”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“No, I guess not,” Chairman Kidd said. There was a pause. “Do you think he’ll follow through?”

“He’ll tell the Office. He has to. And they’ll tell their clients. Chercover won’t let it drop. He may not have cared about us before, but Deputy Director Jackson was his protégé.”

“Killing him was an inspired idea,” the Chairman said.

“Thank you,” Hardwick said.

The finding of Jackson’s body had gone near perfect to how Hardwick had envisioned it. As had the killings in Ireland, and the staged shooting at the museum less than an hour earlier. All had been designed to increase Chercover’s and the Office’s belief in the information Hardwick had been passing to them. Now there was only one last thing he had to do, and that would depend on what happened with Yellowhammer.

“Do you think it’s almost time to blackball the Office?” Chairman Kidd asked.

“Let’s wait and see what Quinn does,” Hardwick said. Forcing the Office out of business was just another step in Hardwick’s plan. They’d proved to be a problem for the LP, so using this opportunity to stop them was a no-brainer. “Once it looks like they’ve taken our bait, and send him to Yellowhammer, we move. Chercover first, though. Then we blackball the Office.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“After that I think it’s time for us to go into quiet mode,” Hardwick said.

There was a pause, then Chairman Kidd said, “Agreed. I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

“One other thing,” Hardwick said. “I’ve retired as of this moment. Do you think you can arrange things for me?”

“Of course. It’s time you became a member of the council anyway.”

Hardwick smiled. Plans within plans, all coming together. “I would be honored.”

“I’m glad,” the Chairman said. “I’ll be waiting for your final call.”

“The morning after tomorrow. If everything sticks to schedule it should be around 12:30 p.m. your time.”

“Remember, there can be no loose ends.”

“There won’t be.”

“Great, a vacation when you’re done, then,” Mr. Kidd said. “Some place warm.”

“It’s like you read my mind.”

“Be careful, James. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Hardwick slipped the phone back into his pocket. A vacation did sound like a good idea. But he had to see this through first. And even before that, he needed to find a ride back to his hotel.

Goddamn Quinn.

Marion awoke to darkness.

At first she thought there might be something covering her eyes. But as her fingers touched her face, she realized nothing was there. Blind? No , of course not, she told herself. It was just dark, darker even than the tiny space in the wall of Frau Roslyn’s orphanage.

“Iris.” The name slipped from her mouth.

She reached around her bed in the dark trying to find the girl. Not a bed, really. Not even a mattress, more a thick piece of foam. There was no sheet. No blanket.

No Iris.

Marion began working her way across the floor, feeling every inch of the cold concrete surface.

“Iris!” She clung to the hope the child had just wandered off and fallen asleep, but the desperation in her harsh whisper betrayed what she really believed.

Her fingers touched the far wall a half-second before her head did. A spike of white-hot pain lanced her skull, forcing her into a near blackout before she was able to regain control.

She reached out and touched it again, but this time using it as a crutch to help her stand. Her head was still pounding from the blow, but she fought through it, willing herself to push the pain as far away as she could.

“Iris?” she said again.

She finished her search of the floor by shuffling her feet forward. The room wasn’t that big. She figured no more than eight feet by ten. She found a door along the wall near the foot of the mattress. It was made of metal, solid, cold, and flush to the floor. There was absolutely no light seeping around the edges.

But other than the door and the mattress and the cold walls, there was nothing else.

Her memories of the last hours—days, maybe?—were sketchy at best. The parking garage she remembered. The man with the accent. But after that nothing was clear. Lights, darkness, a constant hum, someone helping her to walk, then another hum, louder this time, more powerful. Then …

Then nothing until now.

She felt around the walls, looking for a window. Maybe there was one that was covered. Or if she had gone blind, maybe it was filling the room with light she could not see. Either way, it was a possible route of escape. But there was no window. Nothing but solid wall.