“Where exactly is it?”
“You can figure that out yourself,” Hardwick said. “Shall I go on?”
Quinn held his tongue and nodded.
“The lease has recently been transferred to a corporation out of Portland, Oregon, called Cameron-Kadash Industries. I give you the name only because you will undoubtedly want to check what I’m going to tell you. There is no such organization in Portland, or anywhere else for that matter. It does not exist. Not as an actual company, that is. The facility has been occupied. And there is something going on there. I don’t know what specifically, but its purpose seems pretty clear.”
When Hardwick didn’t go on, Quinn said, “What purpose?”
Hardwick seemed to think for a moment, then said, “I should back up a step. Last fall we were approached by a group who thought we might be interested in helping them with a project they had. As you might expect, we get these kind of offers from time to time.”
“I’m sure.”
Another smile. “This particular idea would affect multiple nations.”
“In what way?”
“Fear, panic, maybe a little chaos, too.”
“All things you at the LP love.”
“Don’t think for one minute you understand us,” Hardwick snapped. “What you know is so little that it’s the same as knowing nothing. You are in no position to make judgments about us. You have no idea what we are really about.”
“Then tell me what you’re really about. I’d be more than happy to listen.”
“That’s not what this meeting’s about.”
“Of course not,” Quinn said, not hiding his contempt.
Hardwick ignored the response, and picked up where he left off. “We strung them along for a little while, enough to learn a little more about what they were planning. But when they realized we weren’t serious, they broke off contact. I felt it was necessary to keep tabs on them. If they were really going to move forward, it would serve my group well to have advance warning.”
“The LP ready to take advantage of the situation. That’s nice,” Quinn said.
“Despite what you think, we have the best interests of the country at the front of every decision we make. I am the one bringing this to your attention. Don’t forget that.”
“And do your friends know you’re doing this?” Quinn asked.
Hardwick paused, then shook his head. “No.”
Quinn could see that Hardwick wanted to tell him more, but he remained silent.
“All right,” Quinn said. “So you’re acting on your own. We can go with that for the moment. But you still haven’t told me anything useful.”
Hardwick glanced at the gun. “Do you mind? I keep thinking your finger might slip.”
“If this goes off, it won’t be because my finger slipped.” But Quinn moved the end of the barrel a few inches to the left so that it was aimed at the door instead of Hardwick’s midsection.
“I don’t find that ver—”
He was cut off by a low hum.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Double-buzz-pause-double-buzz.
It was Quinn’s phone, the pattern indicating Nate was on the other end. Quinn knew he should ignore it, but it would be about Orlando, and he had to know she was okay.
“Don’t move or say anything,” Quinn said.
Hardwick shrugged, then nodded.
Quinn retrieved his phone and touched the Accept button.
“Yes?” he said.
“Is everything all right?” Nate asked.
“As best as can be expected.”
“The news is broadcasting a report that police have the museum area cordoned off and are looking for at least one man with a gun. Are you still there?”
“No.”
“What about the meet?” Its … ongoing.
“He’s there with you?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “What about…?”
“Orlando?” Nate said, guessing what Quinn meant. “She’s pissed and has a raging headache, but the doctor gave her something that should deal with the pain. Told us it should kick in soon. He also said the wound was more of a graze than anything too serious. She’s not going to be able to turn her head for a little while, but other than that, he thinks she’ll be okay.”
Some of the tension left Quinn’s face. “Excellent.”
“The doctor wants her to stay overnight.”
“She must love that.”
“It wasn’t quite what she wanted to hear,” Nate said. “Where are you?”
“Not too far away,” Quinn said.
“I’m not sure where I’d find that on a map.”
Once again, Nate was acting in the exact way Quinn had trained him. Covering his partner whether he wanted him to or not. It was more proof that Nate was going to make it hard for Quinn not to keep him on. If Orlando had been around, she wouldn’t have said “I told you so” out loud, but the look on her face would have conveyed it just the same.
“Look, I’ll call you soon,” Quinn said. His words told Nate to call him every ten minutes until Quinn gave him the all-clear code.
“Problems?” Hardwick asked.
“I believe you were about to give me some hard information.”
Hardwick smiled. “Who were you talking to? That kid who helps you? Or was it your woman friend?”
Quinn’s anger spiked. In less than two seconds his right hand was wrapped around Hardwick’s neck, squeezing tightly.
“Please,” Hardwick said, his voice a low croak. “I can’t breathe.”
“That’s a lie, Mr. Hardwick. If you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t talk.”
“Please,” Hardwick repeated.
Quinn held on until he was sure Hardwick couldn’t get any air into his lungs, then he let go.
Hardwick gasped, then coughed as he rubbed a hand over his throat. “Jesus Christ.” His voice was raspy and strained. “I’m doing you a fucking favor! You know what? Forget it. We’re done here. Done.”
He started to open the door, but stopped when he realized he could only open it a few inches.
“We’re done after you finish telling me what you need to tell me,” Quinn said.
“Fuck you,” Hardwick said.
The skin on his brow turned red in anger, and his eyes looked like they were on fire. But when he didn’t make any move, Quinn knew he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. At least, not too stupid.
“Talk,” Quinn said.
Hardwick breathed deeply, his shoulders moving up and down each time air passed over his lips. After several seconds the rhythm slowed, and the color of his skin mellowed.
“Fine. I’ll tell you,” he said. “Then you’ll let me out of this car, and you and your boss will never hear from me again.”
“You forget, I know where you work.”
“That’s what you think,” Hardwick said.
“What does that mean?”
But Hardwick only stared back at Quinn.
“All right, then talk,” Quinn said. “You can start with who this group is that approached you.”
“As far as I know, they don’t have a name, just a plan of action.”
“What kind of plan?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, either. Until we signed on in full, they weren’t going to tell us everything. And since we didn’t sign on …”
“Convenient.”
“I do have a name for you.”
Quinn looked at him, waiting.
“I passed an itinerary of one of their agents on to the DDNI. His travel schedule is very intense, and his destinations … unusual. Again, what he was doing we were unable to discover. I was hoping the DDNI, or I guess your friend at the Office now, would have been able to figure something out from it already.”
“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 OF the 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.
