Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

‘No.’

‘Did he use the word Quicksilver?’

‘No.’

‘How did Clifford assure you he could protect you?’

‘He said they could hide me better than the feds or the police could because there would be no record, no paperwork, no trail for me to be found.’

No paperwork? Then Quicksilver didn’t play by government rules. Henry rubbed his temples, a throbbing headache blossomed in his brain. Bridger’s claims only deepened the mystery.

But he had to act before either Jane or Quicksilver could derail Hellfire. Apparently Quicksilver didn’t know about the first wave of attacks; nothing had interfered with the execution of those operations. But they suspected the first wave were just a prelude to something bigger.

He patted Bridger’s cheek. ‘Okay. Let me get your fingers fixed up and we’ll get you on your way.’

‘Really? Really?’

Henry nodded at the pathetic desire to believe. ‘Really.’

He went to his own car, pulled out a video recorder and a tripod, mounted a night-vision lens to capture the images, and turned it on.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Discouragement.’

His back was to the camera, but he still lowered a black balaclava, drawn from his jacket, over his face to hide it. Bridger started to whimper. ‘But you promised… you promised.’

Henry could edit the words out later. He broke the remaining eight fingers. By the fourth one Bridger was unconscious from the pain. He kicked Bridger in the testicles, to waken him. Bridger’s eyes jerked open with numbed fear, long enough to be open while Henry cut his throat with a straight razor, one swift move.

He put his hand on Bridger’s shoulder, felt the life and the pain seeping out of him, and said, ‘This is what happens when you attempt to betray the Night Road.’ The video clip would be put up on the group’s website in short order, and that should take care of any loyalty issues.

Ten minutes later the boy from Alabama returned from his stroll. He stared down at Bridger’s body and Henry heard the click of his swallow. ‘Well.’

‘Get rid of him for me, please. Make sure he’s not found. Dig deep. Then go home. You’ll receive extra money or extra training at our expense, your choice.’

The Alabamian nodded, his face pale. ‘I want to learn how to make bombs.’

‘I’ll see that you do.’

Henry drove home to Alexandria. He sat down at his computer.

Quicksilver – he needed to know who they were. And they would have to be eliminated. If they were a new incarnation of the Book Club, a group working outside government constraints, then their activities could be mapped, followed, discovered.

Among the clients of The Shawcross Group think-tank were leading telecommunications companies, concerned about infrastructure attacks; transportation companies, worried that they themselves could be terrorist targets; and financial services companies, always knowing that a wave of terrorism could slash their profits in the event of a massive financial collapse.

He would use his clients’ resources to find Quicksilver.

He crafted his email carefully, then sent it to his highest, most discreet contact in each client. As one of my key clients, I urgently require your help. I have been requested by a high government official to test how quickly both government and private databases can unearth covert operatives working on American soil, as well as seeing how consistent the information is. I suspect lucrative contracts may be at the basis of his decision. I have created two false identities: Allen Clifford and Kevin Drummond. Please use your databases in communications, financial, transportation, credit, security, and so on to find them. I have given them an association with a legitimate firm called Quicksilver Risk Management. Please forward any results, time-stamped, on these two identities or this firm. Thank you and please know that our confidentiality agreement applies.

Henry suspected he wouldn’t have long to wait. And this would give him the best opportunity to find out about his enemy.

Afterwards, he sent out another private email to his clients. The first line of the email read: Forthcoming from Shawcross Group research, a new series of papers outlining the most likely infrastructure attacks against the United States.

Hellfire was going to make him look like a very smart man.

Luke woke up from his doze, leaning against the airplane’s back wall. Frankie Wu stood over him. Luke’s head throbbed, thick with sleep. He blinked himself to full wakefulness. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, Mr Lindoe. I just wanted to be sure you were all right. You’re not in your seat.’

‘Sorry. I sat to have a think and I thought too much.’ He stood awkwardly.

Frankie Wu watched him, arms crossed.

‘Shouldn’t you be flying the airplane?’ Luke said. He went back to his seat. His knapsack lay tilted on its side and he wondered if that was the position it was in when he dozed off. Had Wu searched it?

‘Auto-pilot. Just wanted to see if either of you needed anything, Mr Lindoe.’

The use of the false name again, the barest emphasis. He knows. But he’s not calling you on it. Not yet. He doesn’t want trouble in the air. ‘When do we land in New York?’

‘Forty minutes.’

Luke glanced at Aubrey; she was asleep. He wasn’t surprised, not even at his own heavy slumber. Sleep was escape. Hunger was a sudden, sharp fist of pain.

Wu turned without a word and went back to the cockpit. Closed the door.

Luke opened the knapsack. The gun was still there. He checked it. Unloaded. The clip was gone, and nowhere in the backpack. The gun was now useless. The cash he’d taken from Eric’s stash was still there, though. The laptop from Eric’s was there too, cool to the touch. It hadn’t been fired up.

Wu had searched the bag.

Luke went to the tiny galley. Quietly, he checked the drawers. In one he found a flight manifest for the food and drinks on the flight. The charges paid for by Quicksilver Risk, with a New York City address. Quicksilver.

His stomach sank to his toes. He picked up the phone in the galley. He called information for Braintree. He remembered the name of the property company of the cabin, from its sign near the gate. He got the number and called. If they rented cabins, there ought to be an emergency number in case the renters had a problem after hours. He got an answering machine that fed him such a number; he redialed.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello. My father has gone missing and he may have rented a cabin from you. Cabin number three. At the edge of the property. Was it rented by a company called Quicksilver?’

‘I sure am getting calls about this rental.’ The clerk sounded huffy. ‘Please. Allen Clifford, he’s missing…’

‘Well, he left the cabin a mess, destroyed the bedroom furniture, and we charged his card again for damages.’

‘How did he pay? I’ll make sure you’re compensated.’

‘Charge card. Company card. Quicksilver Risk Management.’

‘Thank you.’ Luke hung up. Jesus, they had paid for the cabin, Henry was right. That didn’t mean he could trust Henry. But it sure didn’t mean he could trust these people, either. He took a calming breath.

He tore the page with the address from the manifest. Eric’s escape route was a trap.

He found sandwiches in the galley and he ate one. The city that never sleeps looked like a creamy, miniature galaxy below. He guessed they would be landing in New Jersey, right across the river.

He shook Aubrey. She blinked at him, awake and ready. He handed her a sandwich and mouthed the words the pilot knows. We have to run. Her eyes widened in fear and she mouthed back what’s the plan?