Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

‘War.’

‘There is a war beginning. A secret war.’

The silence hung between them like a mist. ‘You can’t fight a war in secret. People tend to notice armies and bullets and missiles.’ Luke shook his head.

‘That sort of war is dying. This war started a long time ago. Skirmishes, and in both cases each side used governments as their proxies. Their pawns. Influence was their currency, and then there were only two sides, not a thousand like now – and each was able to say that their concerns matched those of their governments. That these interests were aligned, and the governments believed it.’ Drummond sounded for a moment like he couldn’t continue. The phone’s buzzing began again. ‘But – the governments – they didn’t stop 9/11. Or the Bali or Madrid or London or Jordan bombings. Do you know how much they cost?’

‘Thousands of lives.’

‘Yes. Of course, and that’s incalculable, but think: how much they cost? The economic damage. Who suffers economic damage?’

‘Well, everyone.’

‘Everyone?’ Drummond’s voice oozed contempt.

The phone stopped ringing.

‘Okay. Then I guess governments and big companies lost the most. Then it trickles down.’

‘Then it trickles down, Luke. Yes. And after those attacks, we are simply supposed to trust that government will do its job. Protect us. That the various governments of the world, and their multitude of agencies, with their well-intentioned but million moving parts, handcuffed by rules and bureaucracy, will shift into efficiency and suddenly develop all the human capital and infrastructure to’ – he paused – ‘fight and eliminate every shadow and nutcase, every asshole with a laptop and an agenda? You know what kind of people you found for the Night Road. How they can vanish like smoke, how badly they can hurt the world with a small investment and their own fanaticism. The playing field must be even.’ The glare in his eyes grew cold. ‘Now. I am here to protect you. But you give me this fifty million, Luke. You tell me everything you know about Hellfire.’

‘I don’t even know what kind of attack Hellfire is.’ It frightened him that Drummond knew the name. The thought flooded him: what did the Saint Michael’s medal prove? Nothing. Medals could be copied to win trust. Lies could be told. There was nothing to prove what Drummond had said was the truth.

‘Think. It’s coming out of the Night Road; all those thousands of postings you made, you must know what they would target if they made a big hit. What would be their dream attack, one they could actually execute?’

‘They’re already executing attacks.’ Luke paused. ‘But I think these attacks, they’re not Hellfire. Hellfire is bigger. On their website they are chattering about the attacks, but there’s no word on Hellfire. Hellfire has got to be something distinct from this group of small attacks; it’s much more tied to this money they want. It’s not unusual in terrorist psychology to consider smaller jobs as dry runs, or as qualifiers for more dangerous work.’

‘You’re right. As awful as they are, these attacks are too small. Too localized.’ Drummond frowned. ‘Maybe they need that fifty million to finance a huge new series of operations, and you not giving it to us is leaving open the chance that the Night Road will get their hands on the money.’

‘If someone else is listening to or watching us,’ Luke shouted at the ceiling, ‘if they have Aubrey, I want to talk to them. Please.’

Drummond made a choked laugh. ‘You’re a smart kid. You figured it out we were under a camera. I’m pleased.’

The phone began to ring again. Drummond answered it. He listened and then said, ‘For God’s sakes. He gives us what he knows first, then we decide.’

Drummond turned away to go into the other room, as if to finish his discussion.

Luke stood and picked up the chair and the voice on the phone must have warned him because Drummond turned. Luke swung the chair with all his might and it crashed and splintered into Drummond’s head. He didn’t pause. He hit him again and Drummond went down.

Drummond groaned, the back of his head bloodied, his eyelids at half-mast. The phone lay on the floor.

Luke picked it up. ‘Hello? Did you see Drummond’s taking a nap?’

Silence. The line was dead. He dropped the phone and looked up again where he thought the hidden cameras might be. ‘I’m not playing your game. All right?’ he yelled to the air. ‘I want Aubrey back. I’ll give you all the information on the Night Road, the accounts, everything I know, but you give me Aubrey and you tell me who you people are. Do you hear me?’

Drummond groaned. ‘I’m sorry,’ Luke said. He dragged Drummond into the walk-in pantry, slammed the door, and jammed the other kitchen chair under the knob. Leaving Drummond with the cake mixes and the bottles of beer, he turned back toward where the cameras might be hidden.

‘Hey! Why are you hiding behind an old man?’ Luke taunted.

The phone rang. He answered it.

‘Let Drummond out of the pantry.’ It was Aubrey. ‘They have me. You have to let him out.’

‘Aubrey. Are you okay?’

‘I’m all right. They haven’t hurt me, Luke, I think these are the good guys.’

‘Let me talk to whoever’s in charge.’

A few moments passed. For a moment the silence made Luke think they’d been disconnected. A man’s voice came on the line, one he didn’t recognize. ‘Release Mr Drummond. You must get out of the building. Now.’ The accent was French – slight but noticeable.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Get out of the building now, it’s under attack.’

‘By who?’ He opened the closet door and dragged Drummond out. He was groggy, bleeding from the ear and the temple.

Luke put the phone back to his ear. ‘Who the hell are you people?’

‘Get out, Luke, get out of there now!’

He hung up the phone and started to search the apartment for a weapon.

He found a bedroom, a small office next to it. Inside the desk drawers, he found a manila file folder, crammed in crookedly as though it had been put away in haste.

In it were papers. The first was a news account of his father’s death; the plane that had gone down with several noted professors aboard. A file on Ace Beere, the man who had confessed to sabotaging the plane before he blew his brains out. A large sticky note said check airport surveillance photos from last Book Club flight, compare with Night Road suspect, ask photo archive for facial comparison and confirmation.

Under the note was an old photo of Mouser. Then a new photo, that looked like it had been taken from a security camera, stamped LAKEFRONT AIR PARK, Mouser and Snow heading toward an entrance. Another image of Mouser, taken from what might have been a traffic camera on Armitage, during the chase from Eric’s shooting. The photo was grainier but it still looked like Mouser.

Luke’s stomach felt a dark pang. Mouser. Was he connected to his father’s death? And how could Quicksilver access these surveillance cameras?

The final document was attached to a photo of the man who died in Houston. The photo was grainy, slightly hazed by sunlight. It looked like it had been taken in a desert setting; a long stretch of sand lay behind the man. In the photo, his father stood next to the man. Hands on shoulders. They were dressed in military garb, guns at their sides. Next to his father stood Drummond, smiling, an arm around his father’s shoulders.

Attached to the photo was a readout, a service record from the State Department, of a man named Allen Clifford. He had retired from the State Department two weeks after Luke’s dad died.

He hurried back to the kitchen. Drummond sat up from laying curled on the floor, holding his head. ‘Drummond!’