David Kent - The Triangle Conspiracy

“Thank you, Don,” Sanborn said. “Go ahead and show Michael where he’ll be bunking. Then round everyone up, if you would, please. It’s time for the meeting.” He turned to Sean. “You’re just in time for our major planning session.”

“Planning for what?” Sean said.

Sanborn’s expression lost a little of its hostlike veneer and grew deadly serious. He looked in Daryn’s direction before answering Sean. Daryn felt his cool, steady gaze.

“Planning how the Coalition will begin to reshape American society,” Sanborn said.

Sean waited a moment. Sanborn and Daryn both looked at him.

“That’s why we’re here, right?” Sean finally said.

“Yes, that’s why we’re here,” Sanborn said. “There’s only one rule here, Michael. We don’t have a bunch of silly regimens and routines to follow. We’re not a cult, we’re a political organization with political and social goals. But we do require absolute loyalty. Once you’ve joined us, you pledge to follow the goals and objectives laid out by the Coalition for Social Justice. There will be no backing out, and no betrayals, no contacting the ‘authorities’ if you don’t like something. If you do have a problem, we’ll deal with it internally, as a group. You take your problem outside the group, then we have a real problem. Do you accept that, Michael?”

Sean looked at Daryn. Daryn, standing next to Sanborn and still holding hands with the much taller Britt, looked at him, into him, just as she had in the motel room in El Reno.

All eyes in the room focused on Sean. The two women had stopped their reading. The man with the papers stopped making his notes. Don, holding Sean’s duffel bag, paused on the stairs.

“I accept that,” Sean said.

Daryn let out a breath. Anything for The Cause, she thought. She really had a headache now and wanted to lie down, to disentangle herself from Britt and from the rampant, raging emotions of the last few hours, to just be alone in a dark, quiet room for a while. But there was much work to be done. She would rest later.

“Welcome, Michael,” she said.

“Welcome, Michael,” Franklin Sanborn echoed. “Let’s get to work.”

DON, WHO TOLD SEAN HIS FULL NAME WAS DONALDWheaton, showed Sean up the stairs to a small room at the end of a wood-floored hallway.

“Here,” Wheaton said. “Kat asked for the three of you to share a room, and this is the last empty one.”

“Wait a minute,” Sean said. “The three of us?”

“You and her and the other girl. Britt.” Wheaton didn’t smile, but his face lightened somewhat. “Nice arrangement.”

Sean shook his head. “Thanks. So tell me, Don. What’s your story?”

Wheaton shrugged, working his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “No real story,” he drawled. “I’m in heavy construction. I live in Noble. Got tired of scraping and struggling and other people getting rich off my sweat.”

Sean noticed a silver wedding band on the man’s finger. “Is your wife here with you?”

Wheaton looked embarrassed, fiddling with the ring. “No, but she understands. I call her every other day.”

He tossed Sean’s duffel onto the queen-size mattress in the little room, then backed away.

“Where will the women sleep?” Sean asked. “Kat and Britt.”

Wheaton looked amused. “Well, with you, of course. Aren’t you with them?”

“Well, I…” Sean shut up.

“Some guys have all the luck,” Wheaton said, and went off down the hall.

Sean headed downstairs, where the group was assembling. In addition to a diversity of age, there were two black men, one black woman, and a very young, college-age Asian woman. There were two middle-aged men who stayed very close to each other, and by their body language, Sean took them to be a gay couple. He shook his head. The Coalition for Social Justice was unlike any extremist group he’d ever known. But then, with Daryn McDermott as one of the driving forces behind it, that made sense. She was certainly unlike any woman he’d known.

Franklin Sanborn sat in one of the battered armchairs at the periphery of the group. “Let’s get started,” he said. He was still genial, with the easygoing air, but now there was something else underlying it, a let’s-get-down-to-business sort of urgency.

Sean slid onto one of the couches, squeezing between Kat and one of the black men. Britt was on Kat’s other side, pressed close to her. Sean tried several times to catch Britt’s eye, but she never looked at him.

Partners in this deception, Sean thought, and she doesn’t want to acknowledge me, doesn’t want to acknowledge her own part in it.

Sanborn looked directly at Sean. “For the benefit of our newest members, I should explain that we do have one tiny little ritual that we observe at all general meetings.”

Sean stiffened slightly.

“Don’t worry, Michael,” Sanborn said. “No ritual bloodletting. Not even a secret handshake.” There were a few chuckles from around the room. “We simply reaffirm verbally our commitment to the cause.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll begin. I’m Franklin Sanborn, and I accept the Coalition for Social Justice’s mission and objectives.”

He nodded to his left. A heavyset blond woman in her thirties said, “I’m Jeannie Davis, and I accept the Coalition.”

And so it went around the room. Sean was reminded eerily of the AA meeting Faith had dragged him to- I’m Jack and I’m an alcoholic. Hi, Jack! -but when it came to him, he said, “I’m Michael Sullivan, and I accept the Coalition.” His hands were trembling a little, and he had to sit on one of them to keep Daryn from seeing. It was late afternoon, and he hadn’t had a drink since morning. Just a couple of shots to steady myself. That’s all I need.

Daryn beamed at him and said, “I’m Katherine Hall. I accept the Coalition and believe it will change America!”

There was scattered applause. After it died down, Britt said in a small voice, “I’m Brittany Ray. I believe in Kat, so I believe in the Coalition.”

Sanborn nodded approvingly. “Thank you, friends.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and touched his index fingers to his lips, looking very professorial. “We’ve had many discussions about how to get the attention of the ruling classes in this country. They weary us with moralistic platitudes and blather on about ‘family values,’ as if every family in America shares the same values, as if we were all carbon copies of each other. While oil companies and brokerage houses reap record profits and their CEOs earn tens of millions of dollars for doing essentially nothing, real people struggle for their lives every day. Women like Kat and Britt have no protection, no health care. People like Jeannie, a social worker, someone who helps others on a daily basis, can barely make ends meet. It’s wrong, and we know it’s wrong.”

Sanborn’s gaze traveled the room. He made eye contact with everyone, lingering for a moment on Daryn.

What’s with the two of them? Sean wondered. Just the connection between the two leaders of the group, or something deeper? He felt a pang of what he recognized as jealousy.

What the hell is happening to me? This is a job, an undercover operation to get Daryn McDermott to come back home willingly. Gain her trust. Bring her back. Period.

But it’s not that simple anymore.

“But then, I’m preaching to the choir, right?” Sanborn said, to another round of chuckles. “What defines the ruling classes?”

“Money,” one of the men said.

“Exactly,” Sanborn said, clapping his hands together. “So we strike at the monetary system. Many groups with radical ideas have tried many things to get the world’s attention. Just a few miles from here, in downtown Oklahoma City, is the evidence of one of them. Did the Murrah Building bombing really accomplish anything? Of course not. Timothy McVeigh was an idiot. Was one single governmental policy changed because of his strike?” Sanborn shook his head.