Дэвид Балдаччи - Daylight

“Well, that’s good,” said Puller. “Because you’ve already lost everything else, including your self-respect. For me, no job is worth that.”

He left and walked briskly down the hall.

He had always loved coming to the Pentagon. He felt safe, comfortable, reassured simply by walking around here. He was surrounded by people who were on the same mission he was: keeping America safe, doing the right thing in a selfless manner. It might have seemed corny, but it was how he had led his life. Yet now Puller felt like he had just parachuted into North Korea or Iran. Everyone he passed could be the enemy, an informer, part of the “them,” whatever them was.

Okay, Puller, it’s time to get really serious.

He ducked into a restroom stall, took out his phone, turned it off, took out the SIM card and put it in his pocket. Then he dumped the phone in the trash.

He picked up his pace, hit the exit, and picked up his pace even more. He grabbed the first metro car he could, later changed trains, and rode it to Vienna, Virginia. Along the way he kept up a vigilant watch for anyone attempting to keep him under surveillance.

There, he walked through the station, reversed course, took another train, switched trains at another station, headed toward Springfield, found a nearly empty train car, jumped off at an interim station, stopped and watched for anyone else getting off there, then grabbed a cab and directed it to an electronics store on the Reston Parkway.

Inside he purchased a GSM network prepaid phone. Outside he called the number to activate the phone, without giving any personal information.

He punched in a number well-known to him. It was a number that could not be traced or hacked, or at least it would not be easy to do so. Right now, he had no choice. He needed help.

“Bobby?”

“Hey, little brother, how’s it going?”

“I’ve got an issue.”

“Not Dad?” Robert Puller said quickly, his buoyant attitude instantly turning serious.

“No. Give me two minutes to fill you in. No interruptions, just listen, then give me some advice on the other side.”

Puller actually took a little more than three minutes to tell his brother everything. From the disappearance of Tony Vincenzo, to the murder of a CID agent, to the death of Jerome Blake, to the murderer being a cop or impersonating one, to the stonewalling of his investigation by folks at the state and federal levels, to the yanking of a four-star general from his position as vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs. To being attacked and almost killed in his apartment.

When he was done Robert Puller said nothing for about thirty seconds. John Puller could almost hear the wheels of his brother’s formidable intellect absorbing all of these facts and putting everything together, almost like an FBI profile, or a string of DNA, before arriving at if not a solution, then at least some sound advice. But his first response surprised Puller.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me after you got attacked? I’ve been off the grid in a bunker the last two days doing cybernuke drills. But you could have tried to call, dammit.”

“I survived, what was there to tell? I just need you to focus on what I just told you and help me, Bobby.”

More silence passed between them. Finally Robert said, “Okay, the level of influence required to take out a four-star right from the Pentagon twenty-four hours after you met with him is sky-high, John. There aren’t many suspects to consider, the players are very few.”

“If they can yank Pitts I can’t be far behind.”

“They tried to punch your ticket, permanently, at your apartment. At the same time they were yanking Pitts’s assignment. They could do that and no one’s going to care for very long. There are enough four-stars. And a CWO in the field was expendable. But ironically, if they tried to reassign you when you’re working on an investigation, guess what?”

“What?”

“That has whistleblower status written all over it. You’d be in front of a congressional committee telling the whole country what these people don’t want anyone to hear.”

“I hadn’t thought about that angle.”

“Because you don’t give a crap about politics, but in my position I have to pay attention to that.” He paused. “Hold on, John.”

“What?”

“A story is coming over the wire with your name on it.”

“What does it say?”

Robert responded after reading through the article. “Okay, that was smart on their part. There’s reporting based on anonymous sources that the attack on you was orchestrated by elements of a Mexican cartel, high-ranking members of which you helped put in prison three months ago after they tried to infiltrate an Army base in Texas and recruit soldiers as operatives for the moving of drugs into the U.S.”

“Anonymous sources?”

“It’ll be all over the web in a few minutes. Trolls will swarm it, people on every conceivable side will slice and dice it. By the time they’re done half the country will think you tried to shoot yourself with a machine gun.”

“But where does the truth come into all this?”

“It doesn’t. Social media has absolutely nothing to do with the truth. It has to do with making shitloads of money off ads trying to sell people crap they don’t need. But the terrible by-product of that is giving a global platform to the absolute worst elements of society. The result is that ‘truth’ is whatever you can convince people it is. It’s exactly what Orwell wrote about.”

“How does this country survive, then?”

“If you want the truth, John, unless a lot of things change, I’m not sure we do, at least not as the free society we all want.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Bobby. I really needed it.”

“You asked. And I’m not going to lie to you. So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m not working this case alone. You remember me telling you about Atlee Pine?”

“Yeah. FBI. You think very highly of her.”

“She’s on leave from the Bureau working a personal case that crossed over into mine by virtue of a connection with the Vincenzos.” He went on to tell his brother about Pine’s working undercover at the penthouse, being abducted, waking up next to a dead woman, and almost being killed.

“And this Lindsey Axilrod is in the middle of it?”

“Seems like she set Pine up. And now she’s disappeared.”

“Give me the address of the penthouse.”

“Why, what are you going to do?”

“Don’t ask. And don’t worry, this will not have my personal prints on it.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t.”

“You and Pine are going to remain targets so long as you’re investigating this.”

“We’ve been targets ever since we signed up.”

“This is different.”

“Not to me.”

“Watch your back.”

“You do the same. I have to tell you, I had some trepidation about pulling you into this.”

“Blood is thicker than anything, John. Or it should be. But let’s try not to spill any of ours.”

Puller thought back to the near massacre in his apartment. “Easier said than done, Bobby.”

“Linda Holden-Bryant?” Pine said into the phone. She was sitting in her car outside of Doug Bennett’s house with Blum next to her.

Jack Lineberry said, “Doug told you about her?”

“Yeah, he did,” snapped Pine.

“Why did he mention her?”

“Why the hell didn’t you mention her before now?”

“There was no reason to.”

“There was every reason to,” retorted Pine.

“Why?”

“You were engaged?”

“Well, yes. For a time.”

“Did you live together?”