Marcus Sakey - Brilliance

“I think it’s my turn. But go ahead.”

“What you’re saying, it’s compelling. Believable. But so was the story Peters told. So was Equitable Services. None of this is proof.”

“That video is.”

“But you haven’t seen it. You don’t know what’s on it. For all I know, it proves you’re the monster the DAR says you are.”

“True.” The man said it with the calm of a logician acknowledging the fallacy in an argument.

“All right.” Cooper stood again, walked to the lip of the rock, stared down at the wide bright world. “I’ll find it. Not for you, and not for your cause.” He turned and looked back at Smith. “But you better pray that video shows what you think it does. Because I know you now. I can find you again, and I can kill you.”

“I believe you,” Smith said. “I’m counting on you to take this all the way.”

“Even if that means killing you.”

“Sure. Because only someone that dedicated will have what it takes to face off against Drew Peters. Christ, Cooper. Why do you think I sent Shannon to bring you here in the first place?”

Cooper’s hands clenched. A sick, floating feeling bloomed in his belly. “What?” His gift racing ahead again, providing yet another answer he didn’t want. “What do you mean, ‘sent Shannon’?”

“Ah.” The other man looked disgruntled for a second. “Sorry. I thought you’d figured that part out already.”

“What do you mean, ‘sent Shannon’?”

Smith sighed. He rose, slipped his hands in his pockets. “Just that. I needed you, so I dispatched Shannon to get you. I sent her to that El platform, and I planned your route to me. I made sure you saw Samantha and the uses the world has for her. I had Shannon take you to Lee Chen’s house so you could meet his daughter and her friends. I routed you through Epstein, because I knew he’d sell me out to protect his dream, and because I knew you’d never believe you could get to me without help. And I stood outside last night smoking a cigarette so you’d climb the balcony.

“I’m sorry, Cooper. I’m a chess player. I needed to turn a pawn into a queen.” Smith shrugged. “So I did.”

Even now, three hours later, sitting in a leather chair twenty thousand feet up, the comment still rankled. Which was pointless; Cooper had more important things to deal with than his injured pride.

It’s not just pride. Being upset that John Smith out-planned you is like being upset that Barry Adams plays better football. It’s just a fact.

No, it wasn’t being beaten by Smith that stung. It was that for the first time since he and Natalie had split, Cooper had felt something for a woman. Yes, they were on opposite teams, and there were a thousand reasons a relationship wouldn’t work, but still, those feelings had been real.

Unfortunately, everything they’d been based on was fake. Everything she’d told him was a lie. Maybe even last night.

He leaned back in his seat. Stared out the window. The jet was just cresting the clouds, baroque castles spilling below him. Usually it was his favorite moment in a flight, a view that managed to stir that childish sense of wonder that he was miles up in the air. But the intricate cloudscape did nothing for him now.

It’s not just that you got used. It’s that she used you.

This morning, on the rock spire, he’d told Smith what he needed, and was unsurprised to find the guy had it standing by. “I’m sending Shannon with you.”

“No,” Cooper had said, “you’re not.”

“Listen, I’m sorry for your wounded feelings, but this is too important. You need her help. She goes.”

“Sorry, I don’t work for you. I’m doing this my way.”

“Cooper—”

“Just arrange the plane.” He scooted to the edge of the rock spire and hung his legs over. “I’ll get to the runway myself.”

“Talk to her, at least,” Smith had said.

Cooper had ignored him, spun to grip the edge, and begun to climb down.

From above, Smith had said, “She deserves that much.”

He’d paused, looking up. “Believe it or not, John, we’re not all pieces on your chessboard. Just arrange the plane.”

Just under three hours later he’d reached the airstrip Smith had told him about, a private field in the heart of the Holdfast, big enough to handle not only the gliders but an honest-to-God jet.

His was painted like a FedEx transport plane, flying commercial numbers. Clever; it was the aerial equivalent of a taxicab, a vehicle that could hide in plain sight. The pilot was waiting for him. “Hello, sir. I’ve got a change of clothes on board for you, and food if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks.” He’d climbed the stairs. “Get airborne and get me to DC as fast as you can.”

Fifteen minutes later he was back in civilian clothes—the sizes were perfect, of course—and the jet was racing down the runway. The pilot said it would take about four hours, longer if they had to circle when they arrived.

Which gave him four hours to figure out where Drew Peters would have hidden insurance against his sins.

Adding to the fun, DC was a risky place for Cooper. There were more cameras and more agents there than in any city in the country. If he were in Roger Dickinson’s place, if he were hunting a rogue agent whose children lived in DC, he’d make sure the city was on constant alert.

Normally even if a camera picked him up, by the time that image was found and processed, he’d have moved on. But things had changed when he talked to Peters last night. If Cooper had actually killed John Smith, he would have called the department to arrange his safe return home. And he’d considered doing that, lying to Peters, saying that Smith was dead. But what if the DAR knew otherwise? What if they intercepted a call, or saw a photo? More important, lying to Peters was equivalent to throwing his hand in with John Smith, and Cooper wasn’t ready to do that. Not until he saw the evidence. Better just to go quiet for now. The problem was that if Peters discovered him, he would assume that Cooper had been turned.

Have you? Been turned?

No. He didn’t work for Smith, and while he understood the soldier-on-the-losing-side rationale, a terrorist was still a terrorist.

But you’re definitely not a DAR agent anymore.

Which was all Peters would need to know. If the director suspected that Cooper was no longer his man, the gloves would come off. His picture would be flashed on every screen in America. John Smith had managed to hide from that, but Cooper didn’t imagine that he could. No, his best chance lay in moving fast. Get to DC, get to the video, and make his moves from there.

Four hours to figure out where a digital file that could be stored on a drive about the size of a stamp was hidden in an area of roughly 7,850 square miles.

He’d come to that number by figuring that if Peters ever needed it, he’d need it fast. No more than an hour or two from his home or office. Figure a fifty-mile radius. Pi times radius squared equaled 7,850.

Calling it a needle in a haystack was an insult to haystacks.

So think. You’ve got…three and a half hours left. And if you’re going to be playing against the entire DAR in their own backyard, it wouldn’t hurt if you could grab an hour’s sleep, too.

Obviously, the odds were better than the pure math suggested. He wasn’t going to be randomly searching the terrain. He would be patterning Drew Peters, the same way he had once patterned targets for the man.

So. What did he know?

If Smith was right—if he was telling the truth—the video was some sort of insurance policy. Something that could protect Peters if the facts about the Monocle ever came out. That narrowed the search immensely.