Unmanned (9780385351263) (19 page)

“Point taken? I believe that’s what is commonly known as news. You should be doing backflips of joy. It’s illegal as hell, what he’s up to. The fucking cherry on top of your story, unless you wait so long that someone else eats it, or the whole thing melts away. Which is what will happen if you let those two women lead you down a false trail. What’s the matter—worried that if you don’t play along they’ll fuck the pilot first?”

“Go to hell.”

The waitress arrived with his beer. Steve slid it away, sloshing foam down the sides of the glass.

“Calm yourself, Old Pro. Your instincts are sound, always have been. Look, does my shop stand to make a tidier sum if certain people who don’t like us dirty their reputations? Well of course. But that doesn’t change the basic facts.”

“Give me something fresh, then. Something we can use.”

“How ’bout asking a question first?”

“All right. What do you know about other ops he screwed up, yours included?”

“What’s the matter, thirteen lives aren’t enough for you? Plus those other bodies your friend B says she saw?”

“Why hold out on me unless he interfered with something you weren’t supposed to be doing?”

“Sounds like a Bickell theory. Muddying the water again.”

“Then clear it up for me, starting with who his handlers were, who’s covering for him, and why. Names, dates, and places, the more the better. Proof. Proof and verification. Because we can’t just go with a hunch like you guys.”

The Source looked thrown off his stride for the first time, and he sipped his Scotch before answering.

“I can’t do your job for you.”

“Then what about those ex-Agency jocks working at your training facility? B says there are two of them, and they were both connected to Castle.”

“And she wants access?”

“Of course.”

He gave it some thought. Nodded.

“I’ll do what I can. But it can’t be by phone.”

“She’ll go wherever she has to. In fact, we may be moving soon. To a place on the Eastern Shore, not too far from your facility. I’m fighting it, but it’s rent free, so don’t get bent out of shape if it comes to pass.”

The Source narrowed his eyes but didn’t raise an objection. Steve, who’d been worried about how he might react, was relieved to get that revelation out of the way.

“As long as that’s all there is to it. I can even arrange a tour of our entire training complex if it will cool any unwarranted curiosity. But the minute your people start trying to sneak a peek behind my back, our whole arrangement’s off. Understand, Old Pro?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Tell me about this new executive of yours, the one you hired right out of the Air Force.”

“Boardman? You’re losing focus again. What about him?”

“The pilot says Boardman was wired in directly to the Predator program.”

“Meaning?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

The Source shook his head. “Look, does your friend B want access to those contacts or not?”

“Sure she does.”

“Then stay on topic.”

“Fine. What can you tell me about the name Lancer?”

The Source frowned.

“As in Prancer and Dancer? You chasing magic reindeer now?”

“It’s a code name.”

“I gathered as much, but not one I’m familiar with. Where’d you hear it, in what context?”

“What does it matter, if you’ve never heard it?”

“Give some to get some, Old Pro.”

“I just gave you Lancer.”

“Worthless without context.”

Steve sighed, looked at his beer. He pulled it toward him, then pushed it away. He sensed that the Source had already given out all he was likely to offer today, and Steve wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, or for any further lectures on where they should direct their energies.

“So is that all for now?” he asked.

“Not from your end, I hope. What is the lovely K up to?”

Steve stood to go.

“The beer’s all yours. So is the tab.”

“Fine, Old Pro. But if you think I’m a bit of a bastard for trying to keep your colleagues on the straight and narrow, try to imagine how insistent your friend in New Hampshire might become. Or his friends. Trust me, if their ilk ever starts shouting ‘Stop the presses!’ they won’t do it nicely.”

Steve edged around the table, leaning closer to hear better.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they know the unbreakable rule.”

“What rule?”

“The one the Mob always talks about. Kill a cop if necessary, but never a reporter. The problem for you is that one of their people has stopped playing by the rules, and they’re apparently fine with that. Which reminds me, you haven’t asked the one question you always
bring to this table. Aren’t you interested in the latest whereabouts of Fort1?”

“Back in the country, we covered that.”

“A little vague, don’t you think?”

“You know more?”

“Like I said, we hear things. But only if you’re interested.” The Source gestured toward the empty chair. Steve stepped around the table and sat back down. “There’s a trail of sorts. Traces, here and there. The last one we picked up was right down I-95, Northern Virginia, practically in Langley’s back yard. Little more than an hour’s drive from your place, if you’re not fool enough to try it at rush hour. And if he’s been tasked to clean up after himself, his laundry list is going to include you and everyone else in your little love shack. I’d like to help you avoid any calamity, of course. But only if the arrangement continues to be reciprocal.”

“You’re getting all I can give you in good conscience.”

“Yes, I thought you’d say something like that. I wonder what your conscience will say if one of your colleagues drives her car off the Bay Bridge. Not that I won’t still be available to you. It’s not my choice for you to go it alone.” He stood, gave a farewell nod to the waitress, and began edging away from the table. “Oh, and leave her a nice tip, Old Pro. She’s been very attentive.”

Then he strolled away, pausing only to say good-bye to the hostess as he pushed through the crowd and out the door. Steve, furious and troubled, wanted to chase him down, follow him all the way to the parking lot if necessary to demand more answers, more information. But that would probably end the relationship. So he kept his seat and tried to calm down, his mind racing in a dozen different directions.

Was Castle a genuine threat, or was the Source just trying to keep them in line? And if the former was true, was there a damn thing they could do about it, short of asking IntelPro to post a sentry?

He looked at his beer glass. Bubbles were rising to the top, but the head was gone. What he really needed now was something stronger, but this would have to do. He sipped, then swallowed. Then he drained half the glass in one long pull before setting it back down, wondering what the hell was he going to tell the others.

COLE PULLED INTO
the McDonald’s parking lot fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. He took a space in the back and waited, searching in vain for Sharpe’s bony, bald head behind the wheel of each arrival. He’d allowed two hours for the trip down. It was partly to be punctual, partly to escape the turmoil of the little house on Wilson Point Road. An argument from the night before about the move to the Eastern Shore had spilled over into breakfast.

Steve was against it. “It’s the middle of fucking nowhere.”

Barb was for it. “Nowhere? It’s practically next door to IntelPro.”

“Great, so we can spook them into clamming up.”

“You said your source would arrange face-to-face access to the ex-Agency guys. He even offered us a tour. That doesn’t sound spooked to me. And you’ve seen the numbers. The rent, the utilities, everything’s paid for over there. It’s a helluva lot cheaper for us. So what’s a little extra driving if we can buy another four months, maybe more?”

Steve sighed, shook his head. “It’s too vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?”

That’s when he told them about the Source’s warning, and how IntelPro had already known about their visit with Bickell in New Hampshire. Cole was shocked. Barb was unmoved.

“Is that really so surprising? All these guys talk to each other. Maybe it’s a
good
thing. If they’re all leaking to each other about us, maybe they’ll start leaking to us about each other.”

“It’s vulnerable. It’s fucking wide-open spaces over there. How many acres did you say, Keira?”

“Two hundred.”

“And backed up against the water. Nowhere to run but up a single dirt driveway.”

“You think we’re any safer here?” Barb said. “They could come up the creek, or straight down the road. Nobody would know a thing. If they want us that bad, location won’t mean a damn thing.”

“But why make it easier for them?”

“Don’t you know a bluff when you see one? He’s scaring us to keep us on the straight and narrow. As if he’d lift a finger to protect us. Besides, Keira’s got sources out there, too.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. She told me the other day.”

“Barb’s right,” Keira said. “Not that she was supposed to spread it around. But, yeah, a government type who lives down there.”

“Doesn’t your agent also have a place down there, Keira? Sure would make a book deal easier to come by if you ever kick us out.”

Barb turned toward Keira. “Your agent lives out there? You never mentioned that.”

“What’s to mention?” Keira said. “It’s her vacation house, way over in Dorchester County. If it makes you feel better, Steve, there’s a gate to the driveway. We’ll lock it at night. Anyone who wants us will have to come a mile on foot, and anybody that determined is going to get us no matter where we sleep. Okay?”

“Says the woman who already got one man killed,” Steve said.

Keira reacted as if he had slapped her, and Steve already looked as if he wished he could take it back. Cole wondered what the details behind the remark must be. Barb looked away and shook her head.

“Why are you shaking your head?” Steve said. “You’re the one who put the idea in my head.”

“Fuck off, Steve.”

He was blushing even before the rebuke, the peacemaker caught red-handed being warlike.

“Sorry. Heat of battle. A stupid thing to say.”

Keira said nothing, her lips drawn tight. That ended the wrangling, at least until morning, when they rehashed the same arguments in gentler and more civil terms. When it came time to vote, Barb sided with
Keira. Cole didn’t raise his hand for either option, and no one seemed to expect him to. Steve accepted defeat with a measure of grace, as if already preparing to make the best of it.

Keira departed just before Cole, having packed her bags the night before. She was on her way to the Eastern Shore to open up the house, air out the rooms, clean the linens, turn on the heat, and otherwise prepare for their arrival. She left behind directions and a spare key. The cat leaped into Keira’s car just before the door closed, and Barb glared as if Cheryl had committed the ultimate betrayal. The plan was for the rest of them to head across the Bay Bridge that evening.

Steve then handed Cole the keys to his Honda and, when Barb wasn’t looking, a pair of twenties.

“Gas it up if you need to, and get yourself something to eat. You’re still looking a little worn around the edges.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and that Van Morrison CD you like. It’s still in the player. Good luck, and keep us posted.”

On the way to Northern Virginia, Cole bought a disposable cell phone, paying with some of his own cash. He’d already texted his number to the others in case of emergency.

It was now five minutes before the scheduled time for the rendezvous. Cars continued to come and go from the McDonald’s, but none was carrying anyone who looked like Nelson Hayley Sharpe. Cole waited, listening to Steve’s CD for the second time through. A song came and went and he again checked his watch. It was a minute before eight. He started the Honda and eased into the line for the drive-through window, feeling a bit ridiculous about the whole arrangement. Cole wasn’t sure which prospect worried him more: being stood up, or actually having Sharpe arrive.

During his appearance at Creech, Sharpe had come across as a strong but manageable personality, although Barb’s online research had turned up further info that, if anything, had made the man seem potentially unstable.

Sharpe had risen rapidly through the ranks of civilian designers while working with some of the pioneers of his trade, such as a personal hero of Cole’s, John Boyd, the peerless fighter pilot who helped design the F-16, and his civilian sidekick, Pierre Sprey, another brilliant
maverick who helped revolutionize the way combat aircraft were designed and tested. Along with Sprey and others, Sharpe also made noise as part of the Pentagon reform movement in the 1970s and ’80s, attacking the defense department for the needless complexity of its weapons systems and its bloated costs, such as the outrage of the “$300 hammer.”

None of this endeared him to the brass, and they probably would have gotten rid of him far sooner if his design work, particularly with the Predator program, hadn’t made him indispensable. But in recent years critics, as well as a few friends, had expressed worries that he was becoming too headstrong, too outspoken. There were even mutterings that, for all his brilliance, he’d become vulnerable to conspiracy theories and had strayed too far toward the fringe. Others said that kind of talk was nonsense, the smear tactic of generals and contractors who were fed up with his griping.

At exactly eight a.m. Cole rolled up to the speaker by the red and yellow menu board. He half expected Sharpe to step out from behind it like a magician, or to announce his presence over the squawk box.

Instead, the voice of a teenage girl crackled, “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order?”

“Sausage biscuit and a small coffee, black.”

“You want juice or hash browns with that?”

“No.”

“Your total is two ninety. Please drive forward.”

He rolled around the bend toward the pay window, glancing to either side and at both mirrors. Nothing. The only people getting out of their cars were members of an overweight family of four, spilling from a massive SUV with Ohio tags. Cole pulled up the hand brake and reached awkwardly for his wallet as the window slid open. He paid the girl, who handed over a warm bag and counted out his change. The moment he rolled up the window, the Honda’s passenger door swung open, startling Cole so much that he dropped the coins. A big man with a shaved head slid onto the seat.