Nowhere to Hide (21 page)

Sunlight poured through the windows that gave such a spectacular view of the waterfront. As if it were just another gorgeous day in Seattle. For King, it was the opposite. The countdown for Amanda was moving inexorably forward, and added to that was the almost overwhelming stress of thinking that his parents, his friends, and his friends' parents were probably in the same kind of danger.

King looked down at a piece of paper that had their scripted conversation in place. They'd spent ten minutes in the lobby writing it and then photocopied it so each person had one.

“I don't want a million dollars,” King said. “I want my family and friends to be safe.”

Mundie said, “All of this on the assumption that they aren't on McNeil Island? Why don't we just go there first?”

“I promise you,” King said, “if that had been MJ sending me the
text, he would have used the code words to prove it was him. Let me send a text to MJ's phone. If MJ isn't the one holding the phone, we'll find out right away. The files I'm uploading are going to be worth a lot to the person who's really on the other end.”

“I'm not sure offering an exchange is a great idea,” Moore said on cue. “We won't have any control.”

“You want Amanda, I want my friends,” King said. “Do we have a choice?”

Mundie said, “How about we just promise Delamarre that the CIA will put out a press release that the terrorism charges were based on faulty intelligence? That was the original plan anyway, once he gave the CIA what we wanted.”

Evans glanced at his own paper and kept following along. “I'm with the kid on this one. Let's see if we can get him a meeting with Delamarre and let him do some negotiating for us. We get Amanda and everyone else. He turns over the files to Delamarre. If the CIA doesn't send out the press release, Delamarre can use those files to force it to happen.”

“What if Delamarre decides to make those files public anyway?” Mundie said. “This is my career on the line.”

“He knows if he keeps antagonizing the CIA,” Moore said, “he'll spend the rest of his life wondering if locked doors are good enough to keep him safe. On the other hand, once you give him the files he wants, he'll have no reason to keep Amanda or the others, and no reason to disclose those files to damage the CIA after we issue our press release saying he's innocent of the charges. Life goes back to normal for everyone, including him.”

“Guys,” King said. They were down to the final lines of the script. After that, everything would depend on the response to the text King would send out. “The upload is complete. And time is ticking. We're decided, right? I can send a text to MJ's phone and offer a deal?”

“With my reluctance,” Mundie said, still reading from his paper. “Someone make a note of that. I'm not happy about this, but I say yes, go ahead.”

CHAPTER 52

“Nervous?” King asked Evans.

They were in one of the black company SUVs, parked in a no-parking zone in downtown Seattle, where the shadows of skyscrapers formed an artificial canyon. Evans kept checking his cell phone as if that would make things happen faster.

“Can't think of any reason why I should be,” Evans said. “You?”

“You mean reasons like my friends and family have disappeared?” King countered, trying to play it cool. “A girl is going to be drowned before tomorrow morning? Your career is on the line?”

“National security is at stake,” Evans said. “Don't forget that. And the real prospect that I could be jailed for all the lines I've crossed.”

“So,” King said, “you're nervous.”

“Yup. You?”

“Yup,” King said in the same casual tone, thinking that now, if ever, was a time that a panic attack could be expected and justified. So why wasn't it hitting? Too many things to focus on?

“Worst part is waiting,” Evans said. “Out on an operation, that's one thing. If you're in an ambush situation, you find a spot, settle in, breathe slow, and let your heart rate slow down. But who knows where this phone call will send us? Or whether we can secure the perimeters?”

“I trust you,” King said.

“Thanks,” Evans said.

“Which is crazy when you think about it,” King said. “It seems to me like national security is built on layers and layers of falsehoods. How many times a week in your job do you have to lie to people?”

Evans snorted. “Well, if we told the truth—”

King spoke slowly, thinking out loud. “That's what I mean. You can't let the bad guys know what you know, and you can't let the good guys know what you know. It's all about secrets and lies.”

“Think it can be any different?”

“Don't know,” King said. “I wish it could. I wish when the president of the United States makes a public declaration, I could believe it instead of wondering what is really hidden from us and whether it's being done for the good of the people or for the good of the politician. And if we can't trust the president to speak the truth, why should we expect anyone to tell the truth? And once that happens—or maybe it's already at that point—what kind of society is this? Worst thing is, I'm as bad as anyone. I've been lying to my parents for weeks, hiding how I feel about stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“I get scared,” King said. “Without warning. Without reason.”

Evans snorted. “So the good news is that at least right now you have a reason?”

“Yeah,” King said, okay with Evans' attempt at making the mood lighter. “Great news.”

The phone chirped.

Evans answered and held it to his ear. He listened and nodded. Listened some more.

“Understood,” Evans said.

And hung up.

Evans started the engine and put the SUV into gear. He checked his rearview mirror and slipped into the traffic.

“It's a go,” Evans said. “Delamarre set up the meet. Do I need to go over anything with you again?”

“Nope,” King said. “I know you've got my back.”

CHAPTER 53

“I'll bet you're surprised at how few precautions I took to set this up,” Ron Delamarre said to King. “Especially given that the CIA is involved with this.”

It was a hotel conference room, only blocks away from where King had sent a series of texts from room 1010 about an hour earlier. The blinds were closed and the main lights off with small track lights illuminating Delamarre, who sat behind a table.

To King, Delamarre was instantly recognizable from the newspaper photographs. He was a long-haired, middle-aged guy with blond streaks in his hair. He wore jeans and a pink polo shirt, sleeves rolled up. His right hand held a revolver.

King didn't say it, but he was surprised at how little fear he felt when he saw the weapon. If anything warranted a panic attack, this was it.

“Not really surprised that you feel like you're in a strong position,” King said. “You've still got Amanda and my friends and the families as hostages somewhere. That's going to prevent anyone from making a move to take you down. At least that's the way I'd see it if I were you. You don't need a gun in this situation.”

“Holding a weapon makes me feel better,” Delamarre said. “You wired?”

“Yes,” King said. “You'd expect that, right?”

“Of course. There's a reason I chose this conference room. It's got the equipment to let me video this conversation and stream it to the cloud as it happens. If I don't get back to my safe place within two hours and put in a password, the contents of the cloud will go to all the major media outlets across America. It's called a dead man's switch. You familiar with that?”

“Vaguely,” King said.

“Doesn't matter if you are,” Delamarre said. “Your handlers are, and they're listening to every word, so I probably won't need this revolver. But it's good for them to know I'm holding it.”

“Mind pointing it away from me?” King said. “I think better when I'm not nervous.”

“No problem,” Delamarre said. He tilted the barrel at a spot well to the side of King. “How about you just give me access to the files I need?”

“The same files you wanted when you took Amanda as hostage?”

“Don't get tedious,” Delamarre said. “We both know this conversation is recorded. I have no problem admitting I was behind that because once she's released, the CIA is going to want to bury all of this. And I'll bury it with them as long as I'm no longer public enemy number one.”

“Can you satisfy my curiosity?” King said. “Tell me what software you developed that makes the CIA want you badly enough to fake the terrorism charges against you.”

“Specifically, no. Trust me, you don't want the burden of carrying around classified information. They'll put an invisible tether on you for the rest of your life. But in general, I'll tell you something you may already know. For decades, the CIA has tried to be one step ahead in psywar.”

“Sigh war?”

Delamarre showed his first signs of impatience. “Psy—p-s-y.”

Then he relaxed and smiled as he waved his hands. “It's a good thing you're making me spell this out. You know, in case I need to activate my dead man's switch and release this conversation to the media.”

“Sir,” King said, “the revolver is pointing at me again.”

“Accident,” Delamarre said, tilting it sideways again. “Let's get back to psywar. Psychological warfare. From inflicting mass terror in ancient wars, to using social media and deceptions in modern times. It ranges from using loud sounds to taking over television stations and making false broadcasts. The CIA has done it all and is always looking for more. What I developed is going to be very effective, but it depends on secrecy. If people knew what the CIA has, the weapon would be ruined. I was given the contract, but my company did such a good job with it, I decided it would serve the world better if people put it to commercial use, not psywar use.”

Delamarre laughed again. “And it would make me more money. To license it would make me look like a hero. And once I told that to the CIA, they squeezed me with the false terrorism charges.”

“You're saying this, aware of how it will sound if the media listens to this conversation, right?”

“Sure,” Delamarre said. “It's how you fight back in a psywar. So, how about either give me access to the files you promised or tell me that you're running some kind of bluff.”

Delamarre lifted the revolver. “By the way, it's no accident I'm pointing this at you now. I'm going to start a countdown. I want the code by the time I get to zero.”

“You want a video of you shooting a kid uploaded to the media?”

“Why not?” Delamarre said. “It's the CIA's fault. Ten. Nine.”

“I've got my phone with me,” King said. “Tell me what email address I can use to send you the access code.”

“Eight. Seven.”

“Now you're really making me nervous,” King said. He moved sideways a step. The dark hole of the revolver's barrel followed him. He had nowhere to hide, thinking that Mundie's promise had come true again. “You can have the files!”

“Six. Five.”

King realized in that moment he was dealing with a crazy person. Maybe the CIA had known that all along.

“Evans!” King said. “Now!”

“Four. Three.”

King heard a door crash open behind him.

“Stop!” Evans yelled. “I'm your target! Not the kid.”

“You're CIA?” Delamarre asked.

“Yes,” Evans said. “We can work something out. I promise.”

The revolver stayed on King, and Delamarre continued in a monotone. “Two. One.”

Evans began to dive toward Delamarre, but King could see that it would be too late. Delamarre didn't remove his focus or aim from King.

“Zero.”

Incredible. King knew he was going to die, and yet he felt an overwhelming peace cover him.
Bang!

The sound of Delamarre's revolver deafened King.

Two more horrendous explosions. King saw the intense white flare from the revolver barrel each time. Yet he felt no pain.

Is this what dying is like?
King wondered.
Time slows down, and the soul perceives things in an entirely new way?
He shouldn't be hearing things and seeing things if he was gone from his body. Should he?

Another horrendous explosion.

King saw Evans dive straight through Delamarre and crash into the wall.

King looked down at his chest. No holes, no blood, no pain.

“Kind of cool, isn't it,” Delamarre's image said to King. Evans was getting up, groggy and confused.

“I'm here,” Delamarre said, “but I'm not.”

Evans staggered to Delamarre and with a sling of his arm, put Delamarre in a head lock. Except when Evans pulled, his arm went through Delamarre's neck. Like Delamarre was a ghost.