We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) (2 page)

I felt a sudden hollowness at my core, that rushing emptiness I'd felt only twice before: clutching stupidly at Frank while he died and watching live footage as that second plane hit the tower.

"Okay," I said. "Jesus. But what's that got to do with me?"

Wydell stopped, poised, one leg up on the skid of the chopper. "He says he'll only talk to you."

Chapter
2

The Black Hawk pitched, and I felt my stomach go through my throat. I bounced on a seat opposite Wydell and Sever, one hand wound in the cargo netting to keep me from tumbling onto the deck. I'd blown out the heel air pocket of my left sneaker, and the plastic window on the outsole clicked every time I leaned hard on that foot to keep my balance. As well as the pilot, copilot, and two flight-suited crewmen, there were three other agents, all talking

into radio headsets. Pelican cases were strapped to the floor, a few lids laid open to reveal all order of weaponry nestled in the black foam--sniper rifles, machine guns, grenades, even a torn Silly Putty block of what I assumed was C-4.

The night air was crisp in my lungs, and the smell inside the helicopter was oiled steel and canvas. The bleeding from my lower lip continued, the taste lingering at the back of my throat. We bounced again, the wind fighting back, and a wave of nausea rolled through me. With scant comfort I recalled hearing that a helicopter was the only machine that tried to tear itself apart every time it powered on.

Even in the midst of an emergency, Wydell had the assurance of a veteran agent. Square posture. An elongated face, the forehead made prominent by a sharp widow's peak. No emotion in the dark brown eyes. The kind of man with a built-in confidence I resented and grudgingly admired, who could torpedo a stock price or send men to war and still doze off the instant his head hit the pillow. His lank gray hair, battered by the wind, had settled back into place except for a few wayward locks that looked incongruous. His radio headset dangled around his neck.

I waited until he looked over at me. Then I said, "We're facing a nightmare, and you need me. I get that. But you couldn't just knock?"

"Listen carefully." Wydell talked loudly to be heard over the constant rush of noise, his voice hoarse. "This isn't about propriety. We've been scrambling since this guy started beelining down the 405."

I asked, "Why is the Secret Service even involved with a terrorist threat?"

"When the terrorist asked for you, LAPD ran your name," Sever said. "They found out your stepfather worked Caruthers's detail when Caruthers was vice president, and they pulled us in. They figured we keep tabs on agents' families."

"Have you? Been keeping tabs on me?"

Wydell said, "Let me make this clear: Until we're one hundred percent certain that you're not this terrorist's confederate, you are."

"And there's no way to make you certain," I said. "At least not right now."

"That's right. We don't have time to question you more thoroughly. In fact, we don't have any time at all." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bringing those impassive brown eyes within a few feet of my face. "He wants you, Nick. We need to

know why."

We swooped back over the freeway, rocketing forward on a tilt. Sever put out his foot to stop a sliding Pelican case. Stress and adrenaline had left me light-headed, and the lurching helicopter wasn't helping settle me down.

"I'm completely in the dark," I said. "I have no

idea who he is."

Wydell shot a glance over at Sever, who looked skeptical. "Then we're gonna act like we believe you so we can move forward."

Wydell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, fluffed it with a sharp snap, and offered it to me. I pressed it to my lip to stanch the bleeding.

He continued, "LAPD tracked the terrorist to a house in Culver City. Shots were exchanged. He managed to escape in his vehicle and was pursued southbound on the 405 until he reached the San Onofre nuclear plant. He wrapped a note asking for you around a rock and threw it toward the barricade."

The taste of blood stayed sharp at the back of my mouth. "Tell me how to help."

The copilot shouted something back to Wydell, and he pulled his headset up, pausing to catch my eye and then nod at Sever. "This is Special Agent Reid Sever. Squad leader for Protective Intelligence here in L.A. He'll fill you in."

Wydell then grimaced and let the earphones close over his head. He gripped the bud of the microphone, angling it to his chin and speaking to whoever was on the other end: "I'm aware of that, sir, but no one was expecting the pursuit to veer off into the nuclear plant. It's just a hundred yards from the freeway. LAPD managed to give a few minutes' warning to the guards, and they immediately set up a perimeter around the containment domes."

Meanwhile Sever unfurled a large scroll across his lap, tilting it so I could see. His thumb pinched a tiny LED light against the paper, illuminating a throw of blueprint. His voice was gruffer than Wydell's, lacking the polished edges that came with promotion.

"This is the blueprint of the power plant," Sever said. "The containment domes that hold the reactors are here." A sturdy finger tapped paper. "To the right. The reactors are housed inside these steel-and-concrete domes that could withstand a tank assault. Only problem is . . ." His lips twitched, a pinched smile that said nothing was funny. "Only problem is, our boy veered left."

"What's over there?" I asked.

Beside Sever, Wydell leaned back in his seat, still gripping the floating mike. He maintained the respectful tone for addressing a superior, but his face looked strained, the skin tight across his cheeks. I could see a pulse fluttering at his temple. "The spent-fuel pool." He paused, then said, "A different building, that's correct, sir. Concrete blocks and regular sheet-metal siding. It's got negative pressure maintained by fans, but it's not even airtight, let alone rated for containment."

He shoved the headset back down around his neck and sat for a moment, thoughtful. A band of sweat sparkled on his prominent forehead. He did not strike me as a man who sweated easily. The Black Hawk banked sharply, but he just turned calmly and stared out the window, his canted nose catching shadows. The 405 was flying past outside, a white
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and red-spotted ribbon. Traffic was moving normally. That no one had bothered to order an evacuation only highlighted the range of the potential blast. All those headlights down below, even at three in the morning. All those people, oblivious to the fact that their lives were in the balance.

The Black Hawk straightened up again, the ground righting itself beneath us where it belonged. Wydell folded his hands, leaned forward. His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth. "Let me lay out the facts," he said. "The pool is rectangular, about forty feet deep, built with five-foot concrete walls and lined with stainless steel. Under the high-density water are spent-fuel rods making up one of the greatest concentrations of radioactivity on the planet." His voice remained steady, but he armed moisture off his brow. "The pool houses ten times more long
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lived high-penetrating radioactivity than the reactor core. It holds more cesium-137 than has been deposited by every atmospheric nuclear test ever conducted in this hemisphere. There under the water, it's relatively stable and harmless. If that water goes away, bringing the spent fuel to within a few feet of the surface--"

"Like from an explosion." Despite the night air, my T-shirt was damp where it pressed against the nylon seat.

"Like from an explosion. Then the scenario changes dramatically. That pool would catch fire at north of a thousand degrees Celsius. A fire like that"--he shook his head--"a fire like that cannot be extinguished until the burning's done and the radioactivity released. It would render Southern California uninhabitable for half a million years."

Sever lifted a cell phone from inside one of the Pelican cases and extended it to me.

"So," I said, "you need me to call and talk to him."

Wydell said, "We need you to go in there and deliver this cell phone to him."

At first I thought I'd misheard. "I'll talk to him over the phone, bullhorn, whatever, but I'm not a trained agent. Someone who knows what they're doing should go in. What if I make a mistake? Five hundred thousand years is a long time."

"He made it clear he'll see only you, and it has to be face-to-face. We're out of options here."

When I swallowed, my throat clicked dryly. Why would some terrorist want to see me in person? Would he recognize my face but not my voice? Sever held the phone out to me again and shook it impatiently, but I kept my hands where they were. Wydell took it instead, put it in his lap.

I said, "I thought we don't negotiate with terrorists."

Sever said quietly, "We negotiate with terrorists

every day."

Wydell didn't seem to hear him. "Facing this level of destruction? What would you do?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm not the one with the policy."

"Listen," Wydell said, "this guy's holding the cards. You claim you're not with him. That means you're with us. And your part of the mission is to get this phone in his hand. Just give it to him when we call. We've got the top crisis negotiator in the state on scene already. Once we have comms, we'll take it from there."

"What if I can't convince him to take it? What if he blows us all up first?"

Wydell nodded solemnly, pulling at the loose skin below his chin. "I knew your old man. I bet we have a fighting chance, as long as you got a few of his genes."

"He was my stepdad," I said, "so it's a safe bet I didn't."

Wydell's dark brown eyes fixed on me. "Frank Durant was a great man. Stepson or not, that gives you something to live up to."

Instead of taking the phone, I released a shaky sigh and leaned back in my seat. A decision was inevitable. In the relative quiet, reality finally began to sink in, and with it a bone-deep chill. What had I woken into? The dark flew by as we whipped along toward a nuclear plant with a terrorist inside.

I thought about what my stepfather would do. Frank Durant. Seventeen years dead. My hero, if such a word can be used anymore with a straight face.

Chapter
3

Seven years to the day after my father died, I met Frank. He was sitting in our yellow kitchen and had his hand on my mom's knee, and I thought, Fuck him.

My real dad ran his truck into a canyon when I was four, barely old enough to store some hazy recollections. I never had to experience his shortcomings, which were considerable, right down to his .2 blood alcohol level when they pried the steering wheel out of his rib cage. I could just idealize him, plain and simple. I kept a photo of him framed on my bookshelf. In the picture he's wearing a white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes cuffed in, his hair's short, and he's smiling. Down at the bottom, almost lost behind the frame, a Camel sticks out from the fork of his fingers.

When I came into the kitchen that morning, Frank took his hand off my mom's knee and stood, a weirdly formal gesture. I tapped the tail of my skateboard, jumping it up so I could grab the top truck. He was tall, maybe six-two, with a tapered waist and a tattoo in what looked like Chinese

down his forearm.

My mom hopped up, clearing their cups of coffee, her jangly bracelets making a nervous clatter. "Nicky, this is my new friend Frank. He

works in the Secret Service, protecting our vice president. Isn't that neat?"

I thought, My new friend? Neat? Where did adults get this shit?

"Doesn't sound so neat to me," I said.

My mom's mouth got thin, but Frank just looked at me evenly and said, "It's not."

He was working out of the Los Angeles Regional Office, the liaison to the protection detail guarding Jasper Caruthers. Caruthers was from Hancock Park, spent a lot of time in L.A. pressing flesh and fund-raising from Hollywood, and when Caruthers was in town, Frank helped coordinate protective movements.

As the weeks passed, he was around more and more. I watched him with my mom on the couch, her bare feet in his lap, or in his truck out front, laughing together at the end of a date. I watched with that odd blend of jealousy and envy. I couldn't remember my mom smiling like that before.

My mom was an elementary-school art teacher--pretty, casual, a touch of hippie. She was what old people would call a character. Callie Horrigan with her bushy ponytail, her paint
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spattered men's shirts, her band of freckles across the nose. Her students called her Ms. Callie, and since I'd spent most of my preschool years tagging along, finger-painting and pasting glitter onto pinecones, I'd developed a habit of calling her by her first name, too.

One morning Callie left early for work, and I caught Frank at the table, hair damp from the shower, suit jacket draped over a chair, shirtsleeves pushed back. The first concrete evidence that he'd spent the night. He was drinking from my mom's coffee cup, steam curling up. I poured myself some cornflakes, sat across from him, and ate in silence. My eyes kept drifting to those weird ideograms on his muscular forearm, faded blue beneath the faint blond hair. He watched me for a while, watched my eyes. And then he said, "You're curious what that says?"