by Abbott, Jeff
Trust Me
Novel [1]
Jeff Abbott
Little, Brown Book Group (2009)
* * *
Tags: Mystery
On the new digital battlefront in the war on terror, one man will learn to negotiate the extremely thin line between unconditional trust and unspeakable betrayal.
Luke Dantry tells people he has a job on the cutting edge of the war on terror-only he knows it’s nowhere near as adrenaline-filled as he makes it sound. Luke’s nightly task working for his stepfather’s Washington think tank: Go undercover from the anonymous safety of his computer and infiltrate Web-based, home-grown terrorist networks, cataloging the screen names and details of a motley collection of rage-filled, mentally suspect, and mostly impotent loners he comes to call the Black Road. Now and then he encounters someone who may have the capability to make good on his threats, but Luke figures that the vast majority of his targets are simply frustrated malcontents using the Internet as an empty soapbox.
When Luke is kidnapped at gunpoint, without warning, and left for dead in an isolated cabin deep in the woods, he realizes it must be related to his work, and that the Black Road is far more organized than he thought-and much closer to home than he could have ever imagined. After a daring escape, with both the terrorist group and their enemies on his heels, he must quickly assemble a complex puzzle of convoluted histories and motives, where the final pieces extend deep into his own past-and where Luke himself may hold the key to stopping the Black Road before their spectacular plans come to horrible fruition.
From Publishers Weekly
Luke Dantry, while working as an intern for his stepfather’s think-tank in Austin, Tex., stumbles on a group of home-grown terrorists known as the Night Road (because of their nocturnal Internet chatter) in this furiously paced if less than compelling thriller from Abbott (Collision). The Night Road has held several warmup activities—plane crashes, train derailments, chemical explosions—and is now gearing up for Hellfire, the code name for a secret mission that’s supposed to be the mother of all terrorist acts. As Dantry scrambles from city to city (Houston, Chicago, New York) to thwart Hellfire and bring its planners to justice, the story strikes a number of false notes—convenient plot twists, hard-to-swallow dialogue and a main character who all too easily goes from wimpy grad student to brawny crime fighter over the course of just a few days. Still, Abbott has an instinctive feel for how to draw adrenaline from words on a page. (July)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
“There is no question: Jeff Abbott is the new name in suspense.” Harlan Coben”
Trust Me
Jeff Abbott
Little, Brown Book Group (2011)
* * *
Luke Dantry tragically lost his parents when he was a teenager - his father was murdered by a crazed operative, his mother died in a terrible accident. Brought up by his stepfather, Luke now works with him on his research, monitoring extremist groups on the internet.
Yet within the seemingly harmless world of the internet lie untold dangers. And Luke suddenly feels the full force of them when he is kidnapped at gunpoint in an airport car park. As an ordinary guy, someone who has led a blameless life, he has no idea why he has been targeted. He only knows that he has to escape - somehow.
But to escape he must learn to trust no one and nothing, and to overcome an enemy more powerful than he could possibly realise - an enemy who knows more than he does about the fate of his parents…
Jeff Abbott is the internationally bestselling author of thirteen novels, including Adrenaline, Panic, Fear and Run. He is a three-time nominee for the Edgar Award. He lives in Austin with his family.
Also by Jeff Abbott
A Kiss Gone Bad
Black Jack Point
Cut and Run
Panic
Fear
Run
Adrenaline
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital ISBN: 978-0-74812-970-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public
domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2009 Jeff Abbott All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
For Travis Wilhite
because there is always hope
‘I wouldn’t mind being a Pawn, if only I might join.’
- Alice, in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass
Contents
Also by Jeff Abbott
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgements
ENTER OUR JEFF ABBOTT COMPETITION
1
The old man had spent his entire life surrounded by unimaginable power and wealth - except for today. He was dressed as if for regional theater, playing the part of a retiree who’d failed to save for the long stretch of old age, wearing decrepit khakis and a threadbare jacket, mud sliming the heels of his boots, sitting on a park bench in the gray London afternoon, tossing crumbs to the pigeons. The crumbs were tiny, the size of diamonds.
The man in the gray suit, standing near him, pretending to talk on a cell phone, didn’t look at the old man; instead he watched the people strolling in the park, his eye keen for an enemy. A young couple walking hand-in-hand; two teenage boys ambling, trying to look cool and tough and failing; a well-dressed mother pushing a stroller, laughing on a cell phone, tucking a blanket around a baby; a pair of old ladies, clutching purses close to their coats, one talking in monologue, the other listening and nodding. No danger here.
The man in the gray suit fought the urge to smile at the disguise the old man had chosen but to laugh would be fatal. One had to indulge people with money. And one did not laugh at a billionair
e, no matter how eccentric.
‘I hardly recognized you, Your Majesty,’ the man in the gray suit said. He cast his gaze around the park again, the silent phone close to his ear.
‘Look at them go to war,’ the old man said in soft Arabic as the pigeons battled over the bread, pecking at each other and the bare ground. ‘They dance for me. As if I have strings on their wings.’ He threw another scattering of food to the flock’s left, laughed as they scurried for the crumbs.
The birds aren’t the only ones, the man in the gray suit thought. But he waited for the old man to speak again. The old man loved the sound of his own words, like most bullies.
‘All is prepared?’ the old man asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. Nearly so would have been a more exact answer but the old man had never cared for details. Everything would be ready soon enough. Then he could start to change the world.
‘Your people are ready for the money?’
‘Yes. Your banker has been a great help. He’s set up accounts, he’s covered our trails so as to not raise suspicion.’ It was an effort to control his temper, to not say, yes you old fool now just give me what I want and get out of the way. The man in the gray suit asked the question he’d come there to ask. ‘I need only to know the amount you’re willing to invest.’
‘Fifty million dollars now.’ The prince dressed as a pauper tossed his last handful of stale bread to the ground, watched the pigeons dart and peck for the leftovers. A smile played across his face as the birds battled. ‘If your proposed attacks succeed over the next five years, then another fifty million for further work.’
The man in the gray suit felt a heaviness seize his chest, felt the thud of blood in his ears. A hundred million dollars, to flow through his hands. But he showed no emotion. He kept the cell phone up to his ear. ‘9/11 didn’t even cost a million dollars to carry out.’
‘Yes, but it was not a long-term investment. I offer you much more. I give you many times the resources of 9/11.’ The old man glanced up at the man in the suit and for a moment he smiled, an awful flexing of skin and teeth. ‘Give me many times the results, for years to come. Make them bleed for a lifetime.’
‘I will.’
The old man paused, and for a moment there was only the whisper of the nearby traffic, of the wind creaking through the branches of the trees. ‘It is an investment. In the future of a better world.’ The pigeons pooled around the man’s feet, hungry for more. He kicked them away from his foot with a disgusted snarl.
‘You are generous.’
The old man looked up. ‘If you fail me, you and anyone you care about will die.’
The man in the gray suit said, ‘Threats and kicks work on a dog, sir. Not on me. You needn’t worry.’ He didn’t like being threatened. But he didn’t let his feelings show.
‘You have selected the right … people? I don’t wish to trust fools or amateurs.’
‘Yes. We have a willing cadre and we are recruiting more. There will be a first wave of attacks. To distract, to confuse, to panic. Then those fighters who successfully carry out those initial operations will get the honor to participate in the second phase, which is actually a massive attack. We call it Hellfire. Heavy loss of life, devastating economic damage. I promise you will get your money’s worth, sir.’
The old man smiled again at the man in the gray suit. ‘Spend my money well.’ He rose from the bench, dusted the bread from his lap, and walked away through the rising cloud of the birds.
Fifty million, the man in the gray suit thought. It was everything he had hoped for. Enough to make the world pay. Enough to make him respected. He turned and left the park, folding the unused cell phone, dropping it into his pocket.
Fifty feet behind him, the mother with the stroller giggled into her phone. She leaned down and eased the blanket around the sleeping infant she pushed in the baby carriage. She’d offered to take her friend’s baby for a stroll - give the friend a much-needed break. The young mother had barely slept in the past few days and the offer nearly made her cry with gratitude. ‘I know you’re not in town long, Jane. Don’t you have things to do?’
‘Nothing important. Darling, please, take a break from nappies and crying. I’ll take her for a long walk.’ And Jane had, giving the baby a dropper of allergy medication as soon as they were out of sight of the house so the darling would sleep the whole time.
The baby, nestled in its stroller, made for perfect camouflage for Jane’s afternoon.
Jane checked the settings on the parabolic microphone and digital recorder that lay next to the dozing baby. Holding a modified cell phone, she heard the old billionaire’s and the man in the gray suit’s words with a clarity as if they stood a foot in front of her. They both spoke Arabic, but that was not a concern to her. She understood every word.
The money would be on the move. It was time for her to put her plan into action. A tingle of anticipation and fear tickled her spine.
She turned on her real cell phone and dialed. She steered the stroller away at an angle from two approaching older women, walking arm in arm. Old ladies liked to look at babies. She didn’t want them to notice her eavesdropping gear.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Jane,’ the woman said in English.
‘And?’
‘The money is headed to America. Fifty million. We start tonight. Rock and roll.’
‘Rock and roll.’
Jane hung up. There was nothing more to be said.
Jane pushed the stroller out of the park, humming a jaunty tune to the sleeping baby. The sky was going gray but Jane thought it the loveliest day she’d ever seen.
Fifty million dollars, for years of 9/11s to come. Her throat went dry behind her smile.
She dropped off the microphone and its gear at her hotel room. She had a flight to catch tonight, a report to write for her bosses. It would not mention the fifty million, or the impending attacks, and she would have to edit the recording she’d made. The baby began to wake and cried. Jane sang to her softly, all the way home.
2
Luke Dantry was now the most dangerous man in the world. He had no idea of his status, of course; right now he wanted only a mind-clearing jog.
Luke ran. No one watching him could have guessed the danger he represented; they would only see a lanky twenty-four-year-old, curly dark brown hair a bit long over his ears, his strong build clad in shorts and a T-shirt that read Psychologists do it on the couch. He didn’t much like the shirt, a gag gift from an old girlfriend, but it was the only clean one he had for today’s run along Lady Bird Lake, in the heart of Austin’s downtown. His blue eyes focused on his path through the crowd. He did not pause to linger on the faces of pretty girls, or the shine of the light on the water he ran alongside, or the shifting shadows cast by the oak branches, jostled by the wind. He dodged slower runners, faster bicyclists, leaping dogs tethered to leashes. He had to hurry, get back to work. The work possessed his thoughts, day and night.
The Austin air was cool, not too humid: it was mid-March, and the long steamy summer bake hadn’t yet gripped the city. The breeze felt delicious on him, clearing his head of his worries, if for just a few moments.
Luke crossed the bridge into downtown, slowed his pace. He bent over, breathing hard. His medal slipped free from under the tacky T-shirt, the silver of the angel’s sword cutting the sunlight. He was careful to tuck the medal back under his shirt; it lay cool against the sweat of his chest. He stood and walked the last three blocks to the high-rise condo his stepfather had bought him when he’d moved back to Austin for college. He waved at the doorman, who gave Luke a slightly disapproving look as he waited.
‘How many miles?’ the doorman asked.
‘Only two.’
‘Only two? Get your lazy butt in gear.’ The doorman was a more devoted runner than Luke.
‘I was up late.’
‘Why you bother to live downtown if you never go to the clubs, go out and party?’
‘How do you kno
w I don’t?’ Luke gave the guard a half-smile.
‘On night shift, I see who parties, who’s been down in the Warehouse District, who’s been on Sixth Street. You never stagger in late.’
‘I’m on the internet most of the time right now.’
‘Well, get the hell off.’ The guard gave him a grin. ‘Life’s too short.’
The elevator arrived and Luke said, ‘I’ll try to fix that partying deficit.’
‘Not tonight. Your stepfather is waiting for you. Got here a few minutes ago.’
‘Thanks.’ The doors closed and Luke punched the tenth floor button. Henry was back again, all the way from Washington, and Luke hadn’t finished the project. He took a deep breath.
The elevator door slid open and he walked down a short hallway to his condo. The door was slightly ajar; Henry had forgotten to shut it. Typical. He opened the door and called out, ‘Hey, it’s me.’ Luke closed the door behind him and he could hear the scratch of pen on paper, the sound he always associated with Henry.
Henry sat at the dining room table, his luggage at his feet, writing on a yellow legal pad, a thick book open in front of him. Luke knew better than to interrupt Henry when he was thinking, and Henry’s thoughts could be long, tortured affairs. Henry raised one hand slightly from the table as he wrote, begging for patience, and so Luke went and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator, drank deeply, listened to the scratch of Henry’s pen, looked at the stunning view that faced the lake and the green stretch of Zilker Park beyond.
‘Sorry, Luke,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m working on a dozen position papers at once, and all my ideas are sprouting like weeds.’
‘That’s too many.’
‘I think a lot of change is in the wind. Did you have a good run?’ Henry looked up from the paper. Fiftyish, lean, but with slightly mussed gray hair - standing in stray stalks from his fingers constantly running through it as he spoke - and an equally rumpled suit. Henry never traveled well.