“Are you really that cynical, Thorn? Money drives everybody?”
“Why get Flynn involved?”
“He shared our goals.”
“A lot of people do. Why him? It was no coincidence.”
“You mean because he was your son? All right, yes. I read about him in the papers, searched him out. Being your son gave him an edge. I considered asking you as well. I considered it quite often.”
“Because you thought I was some kind of big-time outlaw.”
“I thought you were a man of strong principles. I still do.”
“Then you obviously don’t know who I am.”
She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know who you are.”
Thorn turned his back on the water and the distant plant. His ribs ached and he could still feel a lingering pressure around his chest as if the python had crushed his torso into a new shape.
“You’re a man of great skills and resolve. You’ve been involved in some nasty business in the past, but kept your exploits off the record. I admire you, Thorn. I always thought you’d be a perfect fit, but I knew you’d fought a lot of battles lately so I kept my distance out of respect.”
“But you didn’t keep your distance from Flynn.”
Her face colored briefly and she looked away. “Flynn has many of your traits, Thorn. He’s a warrior. Not of your caliber perhaps, but he’s learning fast.”
“Listen to me, Leslie. I’m putting my boat back together. If I can’t fix that engine, by God I’ll dog-paddle back to the mainland. But I’m going home one way or the other. When I get back, you have my word I won’t call the cops or the press or anybody. You do what you have to do. Pull your prank, cripple the plant, make your big statement. Good luck with that. But I’m going back, and if Flynn wants to leave, too, he’s coming with me.”
Weariness was in her half smile. “I’m sorry but that’s not going to happen. You’re not going anywhere till this is done. We can’t take that risk. And Flynn isn’t going anywhere either.”
“So now we’re prisoners?”
“I didn’t invite you here, Thorn. You found your way on your own. But now that you’re here, we can’t let you leave.
“In a very short while we pull the plug. Everything’s going dark. It’ll stay dark for as long as we can manage to keep it that way. On the day we go in, Flynn will be with us a hundred percent, as he has been from the start. I’m confident of him. And maybe you’ll come on board, too. Give me a few days, I’ll change your mind.”
“I’m too old to be reeducated.”
“If you want to resume your way of life, if you want Flynn to have a future, you’ll come around. You have to. There’s no choice anymore.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“You have to understand something, Thorn. I don’t have the final say.”
“And who does?”
“We’re a democracy. The group will decide what to do with you.”
FOURTEEN
LEAVING THE BEACH, THORN LAGGED a step behind Leslie, taking a glance at her flats boat, seeing no keys in the ignition. Maybe with a screwdriver and ten free minutes he could hot-wire it. More than once he’d lost his ignition key overboard and he knew the start-up drill on his own skiff, but wasn’t sure about the more advanced ignition system on the Whipray.
And he got a better look at the wooden rack where the kayaks were stored. Constructed with pressure-treated two-by-fours, the cage was bolted together and its lid was held shut by two impressive steel hinges mounted on each side. From each hinge dangled an equally impressive padlock.
Even the pry bar would be no match for that steel, but maybe he could break the hinges loose. Gouge that pine, splinter it enough to pry one free, jimmy the lid open a few inches to unload a couple of kayaks. Though now that he thought about it, he’d seen no paddles anywhere.
Another problem.
Inside the barracks tent Flynn was standing stiffly beside Cameron, Wally, and another guy, the four of them forming a ragged line, waiting for Leslie’s arrival. Behind them were six cots neatly made with sheets and pillows. Two weight benches stood nearby, along with a collection of barbells and dumbbells and stacks of heavy plates. Some backpacks lay in the corners, and by one of the bunks, oddly out of place, sat two aluminum attaché cases.
At the back of the tent a flimsy metal bookshelf was loaded with jugs of water. An ice chest with roller wheels was tucked in beside the bookshelf. A small sheet of plywood had been laid across some wooden crates to create a makeshift desk. On it sat a laptop computer attached to a mobile phone. A bright orange extension cord ran underneath the plywood desk and disappeared beneath the edge of the tent. No doubt the computer and the window fan that was agitating the air were powered by the solar assembly outside. All in all, a Spartan bivouac.
Inside the tent the air was maybe a degree or two cooler than out in the sun, but it was so saturated with sweat and body odor it was stifling.
“This is Thorn,” Leslie announced to the group. “He’s an old friend of mine and he’s Flynn’s father. He stumbled across our camp today, and he’s discovered the nature of our mission, so we can’t release him. I suggest we try to bring him on board. He’s a resourceful man. A fighter. We could use him.
“He’s not yet convinced of the worthiness of our cause, but I think we can persuade him in short order. I truly believe we can.”
She introduced the one man Thorn hadn’t met. Pauly Chee, Wally’s brother.
Pauly was shorter than Thorn by a couple of inches, shirtless, his exposed chest and stomach as slick and solidly molded as a slab of polished marble. His glossy black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. He had a cinnamon complexion and a bold, hawkish nose, and his face was full of angles as if it had been whittled by the wind.
His large, dark eyes regarded Thorn with cold indifference, as though Pauly had sized him up in a split second and decided Thorn wasn’t worth further consideration.
Around his neck he wore a leather cord with a beaded medallion of green and white, and on his right wrist was a silver bracelet ornamented with oval turquoise stones. Thorn didn’t know much about Native American tribes, so he could only guess what this man’s ancestry might be. But the flavor of his medallion and bracelet and the broad face and harsh slash of his cheekbones hinted at one of those clans who centuries ago were driven over the Bering Strait by the last ice age and had trekked down into the new continent and settled in the deserts of the Southwest.
“Some last-minute asshole,” Wally said. “I don’t like it. No way.”
“I’m with Wally,” Cameron said. “I’ve spoken to him at length and found him to be an arrogant man. An untrustworthy wiseass. I don’t think he’s capable of becoming a member of any group, much less ours. I vote no.”
She drew a breath, gave Prince a disheartened look, and moved on. “All right, that’s two against. But let me make this clear. If we don’t accept Thorn in the group, we’ll have to make a hard choice how to proceed.”
“Slice his throat, dump his carcass at sea,” Wally said. “That’s not hard.”
“I vote yes,” Flynn said. Staring off at the sunlight slanting into the tent.
“And that’s my vote as well,” Leslie said. “So that leaves you, Pauly.”
“Vote no, Pauly. The guy’s a hairy-ass motherfucker.” Wally danced up to Thorn, threw a couple of phantom slaps at his face. “Pauly votes no.”
“Pauly? Shall we give him a chance?”
The man said something below his breath.
“What is it, Pauly?”
“Why’s he here?” His voice was low and thick as though it had been days since he’d last uttered a word.
“What do you mean?”
“Why’d he come?”
“He was worried about Flynn.”
“Why?”
“He thought Flynn was mixed up in something suspicious. Isn’t that right, Thorn?”
Thorn nodded.
Pauly peered hard at Thorn as if inspecting a slab of meat.
“Vote no, vote no, vote no,” Wally chanted.
Pauly said, “Abstain.”
“Abstain!” Wally threw up his hands. “You can’t fucking abstain. You got to vote no. The guy’s an asshole. Look at him, he’s dumber than a bag of used condoms. What’re you talking about, man? Don’t abstain. I’ll personally do the honors, cut his smart guy’s throat.”
“All right, that’s it,” Leslie said. “Thorn stays. But it’s probationary. We have a few days before we move. Time for Thorn to prove himself one way or the other.”
Thorn kept silent. Not the moment for an acceptance speech.
“I’m coming for you, douche bag,” Wally said, stabbing a finger at Thorn. “Head on a fucking swivel.”
Looking down at the ground, Leslie said, “Now I have some bad news.”
No one spoke. Wally waved a mosquito from his face.
“Marcus Bendell was killed this morning. Electrocuted.”
Flynn flinched but the others showed nothing.
Wally said, “No big loss. Bendell wasn’t playing a skill position.”
“Like you are?” Flynn said.
“Goddamn right.”
“A hacker? Ten-year-old kids can do what you do on their cell phone.”
“I’m a fucking SCADA programmer, asshole. I spent a year in a hacker dojo learning UNIX, mastering the code. I can make passenger jets crash. What the fuck do you bring to the table?”
Leslie stood silently, waiting for them to sort it out.
When Flynn didn’t reply, she said, “Answer him, Flynn. What do you bring to the table?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I have to contribute.”
“What’s your skill, Flynn?” She spoke softly and without judgment or pressure as if she’d spent considerable time mediating between hostile men in sweaty barracks tents.
“I don’t have any.”
“Second that motion,” Wally said.
“You’re an actor, aren’t you? An artist. A creative person.”
Flynn said, “Sometimes I wonder.”
“We all wonder,” she said. “Only those cursed by hubris don’t wonder about the roles they play.”
“Cursed by hubris?” Wally said. “What is this, vocabulary day? We’re back in tenth grade?”
“You never left, Wally,” said Flynn.
Leslie let the silence grow for several moments, then said, “Marcus was an informant for the feds.”
No one made a sound.
“Our contact inside Turkey Point learned that Marcus was passing information to a government agent, and our man took it upon himself to remove Marcus from the equation. He did this without consulting me or anyone else within ELF.”
Flynn was staring at the bare ground at his feet.
“So much for nonviolence,” Thorn said.
“This man was acting on his own. What he did was outrageous and wrong, and I’ve let him know we will not tolerate any more violent acts.”
“So our cover’s blown,” Prince said. “We have to shut down. Get the hell out of here.”
“No,” Leslie said. “I believe we’re okay.”
“But the feds know we’re out here, they know our goal.”
“The moment Wally put the ELF logo on their system, they knew we’d targeted the plant. They don’t know anything more specific than that.”
“But they could raid the island, bring us all in.” Prince looked at the others as if trying to marshal support, but no one responded.
“And what would they find? Kayaks, a solar panel, a laptop computer with a sterilized hard drive, and a group camping out in the wilderness. No, they won’t raid the island. We’ve done nothing wrong. They couldn’t know our attack plan because Marcus didn’t know it, and none of the rest of you do either. Even if they took us into custody, it would be useless. If one of you wanted to confess, you have nothing specific to reveal.”
“When do we hear it,” Pauly said, “the plan?”
Pauly’s voice was deep and velvety, enunciating each syllable with the care of a DJ on a late-night jazz station.
“I can tell you this much,” she said. “Wally’s computer incursion has produced the desired results. They’re worried about the plant’s security, and they’re reacting exactly as we expected.”
“And how is that?” Pauly said.
“Their security team is meeting now. We’ll hear the results this afternoon and we’ll respond accordingly.”
No one spoke. Wally shifted his weight from foot to foot as if he had to piss. Cameron stood straight, shoulders erect, hands gripped behind his back as if doing an isometric workout on the sly. They weren’t exactly spellbound by Leslie, but they were listening. Something about the quiet assurance in her voice seemed to soothe this rowdy group. Thorn had never seen or imagined this side of Leslie. To him she was still the damaged kid on his dock, insecure, defenseless. But the woman who stood before this group was smart and determined, had a steady command of the situation. Nothing fragile about her.
She explained that for the next few days no one would be leaving the island except Prince, who would come and go, continuing his work with the crocodiles, business as usual.
Finally, she informed them, there was to be a change in the routine. A simple but necessary form of security. The buddy system was now in force. For the next week, they would be paired up and would never be out of sight or proximity of their buddy even for a few seconds. The pairings were as follows: Leslie and Cameron. Flynn and Wally. And Thorn and Pauly Chee.
“No fucking way,” Wally said. “This peter puffer and me, you put us together, one of us will be dead by sundown, and his name won’t be Wally.”
“That’s my decision. From this moment on you’ll be in constant contact with your partner, day and night, until we’ve achieved our goal.”
Wally started to protest again, but his brother turned to him, brought his mouth close to Wally’s ear, and spoke in a harsh, guttural tongue Thorn didn’t recognize. Wally flinched and sealed his lips.
With that, the meeting was adjourned.
FIFTEEN
“SO WE’RE GOOD? YOU GET a feel for the layout?” Assistant Director Emily Sheen greeted them at the door of the conference room and motioned them inside.
Nicole said yes, a good feel. Sheffield waffled his hand.
He and Nicole, guided by Claude Sellers, had completed an hour ride-around crammed in the front seat of a Ford pickup, no air-conditioning, Claude at the wheel, showing off the highlights of the three-thousand-acre complex. Afterward they’d spent another half hour covering nearly every square foot of the five-story containment building and the dual control rooms full of gleaming hardware, and, good God, ten minutes later Frank could still feel the rumble of the turbines in his sockets.
Claude had insisted on the tour. If they were going to work together, the FBI and NIPC and the plant’s security team, Sellers said they needed a hands-on feel for the outdoor layout, the scale and distances, before they sat down at the table and began in earnest to refine their threat assessments.
“I’ve been here before,” Frank said to Emily Sheen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Claude said. “That’s twice already you said that.”
They took seats on opposite sides of a long table in the third-floor meeting room. Across from Frank was a large window that looked down on the main floor of the control room from one story above.
Men and women in blue jumpsuits and hard hats were carrying equipment, while others in surgical smocks and paper hairnets checked gauges and consulted in small clusters near the elaborate panels and banks of computers. Dozens of joysticks rose from the command consoles flanked by banks of servers and display monitors with row after row of gauges and dials of every size and arrays of color-coded LED lights. A shift supervisor manned one vast desk, with two other equipment operators stationed at another wedge-shaped desk. The room s
eemed as vast and intricate as a Mars mission at NASA control.
On the walls of the conference room dozens of TV screens played black-and-white videos from all the security-cam placements around the facility. The front gate, the entry to the office building, and everything in between, including views from three cameras that were set up along the coastline monitoring the waters just offshore.
Claude took a seat alongside the woman from NRC, Emily Sheen, fiftyish, with a blocky face and blunt bangs, prematurely gray, and wearing a spongy, green suit that might’ve fit ten pounds ago.
“Actually I was here on multiple occasions,” Frank said. “First time, Freddy Manks was head of security. You were in diapers, Sellers. FBI handled the force-on-force drill, and in five minutes my team penetrated the perimeter and were having cocktails in the control room. You guys were pathetic.”
“Yeah, well, those times are long gone.”
Under the table Nicole nudged Frank’s ankle. A professional thump. Cool it. We’ve got to work with these people.
Frank believed he had a solid read on Claude. The guy was a brazen bully. The way he smiled, not quite a sneer, but a snide curl in the corner of his upper lip. As if he were tolerating humankind, but only barely. His halo of testosterone stinking up the place. And his grooming, Jesus. That Fu Manchu mustache, plucked and manicured, and the way his scalp gleamed as if he buffed it with a shoe rag.
Not to mention his outfit. A tight brown shirt with epaulets, green slacks, and a white-cord bolo tie, for christsakes, with a red stone at his throat. When Frank was ten years old and didn’t know better, he’d worn a tie like that once and got the snot knocked out of him after Sunday school. It was in-your-face dorky. Probably had a collection of string ties, his jerk-off trademark.
“All right, if everyone’s ready,” Sheen said, “let’s commence.”
If Frank could get a refund on the hours he’d spent sitting at conference tables like this one, listening to some federal hack hold forth on the trivia he or she was handsomely paid to spew, he’d be about twenty years younger. Maybe his back wouldn’t hurt so much. And maybe he’d have a kindlier view of the wonders of government service, too.
Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) Page 10