the Second Horseman (2006) (12 page)

"But you think it's a valid threat."

"I think there's a damn good chance," Scanlon said. "Sure as hell good enough for someone to look into it."

Brandon didn't answer immediately, instead mulling over what he'd heard. "I don't get it. What's this to you? You're not even in the government anymore. What makes you think you're so much smarter than they are? Other than your generally high opinion of yourself, I mean."

"Long story. Have Catherine tell it to you sometime." He pulled a piece of paper off his desk and held it out. Brandon reluctantly took it.

The marginal spelling and grammar couldn't hide the e-mail's hysterical tone. It was clear that the "mercandise" was being bid out to a number of "intrested partys," and would be immediately handed over to the first group who made a reasonable offer that they could back up.

"So are you interested?" Catherine said.

Brandon chewed his lower lip and continued to stare down at the e-mail. He desperately didn't want to be. But the truth was, he loved to steal stuff. And not just for the money. A really difficult heist was the ultimate rush. A horrible, self-destructive addiction that was virtually impossible to break.

But this was a whole other level. He tried to imagine a nuclear bomb going off inside the United States, but honestly couldn't get his mind fully around it. How many would be killed? Thousands? Tens of thousands? More?

"Tell me about the nukes," he said. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, though. Not because I'm agreeing to do anything."

"What do you want to know?"

"Stuff I'd need to steal them."

"Okay. They're hundred-kiloton weapons
.

"What's that mean?"

"Think five times as powerful as the ones we dropped on Japan."

"Now, see, I don't need to know that. That just makes me nervous."

"Sorry. I'd hate for you to feel nervous. How's this? There are twelve of them -- all the same. Each is about five feet tall, cone
-
shaped, and maybe three feet in diameter at the widest point."

"Weight?"

"Four, maybe five hundred pounds."

Brandon frowned. That kind of ruled out shoving them down his pants and making a run for it.

"We believe they're being stored in a cave in the Carpathian Mountains."

"The what?"

Scanlon ignored him. "Maybe a hundred men guarding them, mostly former military. Fairly sophisticated weapons, but probably no sophisticated alarm systems or anything like that."

Brandon blinked a few times. "Let me get this straight. You want me to walk into a Ukrainian military camp in the middle of the -- What were they? The Carpathian Mountains? And steal five thousand pounds of nuclear bombs. Is that right?"

"Well --"

"And just how would you suggest I do that? Pretend I'm the UPS guy? No, wait. Maybe I could cut the phone lines and jimmy their window? It's a military base in a cave, for Christ's sake!"

"But everyone says you're a genius," Catherine said.

He let out an exasperated breath. "See, that's a common misconception. I'm a reasonably creative guy who has a scre
w l
oose and, instead of getting a real job like everyone else, decided to be a crook."

"But --"

"You know what makes it easy to steal stuff in the U
. S
.? First, people rely on technology they don't understand as good as me. Second, they're all insured, so they really don't give a shit. And three, because they hire drowsy, overweight, six-dollar-an
-
hour security guards who are about as effective as my grandma. And my grandma's dead."

"I think you're underestimating yourself," Scanlon said. "You've stolen things that people very much cared about, protected by alarm systems they understood perfectly, and that were guarded by good men."

"Don't blow smoke, Richard. Yeah, I'm good. In fact, I like to think of myself as the best. But this is a military operation, not a criminal one."

Scanlon went back to the bar, this time returning with a second glass, which he handed Brandon. "Hard to imagine, isn't it? What would happen if one of those went off in an American city?"

"It'd kill a gazillion people. I get it, okay?"

"Believe me, that would barely even be the start of it."

"Hey, you can't put all this off on me, man. It's you government psychos that caused this."

Scanlon smiled ironically. "Yeah, the world would be a wonderful place if there were only thieves --"

"Kiss my ass. You know how many people I've hurt? I mean physically hurt? None. And what about all the people I help? Think about what goes into alarms alone: engineers, computer programmers, sales people, manufacturing. Think of how many people work for insurance companies." He pointed at Scanlon. "And what about cops? What would you have done without people like me, Richard? You'd have had to get a real job."

Scanlon sat down and sipped his drink for a few moments. "I'm not going to defend my life to you, Brandon. And I'm not going to ask you to defend yours to me. We're who we are and we've done what we've done. Now what about the nukes?"

Brandon sniffed at the drink in his hand, checking for the odor of poison. Not that he'd really know what it smelled like. He saw a movie once where Jodie Foster said it smelled like almonds.

"I can't steal them, Richard. No one can."

He didn't look particularly surprised. "On to plan B, then."

"Does that involve my body being picked over by coyotes?"

"That's plan C," Catherine said, giving his arm a strangely reassuring squeeze.

Scanlon's laugh lacked even the slightest sinister edge. "So, Brandon. Tell me. What do you know about Ukrainian organized criminals?"

"Complete psychopaths," he replied. "I stay as far away from those eastern bloc wackos as I can."

"A pretty mercenary bunch, then?"

"Slit their own mothers' throats for fifty --" Brandon fell silent for a moment and then took a satisfying swallow of the scotch in his hand. "You'll have to excuse me. Prison's made me a little slow. How much are they asking?"

"No set price yet. But two hundred million ought to take them off the table."

Chapter
FOURTEEN

Richard Scanlon's hand hovered over the phone for a few seconds before he finally picked it up. "Hello, Edwin."

"I'm hearing disturbing things."

Scanlon nodded silently. If there was one positive in all this, it confirmed that Hamdi did indeed have ears inside his organization. Not that he blamed the man. Their relationship was built more on a sturdy foundation of mutual respect than trust per se. Sometimes Scanlon felt as though they were two battle-weary fighters circling each other in the ring.

"What things?"

"That Brandon Vale is aware of your involvement in his escape. Do you deny that?"

"No."

The only response from Hamdi was a slightly elevated rate of breathing.

"In fact, he and Catherine are in my brea
k r
oom right now."

"And you were going to tell me this when?" His voice had transformed now, increasing in pitch and volume to the point that it sounded . . . dangerous.

"I wanted to talk to him first. To see where he stood."

"And just where is that, Richard? Where does this little thief stand?"

"Honestly, I think it's better this way, Edwin. He isn't a good puppet. We'd have to deal with him constantly trying to cut the strings. We've already seen the prob--"

"Don't rationalize, Richard! It doesn't become you. This was a serious error. Catherine was an unknown to him. Now he knows about you and that means everyone -- everything -- is jeopardized."

"I disagree. The more information he has, the better he can help us -- if he decides to. And this has no effect at all on your level of risk. As you're well aware, no one but me knows anything about your involvement."

"That's not entirely true, is it? I've been a strong supporter of your company in Washington. If you go down, I could be dragged down with you."

"I don't see --"

"We need to get rid of him, Richard. And we need to do it now."

Hamdi was an extraordinarily intelligent and practical man, but one prone to occasional bursts of slightly self-conscious emotionalism. A cultural propensity toward martyrdom, Scanlon had once thought, and then admonished himself for it.

"That would certainly be clean, but it would leave us back at square one, wouldn't it? We can't afford that, Edwin. You know we can't. The Ukrainians are no more than a few weeks from selling the first of those warheads and we don't have a backup plan."

Again the only answer was the hiss of breathing.

"Is there any chance Congress will loosen up and release the funds for my new contract?"

"How many times do we have to go through this?" Hamdi snapped. "They're completely frozen until the commission report on the Mall of America attack comes out. And that won't be for at least two months."

"Kind of ironic, isn't it?" Scanlon said, trying to move off the subject and inject a bit of calm into the conversation. "That a study on a terrorist act could potentially facilitate the most devastating terrorist attack in history? Maybe the most devastating attack of any kind in history. It seems lik
e a
n easy decision to me, Edwin. We go with Brandon. Not because it's a good option, because it's the only option."

Of course, Hamdi knew all this. His protests were motivated half by frustration and half to soften Scanlon up for the inevitable second part of this conversation.

"I think we both understand now that this isn't a long-term accommodation, Richard. We get what we can out of him and then we get rid of him. There's too much at stake here to risk --"

"I think you're being a little narrow
-
minded. Give him a chance to prove himself."

"I did. He escaped and tracked you down over the course of forty-eight hours. What if he escapes again tomorrow? You think he won't use what he knows to make a deal? He doesn't owe you anything, Richard. Quite the opposite. Are you willing to risk the lives of millions of people on Brandon Vale's reliability?"

Of course, what Hamdi was really talking about was his own life. More specifically, the possibility that the eminently unpredictable Brandon Vale might find a way to exercise power over it.

Scanlon pulled out a low drawer in his desk and propped his feet on it. "Brandon may not have a degree from Harvard, but there's no denying he's brilliant at what he does. And as for reliability -- how many of your fair-haired government people would have kept their mouths shut and gone off to jail like Brandon did? Ivy Leaguers tend not to deal well with maximum-security prisons. They're also a little squeamish about breaking the law. They have lines they don't easily cross. Brandon has those lines, too, I suppose, but they're a little hazier."

"Do you have a point?"

"Yeah, actually, I do. Unorthodox problems sometimes require unorthodox solutions. Hell, even if we didn't need something stolen, Brandon makes my short list of potential employees."

"In for a penny, in for a pound. Is that it, Richard?"

"I was thinking more that the pot shouldn't call the kettle black."

"Look," Hamdi started, enunciating carefully, "I know you were undecided on what to do with Vale when we were finished with him, and at the time I understood that. But I think it's a clear decision now. We have to be realistic. Whether he can help us or not, when we're finished with him, he has to go away. Agreed?"

"Let's say I'll keep an open mind on the subject."

"Fine," Hamdi said, though his tone suggested it wasn't. A moment later the line went dead.

Scanlon replaced the phone's handset and took in a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and then letting it out slowly. One thing he had to say about Brandon Vale. He sure as hell was a lot of trouble.

Chapter
FIFTEEN

Brandon dug a pizza box out of the refrigerator and tossed it like a Frisbee onto the table.

"What are you doing?" Catherine said.

"Dinner. What do you think I'm doing?"

"Put the pizza back."

"What are you talking about? It's pepperoni and sausage." He fished a six-pack of Coke from the back with one hand while lifting the foil on a piece of pie with the other. Apple. Wouldn't you know it? He was allergic to apples.

Catherine picked up the box and pointed to the name JIM scrawled across it in Magic Marker. "It doesn't belong to you."

He frowned and stared at her for a moment, watching the comprehension slowly flush into her face.

Satisfied that she was once again clear about his shaky moral underpinnings, he checked the freezer. They were Ben and Jerry's people. Nice.

"Finding everything all right?" Scanlon's voice.

"No beer. Maybe we should hit Picasso for some foie gras?"

"This is more intimate, don't you think?"