Rebecca York (31 page)

That means they suspect that Todd and Glenn were linked.

Yes.

Do you know where we are?

The D.C. area. I recognized some landmarks as we drove by—like the Washington Monument. But I don't know our exact location—the building.

Where are you ?

In a cell—like yours.

Fear rose in his throat. Did they hurt you?

No. I'm fine.

He thanked God for that answer, then probed to make sure she was telling the truth.

Instinct and experience had him shouting urgent instructions—from his mind to hers. Lindsay, don't let them know we can communicate without touching. Whatever you do, don't give that up.

Why?

He tried to explain the combination of intuition and information that went into his conclusions. They went to a lot of trouble to scoop us up, because they think we're dangerous. They think our power comes from touching— because that's what they saw when Todd and Glenn invaded Maple Creek.

We have to convince them they're right. We have to convince them they have some control over us.

He felt her struggling not to whimper.

We have to make them think they can use us. That we're valuable.

For what?

Shit—I don't know. He sighed, wishing he had thought about what to do if Kurt MacArthur caught up with them.

Don't beat yourself up. We didn't realize what resources they had. We didn't know they'd find Mrs. Vanderlin and go after her.

Yeah.

He gritted his teeth. He had been trying to comfort her. Now he knew he had to talk tough. Job number one is staying alive. We've got to fool them. Or we're going to end up like Todd and Glenn and Sid and Leonard Hamilton. We have to keep those bastards from winning. For us—and to avenge them.

Before she could respond, he heard a clank of metal. Suddenly lights flashed on in the cell, making him blink and throw his arm over his eyes.

"You're awake."

When he could see, he peered up at a hard-looking man. A guy who appeared to be in his thirties.

One of Kurt MacArthur's henchmen, he assumed. But not the guy who had shot him.

Inwardly he cursed. He hadn't even thought to ask Lindsay how long he'd been out.

Five or six hours, she answered in his mind. Thank God she was still there.

He hoped his face hadn't reflected that jolt of recognition.

"Yeah. I'm back from the dead," he answered, knowing for sure now that someone had been watching him on a television camera.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"We're asking the questions."

"Well, if I don't have a drink of water, I'm not going to be able to answer them."

His captor only grunted. Another man stood by the door—his sidearm in his hand. Jordan wondered if he and Lindsay could send a bolt of energy into these two guys' brains. Maybe. But only as a last resort.

Better to get the lay of the land before they tried anything.

Better to save it for MacArthur. The comment came from Lindsay. Apparently she was thinking more clearly than he was.

The guards who had come into the room hustled him up a flight of stone stairs. As they stepped through a stout door, the decor changed abruptly from modern dungeon to luxurious office complex.

He fought a feeling of unreality as they marched him through a palatial reception area where a sleek-looking blond was working at a computer.

She looked like she was busy, but he sensed her interest in the guy from the basement as the prisoner was escorted across the thick carpet.

Was MacArthur's secretary used to seeing poor jerks brought in at gunpoint?

The guard paused and knocked at a closed door.

"Come in," a male voice called from within.

Jordan fought to pull himself together for this crucial meeting. Everything could end in the next few minutes. His life. Lindsay's. The connection they had forged—that they hadn't had a chance to explore.

Maybe they never would.

We will. Lindsay's voice echoed in his head, but he didn't know if he believed her.

He followed his guard into the room, struggling to keep his composure. But as he stepped through the door, he felt fear leap inside Lindsay.

Men had come for her, too. They were in her cell. They were taking her out into the hall.

He had told her that they must keep the connection between them secret. Now he wondered how in the hell he was going to pull that off.

Forget about me. Focus on MacArthur. The brave words echoed in his head. He struggled to obey them, because he knew that these first minutes with the head of the Crandall Consortium could mean the difference between life and death.

Reminding himself that he had always been a good judge of character, he studied Kurt MacArthur.

He saw arrogance and self-confidence, the marks of a man with power—who had just pulled off an important coup. Yet something lurked below the surface. A layer of fear that the director of the Crandall Consortium was struggling to hide.

To Jordan's vast relief, he had some idea of the man's thoughts. Todd Hamilton and Glenn Barrow had pulled off an impossible attack. These new captives had come from the same hatchery. What could Walker and Fleming do? And how much risk was he taking by being in the same room with this guy?

The thought flickered in MacArthur's mind that he'd like to have a transparent shield between himself and the prisoner. But he could keep his doubts from showing on his face—or in his body language.

Jordan picked that moment to speak, exaggerating the rough timbre of his voice and emphasizing his normal humanity. "I need a drink of water. And I need to use the toilet."

"We're here to talk," MacArthur snapped.

"Are you planning to use a full bladder as an intimidation tactic?"

When MacArthur only shrugged, Jordan continued in what he hoped was a forceful but nonthreatening tone. "I've interviewed plenty of people who were subjected to stressful interrogation. There's no shame in wetting your pants when the interrogator won't let you go to the bathroom. But I'm betting that some of the pee drips down my leg and gets on your expensive carpet. It might be tough to get the smell out."

The Crandall Consortium director jerked his head toward the right. "The bathroom is over there. Keep the door open. And don't try anything funny."

Jordan glanced at the guns that were now in both guards' hands. "I'm not suicidal," he answered.

Keeping his arms at his sides, he walked to the bathroom. The temptation to send a mental jab into the heads of everyone in the room was overwhelming. But he didn't dare try it—since the likely result would be his getting shot.

Turning his back, he used the toilet, giving himself time to prepare for the confrontation with MacArthur.

After flushing, he washed his hands, then cupped them under the faucet, getting himself a long drink and rinsing out his mouth. For good measure, he washed his face.

"What are you doing? Taking a bath?" MacArthur called out.

"I'd like to. After waking up in your Black Hole of Calcutta."

Wondering if he was ready, Jordan crossed to one of the guest chairs. Without being invited, he sat down.

* * *

DANIEL pulled his Lincoln Town Car into the parking area at the Maine Avenue Wharf, where fresh fish was sold from boats tied up at the dock. He'd always been sure that the guys selling the fish weren't the ones who had caught it. But the scene at the dock added to the local color in the nation's capital.

Most of the fishmongers had gone home for the night. But the smell of their wares came through his air-conditioning system.

He switched to interior circulation only, just as a man and woman stepped out of the shadow cast by a parked truck.

Quickly they crossed the tarmac and climbed into the back of his car.

Saxon and Willow. Together—as always. He wanted to embrace her. He wanted to feel her body pressed to his.

She was his lover. They had made sweet love many times in the past.

Or ... was that right?

He had come back to Washington alone. And she had promised to meet him. He remembered that much. But the rest of his memories of their time together was hazy. Like a dream. But when she reached across the seat to press her hand onto his neck, the recollection became sharp and clear again.

"Thank you for meeting us," Willow murmured.

"You said you had to discuss a matter affecting national security."

"Yes. It's about Jordan Walker and Lindsay Fleming. They're a danger to the United States of America."

"Lindsay? She works for me."

"Yes, remember, she was pumping you for information about the U.S. chemical weapons program."

He nodded, remembering a conversation with her. But was that what she'd asked?

"She and Walker are responsible for the break-in at Maple Creek."

Daniel goggled. "But why?"

"She's a spy for foreign powers," Saxon said.

Daniel tried to take that in.

"Kurt MacArthur thinks he can handle them," Willow added. "But he's wrong. You can get us into his enclave— to lay out the facts."

"Yes, of course." The words were firmly spoken, hiding his confusion.

"We'll go there now," Willow said.

"Not now. It's late. They won't let us in," he protested, wanting to explain how business was conducted in Washington.

"They'll let you in. You're an important man."

"Yes. Right."

"The head of the Senate Armed Services Committee. That makes you MacArthur's boss."

Did it? He had never thought of it quite that way.

He started to throw the gear lever into reverse. Then he stopped. He wanted to do this—for Willow.

But he couldn't just go charging into the Crandall Consortium after ten o'clock at night.

"How do you know MacArthur has Walker and Lindsay?" he asked.

Saxon sighed. "We have been monitoring Crandall's activities. We know that they brought the two spies back from Connecticut."

Daniel winced. Lindsay had worked for him for two years. She had access to a lot of military information.

"It's all right," Willow soothed.

"We'll sort it all out. Just get us through the gate. Tell them it's urgent," Saxon added.

"Yes. All right."

* * *

THE director of the Crandall Consortium gave Jordan a long look. "You seem pretty cocky for a guy in a very tight spot."

"I'm not cocky. I'm adaptable." He said the sentence in an even voice while he sent MacArthur a silent message. Despite your preconceptions, you find you like me. You respect me. You will believe it when I tell you that Lindsay and I cannot communicate unless we 're touching.

The director kept sharp eyes on him, assessing, evaluating. Jordan wanted to look for hidden cameras, but he didn't want to give his concerns away. Instead, he maintained eye contact.

MacArthur answered, "I'm thinking you have a secret weapon."

"Maybe," he allowed. "Nothing I can use here and now." You believe me. You believe I can't do anything to hurt you. I can't do anything unless Lindsay and I are touching.

"Because we've got your girlfriend downstairs?"

He answered with a clipped, "Yeah," then silently added, You believe that. You believe I can't do anything without Lindsay. He wasn't sure what effect he was having on MacArthur, but he had to keep trying. And he was thinking that they had covered an amazing amount of territory with a few sentences.

He struggled not to react when the director signaled to one of the armed men. The guard walked around the desk so that he was facing forward, watching the prisoner.

MacArthur's features were hard, but he was doing a fantastic job of hiding his jumping nerves. Jordan did the same, feeling like he was in a high-stakes poker game, only instead of chips, he was playing for his life—and Lindsay's.

"How did Todd Hamilton and Glenn Barrow get into Maple Creek?" MacArthur asked.

"I don't know for sure. I never met either of them. I only found out about them when Todd's father asked me to investigate his death."

"And what do you know about that?"

Dark images flickered in his brain. Bodies wrapped in tarps. Taken to Kent Island and dumped in the Chesapeake Bay.

"The official story was a bunch of bull, but I understand the need to keep information secret—if it's for the good of the country." You believe I'm a reasonable guy. You believe what I'm saying.

MacArthur's eyes narrowed. "In your book, In the Halls of Power, you busted open some national security secrets."

Jordan shrugged. "Nothing you couldn't have gotten from the Freedom of Information Act." He kept his face impassive. You think I'm a reasonable guy, caught in a terrible situation.

MacArthur circled back to an earlier topic. "And do you know how Hamilton and Barrow got past the guards?"

"I have some theories—as I'm sure you do."

The director made another rapid change of subject. "What did you find out about the Remington Clinic?"

Better stick to the truth—as much as he could. "Obviously, you've dug into my background enough to know I'm a pretty good investigative journalist. I found out that Remington hatched a plan to produce superintelligent children. It didn't appear to work."

"But Remington's experiments created children with special talents," MacArthur pointed out.

"When they get together with someone else who was part of the experiment."

The Crandall director leaned forward. "What happens?"

Jordan had already considered how to answer that question. "Their nascent paranormal powers surface."

"What powers?"

"My guess is that it's different with different couples."

"What happens with you?"

"Lindsay and I can communicate with each other— without speaking. But we have to be touching." You believe that. You absolutely believe it, he projected, hoping he was striking some vulnerable place in the director's brain.

"Interesting." MacArthur's voice was mild, but a flicker of intent in the man's mind warned Jordan that despite all his attempts to project a perception of honesty, something bad was coming. The director's gaze flicked down, and Jordan knew from his surface thoughts that he was about to play his ace in the hole—by pressing a hidden button under his desk.