The Unwanted (35 page)

Quinn opened the refrigerator to grab a beer before diving into the stuff that was most relevant, the information concerning the group who had approached the LP.

"Can I have one of those?" Nate asked, looking up from the laptop.

"Depends. You get anything yet?" Quinn asked, already reaching for the second bottle.

"I think so," Nate said. "At first I did all the basic searches. Public sites and that kind of stuff."

Quinn set the bottles on the counter and popped the tops, letting Nate go over his process uninterrupted. It was the way Quinn had taught him to operate if time permitted. Quinn had said it was so that he'd be able to evaluate Nate's progress. That had been true at first. But Quinn had come more and more to trust Nate's abilities, so now it was just habit.

"I got a couple hits," Nate went on. "But they were mostly about the state bird of Alabama. But I did find a Yellowhammer Lake in California."

"That sounds promising," Quinn said as he handed Nate a beer.

"Thanks," Nate said. They both took a drink. "I thought so at first, too. But it's remote. Yosemite area. You have to hike into it. So I thought I should keep digging."

"Let me guess," Quinn said. "Couldn't find anything."

"Close, but you'd be wrong. I came across a few odd entries that mentioned an actual place called Yellowhammer, and it didn't seem like they were talking about a lake. The first was so random I thought someone must have mistyped it."

"I'm guessing there's a 'but' here."

"Right," Nate said. "The second one. It was on a blog that posts wartime letters. Some of them from as far back as the Revolution. I found another mention in one of the letters. It was dated near the end of World War II. Some guy writing home to his wife saying he'd been assigned to a place called Yellowhammer." Nate turned to the computer. "I'll read it to you."

He clicked one of the tabs in his browser, then skimmed the text on the screen with his finger.

"'They're sending me to Yellowhammer until my time's up. I finally get to go to California, I guess, but it's so far from you. At least it's only four months and then I'll be home. I do wish I was there now.' Goes on for a little while longer, but that's the important part."

"That could be anything," Quinn said. "The military loves code names. Might not even be a place at all, but an operation."

"I had the same thought."

"Another 'but'?"

Nate smiled. "Orlando's been giving me tips for accessing some less public sources."

"Skip the rundown, and tell me what you found."

"There was a government facility, here in California, called Yellowhammer. The last mention of it was in the early sixties, a few months after the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was apparently decommissioned then."

"Where exactly is it?"

"See, that's the funny thing. I've found nothing on that anywhere. I found the name. I know it existed. I'm just trying to pinpoint it now."

Quinn stared down at the laptop, not really looking at the words on the screen. A secret facility? A secret
decommissioned
facility? That didn't make Quinn feel very good. But it jibed with Hardwick's story.

"All right," Quinn said. "Keep at it. Also send what you've found to Peter. Maybe he can use his resources to dig something up."

"Yeah," Nate said. "I was going to suggest that."

"Were you?" Quinn said.

Nate brought up a window on the laptop that had been hidden. "I've got the email ready to go."

Quinn was impressed, but kept his face blank. Once again, he had taken to underestimating Nate.

"Send it," he said. "I'm going to go check on Orlando." He picked up the papers from where he'd left them on the counter. "Don't stay up all night. I have a feeling we're going to be on the move tomorrow." He paused as he was about to walk out. "Nate. Good work."

Downstairs he found Orlando in the same position she'd been in when he'd watched her fall asleep. She didn't even twitch as he sat beside her and checked her pulse. Steady and strong. By all accounts she was doing fine.

It should have made him happy, but he was pissed that she was in this condition at all. The LP had taken the leg of his apprentice the year before, and they had come within inches of paralyzing the woman he loved. Whether it was the LP behind the shootings or not didn't really matter. They were
involved,
and that was enough. Those sons of bitches had screwed with Quinn too much. He only wished there was something he could do about it.

He took his beer and the papers out onto the small balcony off the back of his bedroom. There was a chair, and a table, with a light plugged in to a socket at the base of the wall. Often a gentle breeze would move through the hills, but tonight the air was still.

He took another swig of his beer, then dove in. Though there were dozens of pages, most were painfully short on details. The first half-dozen items had been email exchanges, each no more than two lines long. The final one arranged for a meeting where Primus promised to hand over tangible information. Looking at the log Peter had sent along, this meeting took place in Philadelphia three weeks before the Ireland disaster.

The tangible info turned out to be an initial tracking report on someone identified at the time simply as Alpha, but who Hardwick claimed was Leo Tucker. The document was very similar to the one Peter had passed on to Orlando while they were still back east, only a little lighter on details. There was also a note from Primus.

Director Jackson,

For some time now I have trusted you with data I thought could be useful to you. From what I've been able to learn, you have used that information to avoid many potential incidents that could have been damaging to both our country and our friends. You have on numerous occasions asked me to tell you how I have been able to know what I know. To this point I have resisted, thinking that the information I've already given you should be proof that I have the country's best interests at heart.

But I find now I must answer your question, and trust that your reaction will not negatively affect our working relationship. I tell you this thing so you know that I have sources that are unavailable to you through any other channel, but can be very useful to you. And I tell you this because I now find myself at odds with the very reason I have access to those sources.

I am well aware of your personal fight against an organization known as the LP. I know this because I am a member of that organization. Now before you send your people in search of me, let me say that you will never find me. You will never discover who I am. And if I sense there is an attempt to find out my identity and/or take me into custody, you will never hear from me again. I'm sure this is not a condition you would welcome.

The information I have been giving you has been accurate and excellent. And the information I want to pass on to you now is the same.

It is your choice. Consider the accompanying data as an act of good faith. The person identified at this point as Alpha is an agent for an organization that has been in contact with the LP. They wanted our help, but we have declined. Still, they are pressing on. I feel it is vitally important that they are not allowed to succeed. I'm sure you will feel the same. If you choose to continue our relationship, I will spell out why I'm telling you who I work for, and why Alpha is important to you.

Please send your response via the new email address I've listed below.

Primus

Quinn read the letter twice. Peter had been right. The DDNI hadn't known about Hardwick's LP affiliation for more than a couple months. According to the log, the DDNI hired the Office two days later.

Made sense. While Deputy Director Jackson might have wanted to continue his relationship with Primus, he wasn't stupid. He knew he'd need help, but because of his previous experience with the LP, he didn't know who he could be sure of in his own organization. Tasha Douglas, of course, but beyond that he would be taking risks. The Office had been an obvious choice. Peter had proven his trustworthiness.

And when Peter suggested using Quinn to keep tabs on the next meeting, a meeting that for safety reasons was to take place outside the States in Ireland, it would have made sense to the DDNI. Quinn, after all, had been the one to stop the LP's assassination attempt in Singapore the previous year.

The picture that emerged from the rest of the documents was nothing more than hints mixed with scant usable data. It was maddening. But not just to Quinn. He could see the DDNI's own frustration in emails he'd sent to Primus.

This is moving too slow. You need to tell me everything instead of just giving it to me in bits.

But Hardwick wasn't biting:

You can accept my information or we can stop now. But this will be by my timetable, not yours. If it gives you any comfort, I believe three more face-to-face meetings with my couriers should be sufficient.

The first of those three was the Ireland meeting. Then the DDNI had been killed, and the next two hadn't happened.

Quinn read through everything again, then set it all on the table and reached over and turned the light off. He sipped his beer as the night washed over him. Though it was a few minutes before 2 a.m., he could still hear the distant rumble of traffic.

He leaned back, resting the bottle against his chest, and let all he'd absorbed drift through his mind. He didn't force any connections, just let things simmer.

He didn't remember closing his eyes, but he did remember the last image that passed through his thoughts before he fell asleep.

Marion Dupuis in an old, beat-up Saab, looking out her window at him, her eyes wide. And in the back seat, movement. A body now, coming into focus. Small.

A child. A child . . .

Quinn woke at first light with the realization that he had yet to call his mother. He also realized that he'd spent the entire night in the chair on his balcony. Carefully he sat up and retrieved his phone. Given the two-hour time difference, he knew his mother would be up, so he dialed her number. But the answering machine picked up. He left a lame message, promising to be there as soon as he could.

"Shit," he said to himself after he hung up. He felt like an idiot, but it wasn't like he could call back and rerecord it.

He stood up, every muscle in his body aching, and made his way back upstairs to the kitchen.

Nate was already there.

"Peter came through," Nate said.

"Did you sleep?" Quinn asked.

"Enough."

He handed Quinn a printout of an email.

Yellowhammer. Naval test facility loosely associated with the old Naval Ordnance Testing Station, later the Naval Weapons Center, at China Lake. Actual location just north of the city of Lone Pine, near site of Manzanar Japanese internment camp. (Map attached.)

Decommissioned in December 1964. Security of facility had been maintained by government contractor Colstar until last year, when contract was picked up by Cameron-Kadash Industries. I've included the blueprints of the facility, but note that they are over fifty years old.

Might be their ops center. Find out.

Keep me updated.

Peter

"Did you print out the blueprints?" Quinn said.

Nate pushed himself out of his chair and stood up. The sight of Nate's bare stump surprised Quinn. Since his apprentice had received his new prosthetic, Quinn had never seen him without it on. It had seemed like Nate wanted Quinn to forget the real leg was even missing. But now, as he hopped over to the printer hidden in a cabinet along the wall, Quinn couldn't help but remember the pain Nate had been in, and the months of therapy and training he had gone through to get himself back in shape.

"What?" Nate said as he hopped back, holding a few pieces of paper in his hands.

"Nothing."

"I just haven't put it on yet," Nate said, his tone defensive. "I wanted to check if we heard from Peter first. Is that all right?"

"It's fine."

"You don't look like it's fine."

"Sorry," Quinn said. "It's just been a while . . . you know . . . since I've seen you without it."

"I see it that way every day," Nate said. "It's the way it is. It's not growing back."

"I know."

"Do you? Then accept it. And accept the fact that I'm still good enough to do this." He shoved the papers at Quinn, not waiting for a response. "Here."

Quinn took them, then said, "I'm getting there."

"Yeah, well. I guess we'll see, won't we?" Nate stared at him for a moment, then sat back down. "The first two are the Yellowhammer blueprints. The last is the map."

Quinn, not knowing what else to say, looked at the printouts. The facility was built underground at the base of the Sierra Nevada. There were two levels, each containing several rooms connected by corridors. There were limited living quarters inside, and barracks for two hundred additional workers located aboveground. But a note on the blueprint indicated that the ground-level quarters had been removed at the time of decommissioning.