the Second Horseman (2006) Page 8

  "So where are we going?" Brandon said. The silence in the car was starting to get to him.

  Catherine glared at him in the rearview mirror but didn't answer.

  "Are you gonna kill me? You are, aren't you?"

  Catherine mumbled something that he couldn't quite make out. Best guess: "I wish."

  "Are you mad? Go ahead and say it. You're mad at me."

  She twisted around in the seat with enough force to make him jerk back. The guy he was cuffed to seemed a little startled, too.

  "You know, I break you out of prison, I cook you dinner, I make you a really attractive offer, and --"

  Brandon jabbed a finger toward the windshield and she turned her head just long enough to avoid a slow-moving minivan.

  "-- you don't even have the courtesy to just say no. Instead you jump out of the car on a crowded street, risk getting us all caught, and, in the process, make Daniel and me look like complete jackasses in front of our boss."

  Brandon glanced over at Daniel, who nodded in agreement as Catherine turned back around and flung the SUV onto an off ramp.

  He tried to just sit there disinterestedly, but the silence started eating at him again. It was nuts. They were probably taking him to a pre-dug grave out in the desert and he was sitting there worried about her being pissed. He didn't ask to be broken out of prison. Just who the hell did she think she was?

  He drummed his fingers loudly on the edge of the window for a few minutes and then began tapping out a similar rhythm on his knees. Finally, "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you guys look stupid."

  She glared at him in the rearview mirror again, but this time it seemed a little forced. Even the psycho next to him seemed to relax a bit.

  Another few miles and they were gliding through an area with a distinct industrial feel. Not old and broken-down or anything, but packed with boxy buildings that always housed things like plumbing suppliers and propane companies. Catherine slowed and turned onto a short street that dead-ended in an enormous windowless bunker of a building surrounded by a razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. The gate began to open as they approached and then immediately started to close behind them as they coasted into the empty parking lot.

  Brandon was vaguely aware of the handcuff being removed from his wrist, but focused mainly on the building filling the windshield. The sun had hit the horizon, throwing everything into shadow except the razor wire. That glowed like fire. Just like it had in prison.

  Catherine jumped out, a little nervously he thought, and pulled open the back door. Brandon swung a foot to the ground but then stopped when Daniel grabbed his sleeve, waiting for the inevitable threat. If he was a betting man -- and he was -- he'd put his money on "If you run, I'll kill you," though the more simple and to the point "Run and you're dead" was a distinct possibility, too.

  "Nice jump at TI. Not too many people get away from me."

  In light of the heavy metallic clunk the door made when it closed behind them, the interior was a bit of a surprise. Instead of medieval torture devices, the building was full of plants, cubicles, and private offices tucked behind thick birch doors. There was even a fireplace. Clearly no expense had been spared to disguise the fact that it wasn't much less of a prison than his home of the past few years. For whose benefit, though, he wasn't sure. The place was empty. Dead silent.

  "I'm taking you to meet my boss," Catherine said. She grabbed him by his collar and pulled him to within six inches of her face. "Are you listening to me?"

  He'd actually been examining the desks that were within view, trying to find some shred of information he could use. There wasn't anything, though. Not so much as a sticky note or grocery list.

  "I heard you. Something about your boss."

  "I'm taking you to meet him!" she said, a little fast to sound natural. "It wasn't the original idea, but it's kind of hard to make plans with you around. I wish we could have gotten you some clothes."

  He followed her to what looked like a reception area and rolled his eyes when she started trying to straighten the wrinkles she'd made in the collar of his stolen golf shirt. On the bright side, though, it gave him a chance to really look at her without making her nervous. Her eyes weren't actually the dark brown he'd expected. More of an interesting color of green.

  "Now, it wouldn't hurt to show him a little bit of respect, okay? Say hello, and then try to limit yourself to answering ques--"

  "Yes, massa."

  "See," she said, finishing with his collar. "That would be an example of the kind of attitude I don't need right now."

  He followed her through the door, frowning deeply as a man with a thick head of gray hair stood and came around his desk.

  "Hello, Brandon," he said, offering his hand.

  The wrinkles creasing his face suggested character and wisdom more than age, and there wasn't even a hint of a paunch to strain the expensive leather belt holding up his slacks. What an incredible disappointment.

  Instead of shaking hands, Brandon swung wildly at the man's head.

  He missed by nearly a foot, causing him to lose his balance and pitch forward until his momentum was abruptly halted by the older man's fist connecting with his stomach. Brandon sank slowly to his knees, listening to Catherine's unintelligible shouting and trying to hold down all those free peanuts.

  The man crouched down, bringing their faces almost level. "As much as I hate to admit it, it's good to see you again. Really."

  "Fuck . . . you," Brandon managed to get out. Maybe he should throw up. The carpet looked really expensive.

  "Wait a minute," Catherine said, the anger gone from her voice now. "You two know each other?"

  Richard Scanlon rose to his full height again and leaned back against his desk. "I'm afraid so. Brandon used to work for me."

  "I ... I don't understand."

  "Would you like to explain," Scanlon asked. "Or should I?"

  Brandon managed to rise unsteadily to his feet and ease himself into a chair, but wasn't ready yet to speak.

  Scanlon nodded his understanding and pointed to the remaining empty chair in front of his desk. Catherine sat, glancing over at Brandon with a hint of genuine concern that she couldn't entirely hide.

  "By the time I got completely sick of the FBI and quit, I was the assistant director in charge of counterintelligence. But if you remember right, years before that, I'd run the FBI's office in Vegas."

  "I remember," Catherine said.

  "I still had friends in the area and that's how I ended up being offered a job as the head of security for a corporation that owned a number of casinos here. I resisted for a while, but you probably also remember how bored I was. There's only so much golf you can play."

  He walked over to a low table pushed against the wall and made himself a drink. "About a year after I took the position, Brandon here used a false identity and work history to get a job in my office. I have to admit, though -- fictitious resume or not, he had a real ability to get things done. And even better, he'd forgotten more about gambling than many of my 'experts' would ever know. So, as you can imagine, he moved up quickly and eventually began reporting directly to me. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I thought we'd become pretty close. Hell, if you hadn't been working in D. C. at the time, I imagine I would have introduced you two."

  "Looks like you finally figured out a way," Brandon said, at last able to suck in enough air to get a few words out.

  "Excuse me. I believe I was telling a story? Anyway, eventually I wanted to move Brandon up -- essentially into the position you hold now. But, obviously, I don't have a very trusting nature, and so I hired an old friend to do some checking into his background. It didn't take him long to find out that I had one of the slickest and most accomplished criminals in the world working for me.

  Brandon remained focused on Scanlon in what, at this point, was a rather pathetic effort to stare him down.

  "Why?" Catherine said, turning toward him. "What were you doing?"

  He
didn't answer, so Scanlon answered for him. "He was casing the place. Right Brandon?"

  "Whatever."

  "Obviously, I wanted him gone," Scanlon continued. "But it turned out that beyond firing him for lying on his application, there wasn't much I could do. He'd never actually been convicted of a crime. He was too clever for that. Weren't you?"

  Brandon held a hand up and raised his middle finger.

  "You can imagine how embarrassing this was for me -- the head of security for a multinational corporation getting duped by some thief. And it would've been even worse if he managed to pull off whatever he was planning . . ." Scanlon's voice trailed off.

  "Go on," Brandon said. "You're just getting to the good part."

  "I'm sure you tell it much better."

  Brandon scooted his chair around so he could face Catherine directly. She looked understandably confused.

  "So Richard's pissed off because I made him look bad in front of all those fat, rich, white guys he hung around with. Suddenly, he comes up with a brilliant idea to make himself look better and get rid of me. He calls the cops and together they frame me for a local diamond heist."

  Catherine's head swiveled toward her boss and he nodded. "We think it was a group of Nigerians, actually. But they were long gone and the police were looking for a collar. It worked out for everyone."

  "Not me."

  "I suppose not. It was a shame, really. A smart kid like you could have done well working for me. I'd have paid you more money than you needed and you wouldn't have had to spend your life running around the edges of society like a cockroach."

  "You can just go ahead and stow that cockroach crap. The way I see it, you framed me for a crime I didn't commit, then broke me out of jail, and unless I miss my guess, now you want me to . . . let's see . . . steal something? Probably something huge. Shit, I'm not crooked enough to work for you, asshole."

  Scanlon walked back to the small bar at the edge of his office and refilled his drink. "You may be right."

  Brandon sank down in the chair and fixed his stare on a blank section of wall. He was really screwed now that he knew about Scanlon's involvement in all this. It was something the old man wasn't going to just forget. He had way too much to lose.

  "Okay, fine," Brandon said, more to play for time than anything else. "So what's the job?"

  "Does that mean you're interested?" Catherine said.

  "It means I'm not really in a position to not hear all my options."

  "Options?" Scanlon said, stifling a laugh. "What options? I'm offering you a wealthy retirement in South Africa. What would you prefer? Twenty more years throwing prison poker games?"

  "I'd prefer to get you."

  Scanlon shook his head, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "I doubt the opportunity will present itself. Let's be realistic here, son. You'd be an escaped convict accusing a former FBI assistant director of breaking him out of jail. What is it you used to say? That doesn't even pass the laugh test."

  "So what if I do what you want? What guarantee do I have that you won't just get Catherine here to lure me into her boudoir.

  "Please . . . ," she moaned.

  "-- and stick a knife in me. Even I think I'd be a loose end at that point, and I remember how you feel about those."

  "One of the reasons I thought of you on this," Scanlon said, "is that you never rolled over on any of your old comrades. I know they were trying to offer you a deal --"

  "You're not an old comrade."

  "Brandon," Catherine cautioned.

  "I probably should have just leveled with you in the first place," Scanlon said, talking more to himself than anyone else. "It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble."

  Brandon shrugged and kicked his feet up on Scanlon's desk. "Yeah, whatever. What's the job?"

  "Oh, nothing that should cause someone like you any problems. I want you to help me steal twelve tactical nuclear warheads from a Ukrainian organized-crime group."

  Brandon let his feet drop and leaned forward in his chair. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "I'd think you were kidding, but I don't remember you having a sense of humor."

  "I'm completely serious."

  Brandon grinned and put his feet back up on the desk. "Somebody's selling you a bill of goods, Richard."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I'm surprised at you. Why would an organized crime outfit take on the risk of smuggling those things into the U. S.? They'd sell them where they are and let the buyer take on the shipping risk."

  "I never said they were in the U. S. They're in Ukraine."

  "So call the Ukrainian cops then."

  "There's still a lot of corruption there. If we talk to the local police, word of it would be on the street in an hour."

  "Then call the army, or the CIA, or whoever it is that does this kind of thing."

  Scanlon leaned against his desk again, a defeated expression crossing his face. "My friends in the government are split on whether it's good information or a hoax. They've come down on the side that it's not a hard-enough piece of intelligence to assign the kind of resources necessary to resolve it."

  "Bullshit."

  "I know it's hard to believe," Catherine interjected. "But these kinds of decisions are made all the time. Thousands of threats come in every year and they can't all be acted on. Plus, the government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to concentrate our resources on wars and a missile defense system that doesn't work. Loose nukes haven't become a political hot potato yet, so they're not being prioritized."

  "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 alar
m 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 screw loose 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."