Shadow of Betrayal

Though Orlando couldn’t prove it with facts, she’d uncovered enough to know the LP played a large role in the Asian market crisis of the late 1990s. And that was only the beginning. It had only been a test for what both she and Quinn now suspected was a grander scheme, one that began the previous year. Soaring gas prices, an American mortgage crisis, then the collapse of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac—the publicly traded, federal mortgage organizations that had a hand in trillions of dollars of American home loans, both bought out mid-crisis by the U.S. government. And it didn’t end there. Financial institutions, near self-implosion, sold to other institutions for bargain-basement prices. Countrywide, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch. A consolidation of power, and chaos for the everyday man.

The only question was, what was their endgame? Because it certainly seemed like they were moving toward something. But neither Quinn nor Orlando could come up with an answer. So Quinn had turned over what they’d learned to Peter, then moved on.

According to Peter, he’d been unable to connect any more dots. He needed someone who had knowledge of the details. Someone who knew the LP, was maybe even a part of it. But no one had ever officially been identified as a member of the organization, so there had been no one to interrogate. Worse yet, most high-level government members didn’t even believe the LP existed.

DDNI Jackson had been one of the few believers. And the revelation of Primus’s connection to the LP at least cleared up in Quinn’s mind why the DDNI had been so actively involved. The DDNI would have had to proceed with caution, but here was a potential source within the organization itself, someone who could shed light on the true mission of the LP.

Quinn glanced at the man, his eyes hard and angry. “Name,” he said.

“I told you, you don’t need my name.”

Quinn adjusted the gun in his hand, making sure his movement was broad enough to draw the attention of his passenger. Since he was keeping his eyes on the road, he didn’t see the man look at the weapon, but he did feel Primus shift in his seat, his sense of superiority come down a notch.

“I will kill you,” Quinn said. “I don’t give a shit about whatever information you have. If you don’t answer my questions, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

A hesitation, then, “Your boss at the Office won’t be too happy if you did.”

“I don’t care. I will kill you. Right where you’re sitting. Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Yes.”

“Then answer the question.”

He could hear the man take a deep breath, then let it out.

“Hardwick,” the man said. “My … my name is James Hardwick.”

A tickle in the back of Quinn’s mind. He had heard the name before.

As if in confirmation, Hardwick said, “We’ve met before, you know.”

Quinn didn’t respond, but he knew. It wasn’t recently. Hell, not even in the last ten years. It was back when Quinn was still an apprentice for his mentor, Durrie.

A stuffy room … in Jordan … Amman.

The target had been an arms dealer who had crossed the wrong people. Durrie and Quinn weren’t there to remove the body. Their client wanted the body found. They were there to remove any evidence that might have been left by those who had done the killing.

Hardwick had been in that room. He’d sat in the corner as others did the briefing. Only once did he speak. He’d been asked to elaborate on something one of his colleagues had said. He spoke for maybe thirty seconds, then went silent again. Quinn had the clear impression at the time that the man was a desk jockey, not an operative, brought along as an information source only.

Until that afternoon, those thirty seconds in Jordan were the last words Quinn had heard the man speak. Hardwick had been thinner then, with a lot more hair. He had also been CIA. So how long had he been splitting his loyalty between the Agency and the LP?

“You remember, don’t you?” Hardwick said.

Quinn pulled into the center turn lane, then made a left onto the small road that ran along the east side of the old Helms Bakery Building. He only stayed on it for a moment before turning left into a small parking lot next to an art gallery. There were half a dozen open spots along the Venice Boulevard side. He chose one in the middle of the group, pulling in as close to the car on the right side as he could so it would be impossible for Hardwick to open his door and flee.

As he turned to Hardwick, he switched the gun from his left to his right hand, the barrel never moving from its target. With his free hand, he reached over to the digital recorder. He pulled it out of its resting place, then took a quick glance at the display screen to make sure it was still running. Satisfied, he shoved it back into the ashtray.

“Okay. What is it?” Quinn asked.

Hardwick’s brow creased, a question on his face.

“The information you have for us. What is it?”