Shadow of Betrayal (44 page)

“Will your leg hold up for that?”

Nate paused. Quinn had asked the question honestly, with no hidden agenda. Nate seemed to have sensed it. “It’ll hold up,” he said. Not a boast, just information.

“Good. When you get there, act normal. You can even look up at the helicopter as it flies over. Then find us a ride, but don’t come back until the Apache is gone.”

“Got it,” Nate said.

Quinn gave him a pat on the back. “Now get ready. As soon as it turns away, go.”

Nate moved to edge of the bridge. Above them, the helicopter circled past.

Nate smiled. “Why don’t you guys get some rest,” he said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Then as the helicopter turned away, Nate slipped into the darkness.

“HERE’S THE AUTHORIZATION, OFFICER,” TUCKER
said in his best mid-American accent as he handed several pieces of paper to the Highway Patrol officer standing outside the bus.

“Don’t really need to show those unless you’re going past Cambria,” the officer said. But he glanced at the sheets anyway, then handed them back.

“We’ll have to take a look inside, though,” the officer said.

“Sure,” Tucker told him. “I’ll open the door. But do me a favor and try to keep quiet. Most of the kids fell asleep on the ride, and I’d like them to stay that way for a while longer if possible.”

The officer smiled. “No problem.”

Tucker pushed a button and the door to the school bus he was driving folded open. Two officers climbed aboard. The second one— the same guy who’d checked Tucker’s papers—whispered as he passed, “We’ll only be a minute.”

Tucker watched in the mirror as the two men walked down the aisle, looking from left to right at the sleeping children. The only two other adults on the bus were Tucker’s men, Petersen and Linden. They
were all he needed now. The rest had been sent south on a detention mission that at last word had gone off without any problems. The officers nodded at Tucker’s men, but otherwise seemed not to have any interest in them.

As they made their way back out, the main officer said, “All good. Thank you. You have a big day ahead of you. Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” Tucker said. “I’ll just be glad when it’s over, and I can get these kids home.”

The officer chuckled. “Yeah, I bet.”

As soon as the door was closed, Tucker put the bus in gear and headed west on Highway 1 toward Morro Bay.

The sun had come up and the world had come back to life. Quinn had finally given up any hope of spotting Tucker and the children on the highway, so they’d stopped at a café in Shell Beach to figure out what their next move should be.

When Quinn returned from the bathroom, he found Orlando sitting at their table alone with her laptop open in front of her. Marion was still in the bathroom, and Nate was out finding a new car, something that hopefully wouldn’t be reported stolen for several hours.

“There’s a report about the helicopter going down,” she said. “They think we were some kind of protestors trying to embarrass the government by attempting to enter restricted airspace. But they think they thwarted us.”

“‘Thwarted?’” Quinn asked.

“That’s what it says, ‘thwarted.’”

“I’ve just never heard the word spoken before.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling. After a moment, she said, “I got to thinking.”

“About?”

“Schedules,” she said. “Peter told you there was nothing on the leaders’ schedules that would seem to connect with whatever it is Tucker is up to, right?”

“Right.”

“What if it’s not the leaders they’re after?” she asked.

“What do you mean? Like, someone lower level? Secretary of State or something like that? Wouldn’t their schedules be pretty much the same as their bosses’?”

“No. You’re right. I was just thinking of something else.”

“What?” he asked.

But before she could respond, Marion reappeared.

“Shouldn’t we go or something?” she said. “Why are we waiting?”

“As soon as Nate gets back, we’ll leave,” Quinn said.

“But Iris?” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

“We haven’t given up, okay? We just need to try and figure out where she’s—”

“I know,” Orlando said.

Quinn looked at her.

“I know what they’re going to do,” Orlando said.

“What?”

“It’s not the leaders they’re after, not directly.” She turned her laptop around so Quinn could see it. “It’s their wives.”

“Wives?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

But on the screen was the itinerary for the First Lady of the United States. And there listed in bold, and to begin at 9:30 a.m.:
Spouses’ Tour of the R. J. Oliver School of Special Education, Morro Bay.

Quinn stared at the screen. A school focused on the teaching of the mentally disabled. A wonderful photo op for the spouses of the G8 leaders—seven women and one man, the husband of the German Chancellor. A public face of caring while God knew what their other halves were discussing behind the closed doors of Hearst Castle.

“What is it?” Marion asked.

Quinn looked at his watch: 8:20. Seventy minutes. Less than that really, because once the VIPs were on-site, it would be too late.

“You’re staying here,” he said to Marion, his tone dead serious.

“No way,” she said.

“Then we’re all dead,” he said. “You. Us.” He paused. “Iris.”

Her stare was defiant, but he could see hesitation creeping in. After a moment, she started unconsciously chewing on her lower lip, then she nodded.

“Good,” he said. “We passed a motel a couple blocks south of here, remember?”

Another nod.

He pulled some cash out of his pocket, peeling off two hundred dollars.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Use a false name. Something easy to remember.”

Orlando snapped her laptop closed. “Nate,” Orlando said, nodding toward the window.

Nate was standing in front of the café, next to a Nissan Maxima.

Quinn dropped a few bucks on the table to pay for the coffee, then stood up.

“Please bring her back,” Marion said.

“That’s the plan,” he told her.

The closer they got to San Luis Obispo, the more police and Highway Patrol cars they saw. No checks yet, but Quinn knew there would be some ahead.

“Get off here,” Orlando said, glancing up from her computer screen.

The sign read
Los Osos Valley Road.

“Not the PCH?” Nate asked. The Pacific Coast Highway was the direct route from San Luis Obispo to Morro Bay.

“This’ll get us there, too,” she said. “Just comes in from the back side.”

Nate nodded, then turned up the off-ramp, stopping at the top. “Which way?” he asked.

“Left.”

They passed through the outskirts of San Luis Obispo and entered a more open farm country framed to the right by a series of dramatic hills.

Quinn’s phone began to vibrate. Though Peter’s name was on the display, it wasn’t Peter’s voice that spoke. It was Sean Cooper, the guy who had gotten them the car in New York.

“Where’s Peter?” Quinn asked.

“There’s a team of federal investigators sitting in his office right now.”

“What the hell?”

“He gave me his phone once we realized what was going on. Told me to leave and call you.” It sounded like Sean was walking fast, his breath audibly punctuating each word.

“Where are you?” Quinn asked.

“Out. Near the National Archives.” D.C., of course. Where the Office was located.

“So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t expect any help,” Quinn said.

“That’s what I’m telling you.” A pause. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t call us. It’ll be … safer for you that way. If things calm down, we’ll be in touch.” Another hesitation. “I’m sorry.”

Quinn hung up. There was nothing more to say.

When they reached Los Osos, they turned onto South Bay Boulevard. According to Orlando, that would take them to State Park Road, which wound around the local golf course before becoming Main Street in Morro Bay.

“What’s the plan?” Nate said.

“We get as close to the school as we can,” Quinn said.

“And then?”

And then …
That was the real issue. Quinn had been trying to figure the best answer to that question since they’d left Marion in Shell Beach. One solution had come to mind, but he was hoping to come up with a better one before he had to act.

“Just drive,” he said.

A minute later Nate eased off on the gas. Ahead, five cars were stopped in the road. Parked on the shoulder at the front of the line were two Highway Patrol cars.

Checkpoint
, Quinn thought.

Quinn pulled his SIG out of his backpack and slipped it under his seat. Though the last thing he wanted to do was use it, it needed to be
accessible. He heard the zipper on Orlando’s backpack open a second after his. Their thoughts once again parallel.

“Orlando and I are here on vacation,” Quinn said, creating a quick legend. “Nate, you live up here. We’re visiting you, so you wanted to show us Morro Bay.”

“Got it,” Nate said.

“The car?” Orlando asked.

“Don’t worry,” Nate said. “No one will notice it’s gone for another couple hours.”

Quinn looked at him, a question on his face.

“Grocery store cashier. She was rushing to get to work on time. Never saw me.”

Nate pulled to a stop behind the last car in line. There were only two officers manning the checkpoint. One stood near the center of the road, leaning down to talk to the drivers as each car approached. The other stood just off the blacktop. His job was to observe, and react if needed. Low-level security, trying to weed out the obvious crazies.

Slowly the line inched forward. The officer seemed to be spending no more than a couple minutes or so with each vehicle. Just enough time to get a vibe from those inside, and check the trunks. So far, no one had been turned back.

As the car in front of them finished its check, Quinn said, “Nice and relaxed.”

Nate eased the car forward, then rolled his window down.

“Morning,” the officer said.

“Morning,” Nate said.

“How you doing today?” The officer’s gaze moved through the cabin, stopping for a second on Quinn and Orlando.

“Doing well,” Nate said. “Can’t beat the weather.”

The officer smiled. “Are you locals?”

“I am,” Nate said. “Arroyo Grande. My friends are visiting. Thought I’d take them out and show them the bay.”

The officer glanced at Orlando again. “So where are you visiting from?” he asked, his voice deceptively light.

“Los Angeles,” she said.

“I hear it’s been hot down there lately.”

Before she could respond, Quinn jumped in, “Not too bad. It’ll be worse in September.”

“Now that’s true,” the officer said. His eyes stayed on Quinn. “You look a little familiar. Have we met before?”

Quinn could feel a chill run up his arms.
The police sketch
, he thought. It was a question he wasn’t used to, so it caught him off guard.

“He’s an actor,” Orlando said. “Does a lot of commercials.”

“I’ve done a couple movies, too,” Quinn added, trying to sound appropriately defensive.

“But no one’s seen those,” she said. Then, to the officer, she added, “Straight to DVD.”

“No wonder you’re not my publicist,” Quinn said.

“That must be it,” the officer said. He took a step back. “I’m going to need to take a look in your trunk. Do you mind popping it for me?”

“No problem,” Nate said.

There was a dull thunk as Nate released the trunk. The officer walked around back and pushed it all the way open.

“Anything in there we need to worry about?” Quinn whispered through unmoving lips.

“Just the body of the owner,” Nate said.

“Funny,” Quinn shot back.

“I checked before I picked you guys up,” Nate said. “Standard stuff.”

A few seconds later, the officer closed the trunk and returned to the driver’s side window. “All right. You all have a good day,” he said.

“We’re so glad you made it, Mr. Lee,” Sylvia Stanton, principal of the R. J. Oliver School, said. “Doris in Santa Maria had a child who had a meltdown this morning, so they had to cancel. Since you were coming from so far, I was afraid you’d have the same problem.”

“We’re glad we’re here, too,” Tucker said.

Ms. Stanton was under the impression that Tucker was Harold Lee, director of a school several hours south in Ventura. The real Mr.
Lee was indeed supposed to be transporting a group of children to the event, but his bus had been stopped not long after leaving Ventura by the squad of Tucker’s men that had split off and gone south in the dark hours of the morning. Mr. Lee would be thankful later, Tucker knew. At least he and his children would still be alive, as long as no one did anything stupid.

Tucker’s biggest concern had been the security check at the school. Mr. Rose’s tests at the Yellowhammer lab had shown the explosives’ delivery systems would pass through the government’s detectors without a problem, appearing to be exactly what they looked like: dozens of individual juice boxes. But passing tests in a lab wasn’t the same as carrying the containers through the actual screening machines. And all Tucker could think about as they went through the Secret Service check was the fact that for the first month those same tests Mr. Rose performed had all failed.

But they had passed through without a problem, and soon Tucker and his remaining men had their cargo—the
children
and the explosives—settled in the school’s cafeteria. That was when Ms. Stanton had offered to give him a tour of the facility.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be honored,” he’d said.

There were classrooms, an indoor gym, the administration office, an outside play area, and even a swimming pool.

“Only three and a half feet at the deepest,” she’d told him.

But it wasn’t the pool or any of the rest of the school that interested him. It was the Secret Service members stationed throughout. Since he’d already passed through the security check and was on the inside, their focus was on other things besides him.