"What evidence?" Sever asked.
"The evidence that doesn't exist."
Wydell said, "And what is this nonexistent evidence?"
"It's what's going to be faxed to major media outlets in"-I tilted my head to read Wydell's watch-"two hours and fifteen minutes."
Sever chuckled at me. "It's a shame the president of the United States doesn't have any contacts in the media. I'm sure his forces are helpless against a random fax from an unidentified crank."
"If you didn't kill Mack Jackman and blow up that apartment," Wydell asked, "why are we playing an extortion game with a fax machine?"
"So if I get choppered to a covert facility or wind up with my head blown off, at least someone will know."
"Know what?"
Sever brushed Wydell aside, an act of insubordination that Wydell seemed to condone under the circumstances. Sever grabbed the arms of my chair, brought his face so close to mine I could smell his sweat. "The system belongs to us. So we'll play this game. I'll see to it that you're charged for murder-Mack Jackman's and Frank Durant's-and get bail set so high you'll sit in your stains until trial."
I said, "Give Bilton the message."
Sever grimaced and stood. Wydell stepped forward, blocking that harsh throw of light from the dangling bulb. His hands tensed at his sides. I thought, Here it comes, but instead Wydell just studied me with what seemed like genuine curiosity.
And then he asked, "What do you want, Horrigan?"
"Answers."
"No," Wydell said. "I mean, what do you get out of this?"
I shifted on the chair, looking up at him. "Nothing."
"That's what makes you so goddamned dangerous."
They drifted through the door, and then I heard the sturdy click of the dead bolt. I could still smell the detergent from Sever's shirt. I banged on the door until the heel of my hand hurt, and then I pressed my ear to the cool metal. Nothing but the hum of wires in the surrounding walls.
Twenty minutes passed, or forty. I was back in my little chair when the door opened. Sever entered first and placed a small table in front of me, and Wydell set an old-fashioned black phone down on top of that. Its cord trailed across the threshold and down the hall. It was like room service, if the waiters hated you.
The agents stood against the wall and stared at me. I stared back. Wydell's impeccable suit wrapped around his slender build, that lank, gray hair with its sharp widow's peak and Baby Boomer part. And Sever, running-back broad, with menacing assurance etched in each line of his rugged face. They were the kind of white men they don't make anymore, of a generation that missed rap music and fusion cuisine and Hong Kong action movies, a generation of white quarterbacks and whiter airline pilots, men who grew up friendly with Negroes and Oriental girls, the white of golf clubhouses and martinis, white-bucks white, white like Frank, the white of authority, the white of the Secret Service. Wydell had maybe a decade on Sever, probably had already ponied up the down payment for his retirement condo in Sarasota. Their gaze, the impenetrable stare of authority, didn't falter.
Carefully I lifted the handset. It was the heaviest I'd ever held. I unscrewed the cap over the receiver, then the one protecting the transmitter, and checked inside. The cuffs made it difficult, but I managed. Sever and Wydell looked ready to fit me for a straitjacket.
The phone shrilled off the concrete walls, and we all started. I lifted the disk of receiver to my ear, cupped the transmitter entrails by my mouth. "Hello?"
"I'm with the president." A deep voice, one I'd never heard before. Mr. Pager?
"At the moment?"
"No. I'm a member of his team."
"What's your name?"
"That's not your concern."
"I see he's no longer quite as eager to talk to me personally," I said.
He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "I understand you're making wild claims against the president of the United States."
"They're not so wild if you're on the phone with me."
"President Bilton asked that we extend you the courtesy because of your role in the terrorist threat at San Onofre."
"It wasn't a terrorist threat."
For a while I heard only the faint crackle of the line. Then the voice said, "Give the phone to the agent in charge."
I offered the dissected handset to Wydell, who stepped forward and bobbled it to his face with great irritation. "Yes, sir? No, sir, I'm not sure that's advisable. Yes, sir."
He laid down the pieces of the handset respectfully on the table before me, then jerked his head at Sever, who followed him out. I pressed the receiver to my ear again, and somehow the man knew I was there.
"Talk," he said.
"I know that President Bilton fathered an illegitimate child in 1991."
"You're delusional."
"As I'm sure Agent Wydell explained to you, I have evidence of this. And that evidence is due to be faxed in about an hour and a half. I'm being held for crimes we all know I didn't commit. If I'm not released, right away, that fax will send."
"Are you actually threatening me?"
"I don't even know who you are. I'm giving you facts on which to base a decision."
"You' re an exceedingly troubled young man. You should strongly consider professional help."
"Then why bother talking to me?"
"Because of the role you played in last week's sensitive affair, President Bilton wanted us to hear you out and ascertain if you have credible intel. You do not. Good night, Mr. Horrigan."
The line went dead. The man had spoken with such smoothness and confidence that I felt my own conviction shaken. Had I gotten it all wrong? Had I put together the fragments to form a reflection of my own paranoia? Either way, the chips were all on the table and the roulette wheel was spinning.
I didn't have to marinate long in slow-motion panic. The door opened, and Wydell entered, his lips thin with anger. He tugged a key from his pocket and unlocked my handcuffs.
"I don't know what kind of bullshit you pulled." He threw down the cuffs on the table with disgust and walked out.
The door was open. Tentatively I poked my head into the hall. A few workers, going about their business. Someone at a copy machine in a nearby office. I walked down the hall. The elevator doors were open, waiting-I assumed-for me. Sever was standing in the back, leaning against the metal rail. I was not surprised.
Hurwitz, Gregg
We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)
"You got some friends in high places," he said.
I stepped into the elevator, and he hit the button for the lowest parking level.
He said, "Whatever black magic you worked on that phone call got you free and clear."
"Free and clear?" I hit the lobby button, and we whistled down in silence.
"You have a car?" he asked.
"No. I don't."
"I'll give you a ride."
Accommodating.
The elevator slowed, reaching the lobby.
Sever came forward, rested a shoulder against the panel of buttons. "Why don't you come to the garage with me?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"There are always choices."
The doors slid open. Sever stiffened, coming off the wall. I stared out at the reception console, the street beyond the heavy glass doors. At the same time, I counted. One… two… three… four… five. Then the doors slid shut on my glimpse of freedom.
"I've been charged with recovering certain items," Sever said as soon as we were descending again.
"What items?"
"Whichever items you were planning on faxing at midnight."
"No one seems to know what those items are," I said, "but they're sure getting a lot done."
"Apparently they're classified."
"I doubt it," I said.
"Whether they're fucking classified or not, you're gonna tell me how we get them back."
"Can I drop you a line from Ketchikan, Alaska?"
The elevator doors dinged open. I stepped out into the dark garage, and Sever grabbed my arm. "It might not be that easy."