“I don’t care. I will
“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?”
Hardwick nodded, then leaned back against the passenger door like he was trying to put as much room between himself and the gun as possible. “All right.” He paused. “At first we weren’t sure what was happening.”
“We?” Quinn asked. “The CIA?”
“I’m not CIA anymore. I haven’t been with the Agency for over six years. NSA now.”
“Sorry. I haven’t been keeping up with your career.”
“You’ll check me out anyway and find out soon enough. I work directly with the National Security Advisor.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. I don’t think ‘we’ was in reference to the NSA, or am I wrong?”
Hardwick stared at Quinn for a moment. “You know you’re not wrong.”
“Then say it.”
“What? That the information I have has been developed by … an outside organization?”
Quinn stared at Hardwick.
“Do you want what I have to tell you or not?”
Quinn said nothing.
“Then I can continue?”
A single nod.
“At first we didn’t know what was happening. In fact, we still don’t know everything. But something bad is about to go down. That is, unless your people do something to stop it.”
“Why haven’t you tried to stop whatever it is?” Quinn said.
“We are not… equipped in that way.”
“You could have used your NSA resources. Gotten word to the right people.”
“Better to keep this separate,” Hardwick said.
Quinn snorted, but motioned for Hardwick to continue.
“I chose Los Angeles to meet for a reason,” Hardwick said. “Enough time has been wasted, but this is the last time I do any of the work for you.”
“I’m sure we can arrange a medal for you later,” Quinn said.
