“I’m James Franklin, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You can call me Jim,” the man said, snapping his IDclosed and replacing it in his jacket. “You’re Will Dando.”
Will nodded.
The FBI director looked past Will. He turned to follow Franklin’s gaze and saw the Coach, standing near the back of the ambulance.
“Coach, thank you. For everything,” Jim Franklin said. “We’ll take him now.”
The Coach raised a hand, her eyes sharp and focused behind her glasses.
“Anytime, Jim,” she said and shifted her eyes to Will.
“It was a true pleasure, Mr. Dando. As you make your way through this next bit, just remember what I told you. You’re interesting,and they need you more than you need them.”
Franklin frowned.
“Uh, Coach, why . . .”
“Oh, you know me,” the Coach said. “I’m a confirmed pot stirrer. Besides, I see a lot of myself in this kid. I’m actuallypretty excited to see what he does next.”
The Coach turned and ambled away across the tarmac, ignoring the marines, expecting them to move out of her way—which theydid.
Will watched the woman vanish into the darkness of one of the hangars, like she’d never been there at all.
“Please come with me, Mr. Dando,” Franklin said. “We’re going for a ride.”
Will walked with the FBI agent to the helicopter, the marines pacing them. The door was open; a set of steps had unfoldedfrom the side of the aircraft for easy access to the interior.
Will’s eyes returned to the five digits painted on the vehicle’s tail.
42132. 23–12–4 in reverse, he thought.
The Site suddenly became very present—almost a physical pressure, as if Will were caught in the gears of a great machine,turning him to some new configuration.
He reminded himself that it had almost certainly wanted this.
Several of the marines entered the helicopter first and turned, their faces blank, to cover Will while he climbed the steps.
The helicopter’s interior was huge, nothing like he’d expected, almost like a small airplane’s cabin. The seats were upholsteredin white leather, each with the seal of the United States of America on a piece of navy blue fabric on the headrest. Fivewere empty, three were occupied.
“Will!” Miko said. “Thank God.”
Hamza sat next to her, staring fixedly at the bulkhead in front of him. Leigh Shore sat alone in the row behind them.
“Have a seat,” Jim Franklin said, climbing into the helicopter behind him. Will immediately took the open seat next to Leigh.
“Are you all right, Leigh?” he said.
Leigh nodded, her eyes wide, staring at him.
He put a hand to his head, realizing what she was seeing. The wig and the sunglasses were long gone, presumably still sittingon the floor of room 1964 at the Waldorf. A marine entered the cabin through a small door in the front of the aircraft.
“Seat belts, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be lifting off in about five minutes,” he said, then turned around and returned throughthe little door.
Will leaned forward and reached through the seats in front of him. He clasped Hamza by the shoulder.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said.
“No. It’s not,” Hamza said.
Chapter 32
Anthony Leuchten sat and stared at the Oracle. He looked so young. Like one of the White House interns.
This man—Will Dando—had thus far refused to sit down at the long, undistinguished faux-wood table that took up most of thegovernment-standard windowless conference room. He stood with his arms folded, his friends behind him, a dark expression onhis face. His eyes moved across the room without pause, scanning back and forth across its few features of note—a pitcherof water and some glasses on the table. A contingent of Secret Service and U.S. Marine guards, Leuchten himself, and a fewof his aides. A small camcorder was placed on a tripod at the head of the table, oriented to capture both sides at once, whichseemed to occupy a good deal of the Oracle’s attention—his eyes kept returning to it, several times for each pass around theroom.
He wasn’t reacting the way Leuchten would have expected. He was, in fact, cool as a cuke—acting like he was annoyed some cophad pulled him over for speeding.
At least his friends were terrified.
Hamza Sheikh had both arms around his wife, as if he were trying to protect her from an oncoming tidal wave. Leigh Shore stoodnear them, still with the deer-in-headlights look she’d had ever since she’d been offloaded from the helicopter.
They obviously understood their situation.
But not the Oracle. He’d been abducted by agents of questionable provenance and flown to Quantico Marine Base in Virginia.He’d been bundled into this little room and introduced to the chief of staff to the goddamn president of the United Statesof America. And then . . . nothing. Barely a word so far.
Leuchten considered the many tactics at his disposal—anything from women to waterboarding was just a phone call away. Thechoice of direction was important, of course—manipulation that worked on one target could be a complete failure on another.And failure, here . . . it could not be allowed.
He took another look at Will Dando, taking in everything he could understand from the man’s body language, adding to it thethings the Coach had learned about him, and the dossier the FBI had hastily prepared once they’d learned the Oracle’s realname.
When Leuchten added all that together, the truth was that he knew quite a bit about Will Dando.
Apparently not enough, however.
The Oracle wasn’t acting like a man in his position should act. The jig was up. They had him. He was powerless, but he wasacting like he held all the cards. Like he knew something they didn’t—which, frankly, was almost certainly true. He was theOracle, after all.
Leuchten turned and addressed his aides, a self-absorbed batch of position jostlers who’d sell their mothers into slaveryin exchange for face time with the right influencer.
“I’m going to need you out of here, folks,” he said.
For a moment, Leuchten thought he’d get some pushback. Frustration was apparent on each smooth, well-groomed face, despitethe fact that these were career politicians, better than poker champions at hiding their emotions. There was no influencermore influential than the Oracle. This was
