What had Pilgrim suggested when they were heading for the garage back in Austin, if they’d had to steal a car? Bumper surfing: hunting for key boxes hidden under bumpers. He picked the heaviest row of cars, leaned down low, moving from car to car, skipping the high-end sports numbers. He thought he might have better luck with cars with those stickers announcing kids’ activities—wouldn’t a mother be more likely to take precautions to keep from being locked out of the car, with kids in tow? He refocused his efforts on those kinds of cars.
My God, he told himself, you’re starting to think like a car thief. Nice. What did Pilgrim say about his job—We do the dirty work that’s necessary. Pilgrim was right. You did what was necessary to fight back.
He heard the approaching whine of police sirens.
A woman getting into a car four down from him glared at him as though she knew exactly what he was up to. She put a cell phone to her ear as she backed out of the parking lot.
On the next car he tried—a Ford Explorer—his fingertips touched the square of a key box.
He opened the box, worried it would be a house key but no, it was a Ford key and within ten seconds he was inside the car. He backed out, saw two police cars revving into the motel’s parking lot. He drove the Explorer around the back of the shopping center, exited onto a side road, desperate to put distance between him and the police.
Now what? he thought.
He drove west for ten minutes—Plano seemed to be mostly large streets with subdivisions constantly sprouting off the roads, interrupted by shopping centers. He pulled into a branch library.
He could call Sam Hector. Beg his old friend for help. Explain what had happened to his employees down in Austin. Sam had connections of steel into every government branch and agency. He could use his leverage to help Ben clear his name.
Ben put on a pair of sunglasses he found in the Explorer’s glove compartment. Scant camouflage, but it was the best he could do. He found a scattering of spare change in the Explorer’s CD holder. An old pay phone stood near the door. He fed it quarters and dialed Sam Hector’s direct line. The phone rang three times—he could see Sam frowning at an unknown number calling him on a line very few people knew how to reach—then he heard the familiar baritone. “Sam Hector.”
A sudden urge inside Ben said, Just hang up, don’t drag Sam into this hell. But instead he said. “Sam. It’s Ben.”
“Ben. Ben, thank God. Are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m okay. I’m in Dallas.”
“Where?”
“Sam, I need help.”
“Where are you, Ben?”
“I don’t want to say; I don’t want to put you in a bad situation with the police.”
“Ben, I’m already in a bad situation. I have men dead. Why did you leave the scene? You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to me.” In the background Ben could hear a gentle click-click-click and he thought: They tapped Sam’s line, in case I called him.
“Help me and I’ll explain.”
A pained silence. “Ben, come to my house. We can strategize and we’ll get you surrendered to the police, get you the best representation. I’ll stand by you.” Click-click-click.
“I can’t come to your house. I need information.”
Ben glanced over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching him, recognizing his face from the television. The few library patrons were lost in their reading. He heard more of the clicking—it sounded familiar, though. “Tell me about Homeland’s Office of Strategic Initiatives.”
“Ben. You know I can’t break client confidentiality.”
“Please. I need to know who these people at Homeland are, what their job is.” Click-click. He debated how much to tell Sam. “Listen. I was framed and these people think I’m guilty of being connected to the sniper that killed Adam Reynolds.”
“How?”
“Never mind. But I’ve never heard of this group, and they leaned very hard on me, threatened me, threatened my loved ones, my business. Who runs the group? I need a name.”
The silence on the other end of the phone ticked away ten seconds. The clicking stopped.
“Sam, help me. Give me a name.”
“Fine. I will tell you if you come to my house.” He seemed to spit out every word.
“Just give me a name and a number.” Ben hated the begging tug in his voice.
“And watch you do what? Run to Washington and make a fool of yourself? Call the press and undermine an important program? What?”
“Don’t lecture me. I’m incredibly sorry your men were killed, but they aimed guns at me and helped Homeland take me from my house and deny me due process. That’s not exactly in the normal services your company provides on American soil.” He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice.