by Jackson Ford
He unfolds the list, flicks it with a finger. “Your assets in the Balkans. Moscow. Shanghai, Islamabad. I even have the name of the operatives you have in the Mossad. This list will be copied and placed in several secure locations across the world. If anything should happen to me—”
I’ve had enough. He can joke all he wants, offer me a drink and a comfy chair, but I shouldn’t forget what this asshole came to my city to do. Fortunately, I have a few tricks of my own, and not just ones that involve moving shit with my mind. You can’t hang around Moira Tanner for long without learning a thing or two.
I lean forward, look him dead in the eyes. “Cut the shit, Schmidt.”
OK, that sounded kind of stupid, but I don’t dare quit now. “We know about the list. We know you were in LA to sell it to the highest bidder. When you land in New York to refuel, my agency will board this plane and take you into custody. The only way you stop that happening is if you give me the list, and let me walk away. Maybe, just maybe, I convince my bosses to let you crawl back into your million-dollar mansion and never appear in public again.”
I expected defiance. Anger. Hell, I was hoping for fear. I would even have settled for slight discomfort. What I don’t expect is confusion.
“I do not understand,” he says.
“Do I need to spell it out for you? Do you need flashcards?”
“I was not in Los Angeles to sell the list.”
“Bullshit.”
“No.” Now he looks even more confused. “You did not know this? Jay, I came to Los Angeles to buy it.”
I blink at him. That can’t be right.
“It appears your agency does not have good intelligence all the time, hmm? But yes, I bought the list in Los Angeles. I will not tell you the name of the seller, of course – he is a good man, and I do not wish him harmed.”
If it’s true, then someone, somewhere got something wrong. I refuse to believe it’s Tanner, or Reggie – there’s no way they would make a fuck-up like this. The info must have been bad.
“I have no intention of releasing this list, unless I am forced to. Do you think I want your spies in these countries hurt? No – not unless there is no other option. I bought this list as an insurance policy, in the case of your government deciding that I am too dangerous.”
“Because putting down cash for a list of our deep-cover assets is a great way to stay off their radar? Seems logical to me.”
A sad smile creeps onto his lips. “I am already on their radar. There are things I have seen…”
“Oh, please.”
He stares out the window. The clouds have parted, and the LA sprawl is visible below us, stretching to the horizon.
“Did you know your government is engaged in a biological weapons research programme at several bases in the Arctic Circle?” he says. “Research that breaks a hundred different international treaties?”
“That’s not a—”
“Or that they help finance slave labour in West Africa, for the mining of uranium? And there is more still. I am aware, for instance, that they once engaged in a genetic research programme for persons with special abilities. There was a facility in Waco, in Texas, where they once tested a live subject who showed demonstrable ability to move objects without touching them.”
His words freeze me to my seat.
That’s impossible. He can’t know that.
Waco was the highest level of secrecy, minimal staff, absolutely zero contact with the outside world. I may not know everything, but I do know something about how government secrets work, and that one? That one they are very careful about.
If he really does know about Waco, then he knows about me. Did he mention it to unsettle me? See what I would do? Except: he’s not even looking at me. He’s still staring out the window, rattling off more things the US government has done. The Waco facility was just one thing on his list. It doesn’t matter how he found out; he has no idea that I was the person at that facility.
So why tell me? Why mention it at all? Either he’s pulling off a massive, triple-layer Jedi mind trick on me, or…
Or he’s telling the truth.
“Hang on,” I say. “If you know about all this stuff – and I’m not saying it is true, because it sounds pretty fucking far-fetched, to be honest – if you know about it, why not expose the government? Why keep it a secret?”
“These things are not so easy to prove. I do not have possession of the documents I have seen, or the whereabouts of the people I have spoken to. It is possible to prove them… but it is difficult. What your government is afraid of is that I may start speaking publicly about these things.
“No doubt they will paint me as a mad person. What is the word? A crackpot. But in these days we live in, people do not believe what is based on facts only. They believe what they want to believe. And so perhaps, they will start looking a bit closer at the things I have told them about. They could uncover… well, anything. You know the story of Pandora’s Box?”
“OK. So why don’t they just kill you?”
“I have survived several assassination attempts.” He says it like he’s mentioning he takes sugar in his coffee. “Including several incidents of tampering with my plane, or my cars. Fortunately, I pay my staff much more than they were offered to kill me, and they are very good at their jobs. Besides, I have somewhat of a high profile, even in the United States. Killing me is not so easy.” A shrug. “Perhaps they will try again soon. Maybe you were even sent here to kill me, after you retrieved the list.”
He taps his breast pocket. “This document is not a conspiracy theory. It is real. Verifiable. I do not even have to release it publicly – just pass it to my friends in Israel, or in the Kremlin. That is what your government is truly scared of. As I say, the list is my insurance policy, and what it buys me is not just my life. It buys me time. Time to find concrete proof of these things, so they will no longer be secret.”
“Why tell me all this? Why not just kill me yourself? Or toss me off the plane in New York and just go?”
That sad smile again, the crinkling around the eyes. “You will laugh at me.”
“Buddy, I think your whole story is pretty fucking hysterical.” But is it? Waco is true. It all happened. What about the rest of it? What if he really does want to protect himself from the government?
“I am not very good at being rich,” he says slowly. “I am too curious. Others will invest in things, and not ask about where they come from – or if they do, they do not care. If I did the same, I would be much richer. But I ask too many questions, and the things I find out…”
He takes another slug of his beer, wipes his mouth. “It is wrong to stay silent when others are being hurt. That is why I tell you all this. I look into your eyes, and I do not see a killer. An assassin. No. I see someone who may understand.”
“So you’re the good guy in all this, huh?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s a burst of German from behind him, loud and urgent. Rodrigo, the flight attendant, is looking out one of the windows, his mouth open in horror.
“Was ist es?” Schmidt says, just as the pilot comes over the intercom, spitting another barrage of hurried German.
Mikhail and Gerhard scramble, keeping their guns on me as they drop into leather chairs of their own. I raise an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“Mein Gott.”
Schmidt has a face to the window. He’s gone a bloodless white.
The plane banks hard. We’re high up, but haven’t hit cruising altitude yet, so we can still see the ground below.
At first, I think someone is letting off fireworks. Big, crackling, white ones.
But they aren’t fireworks. They’re power lines, ripping apart. It’s happening everywhere, every place I look. The traffic on the roads has stopped, the ant-like cars coming to a shaking halt.
That’s not all. There’s something wrong with the ground. It’s hard to see at first, but when I catch it, my stomach drops three inches. It�
�s vibrating. No: shaking. Buildings swaying from side to side. Then, as I watch, they start to collapse, exploding in tiny puffs of dust. Fires bloom, explosions joining the white sparks of the power lines.
“Erdbeden.” Gerhard says slowly, his voice low. “Das grosse Erdbeben.”
I don’t have speak German to know that one. Earthquake.
The Big One.
SIXTEEN
Teagan
I can’t move. Can’t look away from the window. Directly below us, a freeway collapses – just falls apart, sending cars tumbling. There’s smoke everywhere, billowing in huge clouds.
As I watch, a street cracks down the middle – slowly, like a loaf of bread being pulled apart. An entire house crashes into the abyss. It’s not the only one – everywhere I look, buildings are being torn apart, cloaked in fire and ash.
My people are down there. Reggie. Annie. Paul. Even Africa. Holy fuck – Nic. Where will he be now? He’ll be at work, which means the courthouse in Inglewood. That’s to our southwest… but how far? Where does this thing reach?
A taller building, not quite a skyscraper but close to it, shakes itself to pieces. It happens in silence. There should be a roar, a crack, a volcano of sound. There’s nothing but the plane’s engines, rumbling away.
I’m going to throw up.
The words from the earthquake preacher, from two nights ago: Did you know the San Andreas fault maxes out at 8.3? This is it. The 8.3. The biggest earthquake possible. There’s no way I can know that for sure, but I’m certain. And I’m in a metal tube in the sky, forced to watch it all.
“… unconfirmed reports of a massive seismic event in California.” Someone has turned the plane’s TV on. The news anchor’s head is bent, her finger to her earpiece. It makes me think of Paul, on the roof of the hangar. God, I think. Keep them safe. I know I don’t believe in you, and if you are real this is probably all your fault, but please please please keep my people safe. It’s not much of a prayer, but it’s better than nothing.
Schmidt pushes himself away from the window, starts barking at his guards in rapid-fire German. I can’t even begin to follow the exchange. Nobody’s looking at me. They’ve forgotten I exist. Gerhard is arguing with Schmidt, his face taut and pale. I could take the list. Right now. Just reach out and…
And what? Fuck the list. It doesn’t matter any more. It’s just my brain hunting for something familiar, some semblance of order. And the list is in Schmidt’s pocket, so there’s no way I’m getting it – not if I don’t want Gerhard to break my face.
Do something. But what? What in the world of blue fuck am I supposed to do?
The window draws my gaze again. I can’t help it. There’s more smoke now, a lot more, blanketing the city. Has the shaking stopped? Impossible to tell. Behind me, the news anchor’s voice catches. “We’re just getting reports that… yes, a magnitude eight or higher earthquake has hit the city of Los Angeles. We’re told it’s emanating from the part of the San Andreas fault north of the city, somewhere in the Angeles National Forest.”
Something is poking into my hip. My phone – my phone! I nearly rip my stupid uniform pants pulling it out, shaking fingers tapping at it. The phone’s clock reads 11:42. There are messages from Paul, a dozen of them – but they’re all old, stopping ten minutes ago. Most of them are just him shouting at me, telling me to contact him ASAP. None of them mention the quake.
I write a quick Are you OK???, hit send. Nothing. No signal at all.
“Come on, you piece of shit.” I try again, same result. It’s all I can do not to hurl the phone across the plane. No point even trying my comms earpiece – we’ll be way out of range.
“You are going to need to strap in.” Schmidt, buckling himself into his seat. Gerhard, Mikhail and Rodrigo are doing the same. The plane has banked even harder than before, turning in a tight circle.
My brain is having trouble catching up. The plane levels out, engines rising to a high whine. It might just be my imagination, but I could swear we’ve turned around completely, which means…
“We’re going back?”
“We have to.” He tightens his belt, fingers shaking. “We have some basic medical supplies, food, satellite communications. The plane will have power. It will not be a large amount of help, but even a small amount is good, yes?”
It’s all I can do not to leap out of my seat and hug him. We’re going back. Forget whatever humanitarian mission he’s on – I can find the others, make sure they’re safe.
My ears pop as I fumble with my belt. I haven’t been on many planes in my life, but I remember the popping. It means we’re descending. Before long, we’ll be on the ground, and we can—
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say to Schmidt. “We can land, right? There’ll be a runway for us to land on?”
“Well, in theory…”
“What do you mean, in theory?”
“We will be able to see when we get close. My pilot is very good – very highly paid. He will be able to see the condition—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck how much you pay him. Do we have a runway or not?”
“It does not matter. Even if there is damage, the shock absorbers on the landing gear are built for big impacts. We can handle the runway if there is damage to it. We circle until the earthquake stops, then we go down.”
“What about air traffic control?”
He shakes his head. It’s like he’s aged ten years in the past ten minutes. “There is no air traffic control. There is nothing.”
“So to be clear: we’re trying to land on a runway that may or may not exist, with no one to tell us if other planes are doing the same thing at the same time, all because you wanna play Good Samaritan?”
His gaze hardens. “It is my plane. My decision.”
“Uh, yeah, you aren’t the only person on this plane.” I turn to Mikhail. “Dude, I know we haven’t seen eye-to-eye yet on account of me breaking in here, but you cannot think this is a good idea?”
Mikhail stares back at me, stony-faced. Great. A loyal employee. This would be so much easier if Schmidt was a terrible boss.
“So land further away,” I tell Schmidt. “Find an airport with ATC still working.”
“That will take too much time,” he replies. “The longer we are in the air, the worse things on the ground may be.”
I can see from the look on his face that he’s never going to listen to me. He’s a billionaire. He doesn’t just accept risks – he enjoys them. His intuition has brought him money and supermodels and private jets, so I have precisely zero chance of convincing him.
I close my eyes. Are you there, God? It’s me again. I wanted to tell you that you’re a giant, flaming asshole.
If we don’t stick the landing, I guess I’ll be able to tell him right to his face.
SEVENTEEN
Teagan
You’d think that the moments before a deadly plane crash would be insane. People screaming, oxygen masks flying, bags tumbling out of overhead lockers. You know, the stuff that makes life worth living.
Turns out, if you’re on a private jet, it gets very quiet. Everyone is in their seats, white knuckles gripping armrests. Looking out the windows, or at the TV, which has the volume turned down low. I have a real sudden urge to scream at them about why they aren’t screaming, because Jesus fucking Christ we’re all going to die in a plane crash in the middle of an earthquake.
I don’t. I just sit quietly, and make myself breathe. The rain has started up again, silent drops speckling the windows.
“How do you know other planes aren’t doing the same thing we are?” I ask Schmidt again. “If there’s no air traffic control, how would we tell—?”
“Quiet,” Mikhail barks at me.
Schmidt shushes him with a gesture. “We don’t know,” he says.
“Oh, perfect.”
“Indeed. But it is a risk we must take,” he says.
“No, it’s a risk you must take. I’d rather just grab one of your para
chutes.”
“There are no parachutes on board.”
“… Are you serious?”
The ghost of a smile, strained and hard. “That is not how jet aircraft work. It is not practical.”
“Well, it would be pretty fucking practical right now, don’t you think?”
“You are the one who stole aboard my plane, Jay. You do not get a say in how or where it is flown.”
Behind me, the harried news anchor is saying, “Molly Zuckerman has more from Los Angeles, where we go now, live. Molly?”
The reporter is in a helicopter, the windows showing much the same view as we have. Her frizzy brown hair is squashed awkwardly by her bulky headset. “Gina, words almost can’t describe what I’m seeing. The devastation is… total. We haven’t been able to land anywhere and our sources on the ground are completely unresponsive. From our vantage point here, the first earthquake appears to have run its course, but there’s every expectation that there will be aftershocks…”
“See?” I say. “They’re being smart. They’re not landing.”
Schmidt doesn’t bother to respond. He’s talking quietly in German to Gerhard. As I watch, he reaches out and grips the big man’s hand, squeezing tight.
The digital clock on the corner of the news channel reads 11:58. A little over an hour since I came on board. An hour since I was standing on solid, steady, very-much-unbroken LA ground. It feels like something that happened in another life.
The plane is very low now. I make myself breathe. My palms are sweaty, and wiping them on my pants doesn’t help.
Schmidt turns to me. “Tell me, do you pray?”
“Tried a few times. Didn’t work.”
“I do not either. My mother does – she is still active in her church in Berlin. Do you have family?”
There are… too many ways to answer that question. I shake my head, trying to make sense of the tumbled, chaotic, gut-wrenching thoughts.
I’m saved from having to answer when he says, “You should be thinking about them, not about parachutes. When we are on the ground, you will need to find a way to let them know you are safe. Your family, and your friends, if spies have such a thing.”
