Gaul had found the notion as useful as a machete in jungle foliage whenever life had put him somewhere tricky. In career terms, there were all kinds of problems you could hack your way out of—and opportunities you could hack your way toward—if you had that idea in your grip. It even helped him bury old guilts, like that ugly splash in the water under Harvard Bridge, which sometimes came to him in the darkness before sleep.
Gaul had the saying in his head now, as he stood under the palms near the overlook, three hundred feet above Topanga Beach. The Pacific Coast Highway curved past, far below. Beyond, the ocean lay soft blue in the late morning haze. Gaul watched a black SUV swing off the highway onto the canyon road. It made its way up through the switchbacks and took the turn onto Overlook Drive, and came to a stop next to Gaul’s BMW. There were no other vehicles or people around.
The SUV’s back door opened, and a man named Dennis Marsh stepped out. He was fifty, trim, his hair just going thin. The wind coming off the ocean set his tie and the legs of his dress pants flapping. Marsh crossed to where Gaul stood, put his palms to the wooden top of the railing, and stared at the sea. No handshake.
Gaul didn’t ask how his flight from D.C. had been. Marsh had gotten here in the backseat of an F-16 trainer, the needle pegged at Mach 2, in order to have this conversation in person. There were things you shouldn’t talk about even on secure phone lines.
Gaul studied the man’s face. He’d known Dennis Marsh for more than twenty years. The guy was a realist when he had to be—he wouldn’t have become the secretary of Homeland Security otherwise—but he was very far from being a subscriber to the bloom where you’re planted philosophy. A fact that made Gaul just a little nervous, given the man’s stature.
If small people created problems, they could be dealt with easily enough. Like the idiot doctor who’d been overseeing Rachel in El Sedero. The man had taken a lunch meeting with a guy from the L.A. Times a week ago. Audio recordings of the conversation had picked up nothing damning, and it had turned out the reporter was the doctor’s cousin, but all the same, Gaul had opted to play it safe. Why leave a troubling door open even a crack? But such easy solutions weren’t on the table when you were dealing with someone at Marsh’s level.
“I heard from our friend,” Marsh said. His gaze stayed fixed on the ocean. “He explained what you want me to do.”
Gaul said nothing.
“There’s not a chance I’m doing this blind,” Marsh said. “You know that. You need to tell me what I’m dealing with here. I want to know everything.”
“I can’t tell you everything. I don’t know everything myself.”
“If I do what you’re asking, I’m risking a lot more than prison,” Marsh said. “I’m risking household-name status as a bad guy. Tell me.”
Gaul wanted to tell him to relax. Wanted to remind him that there were very large political boulders rolling and grinding around over this thing, and that among the men who wanted to see it resolved was Marsh’s boss, the one with the rose garden outside his house. Wanted to tell him, in short, that his cooperation was in no sense a fucking favor he could call in later on. Instead Gaul kept his voice respectful and said, “I appreciate the position I’m putting you in, Dennis. I’ll owe you for this.”
Marsh finally turned to face him. Zero tolerance for friendly bullshit in his expression. “Tell me.”
Gaul rested his elbows on the rail and looked down at the highway. How much to really give him? Where to start?
“I know parts of it already,” Marsh said. “I know it’s not really Sam Dryden you’re after. I know there’s a girl, and I know you had her in your custody for two months, and I know this is tied to research at Fort Detrick, more than a decade ago.” Marsh’s voice went quieter, as if the specks of people on the beach below might hear him. “I came out of military intel, Martin. All kinds of interesting watercooler talk in that field. I know about the animal testing at Detrick, way back. The gibbons. I’m aware there were human trials later, trying to get the same effect, and I’ve heard from more than one good source that it worked. Have I got all of it right so far?”
Gaul nodded without looking at him. He heard a little hiss of breath from the man in response.
“Christ,” Marsh whispered. Then: “Is she one of them? Is she a mind reader?”
Gaul kept his reaction hidden. Kept his jaw set and his eyes on the sweep of the ocean.
If you think all she can do is read minds, then your sources aren’t half as good as you imagine. Hearing thoughts is the least damn thing Rachel can do, when she gets in your head.
“Yes,” Gaul said. “She can hear thoughts.”
In its own temporary way, he supposed, that was the whole truth. Until her memory came back, Rachel would be limited to mind reading. That was a passive ability, like hearing, or feeling pain. The rest of her capabilities were active, focus-intensive skills. With her memory blocked, she didn’t even know she had them.