Read Online We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) by Gregg Hurwitz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregg Hurwitz
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held the phone in a sweaty hand until it bleated in my ear. Then I set it down. I waited for my mind to kick into gear, but it wouldn't. There was just terror, superimposed across the blankness that was everything else. But I already knew what I had to do. I'd placed Frank at risk. I couldn't do the same with my mom. On trembling legs I walked outside.
I wouldn't see that house or my mom again for nearly nine years.
Chapter 9
It was my first time riding in a limousine, and I was still adjusting to how uncomfortable it was. I was seated on a curved section of leather bench, my knees wedged against an acrylic bar. Somehow Alan managed to work two cell phones without breaking the cadence of either conversation. He finally finished the calls and rubbed his eyes with boyish indulgence. "Sorry. As you can probably guess, it's a critical time."
"He hammered Bilton in the debate last night," I said. "November's gonna be a landslide."
"Debates don't always matter. We have a seven - point lead, but Bilton's just starting to dig into that war chest, and we're waiting for the October surprises."
I kept an eye on our route to make sure we were heading where he'd said we were. "Yeah, but you have to admit. It feels like this is Caruthers's time."
"I agree. I just think it'll be tighter than everyone's predicting. Jasper Caruthers is threatening to a lot of people. Institutions. Corporations. The Pentagon. There are a lot of voter blocks with a vested interest in seeing him lose."
Alan tapped the divider and pointed left, and the limo slowed and signaled. Cops shoved sawhorses back against a dense press corps, and we pulled in to the turnaround under the famous cursive sign--
The Beverly Hills Hotel We stepped out into a dry heat, palm trees nodding overhead, and a woman scurried forward and handed me an impressive - looking laminated pass bearing my DMV photo and a security seal. Before I could acknowledge her, Alan was prodding me through the second security perimeter, magnetometer wands and agents scrutinizing us as an air-conditioned current blew past.
We moved through a number of well-appointed halls, Alan nodding at post-standers as I robotically raised my pass on its lanyard, and then we were through a back door and out at the edge of the dais with a huddle of campaign workers, Caruthers no more than ten yards away, addressing a ballroom filled with rapt listeners. Five agents composed the inner security perimeter, positioned back from the podium and down in front of the dais. Though they were at only a five-foot standoff, you'd barely register them if you weren't looking.
After years of trying to blend in, I felt completely exposed up there before all those eyes and lenses. I took a half step back behind the curtain.
Caruthers turned, noticing me, and winked without breaking cadence. "I made a promise a year ago when I announced my intention to seek the presidency that I would run a transparent campaign. That I would do my best to bring voters inside the process"--he spread his arms to quell the applause--"because I assume that you're as
fed up with smoke-blowing as I am. We've come through a period of unprecedented irresponsibility in the White House. We can't torture to stop violence. We can't disregard our Constitution to promote democracy. We cannot cede long-term environmental strategy for shortsighted gain. It's been said a thousand times, but that makes it no less true: The ends do not--cannot--justify the means. We've seen it over and over again--and nowhere as clearly as in our woeful foreign policy of the past decade--a single decision made for the wrong reasons coming back to bite us in the ass. A single bad decision can open a world of lamentable consequences."
People rose in bunches to clap. I wondered if any of them, like me, were thinking of choices they'd made and aftermath they'd lived with.
"We need to question these decisions. We need to question our leaders. The next debate, up the road here at
I wouldn't see that house or my mom again for nearly nine years.
Chapter 9
It was my first time riding in a limousine, and I was still adjusting to how uncomfortable it was. I was seated on a curved section of leather bench, my knees wedged against an acrylic bar. Somehow Alan managed to work two cell phones without breaking the cadence of either conversation. He finally finished the calls and rubbed his eyes with boyish indulgence. "Sorry. As you can probably guess, it's a critical time."
"He hammered Bilton in the debate last night," I said. "November's gonna be a landslide."
"Debates don't always matter. We have a seven - point lead, but Bilton's just starting to dig into that war chest, and we're waiting for the October surprises."
I kept an eye on our route to make sure we were heading where he'd said we were. "Yeah, but you have to admit. It feels like this is Caruthers's time."
"I agree. I just think it'll be tighter than everyone's predicting. Jasper Caruthers is threatening to a lot of people. Institutions. Corporations. The Pentagon. There are a lot of voter blocks with a vested interest in seeing him lose."
Alan tapped the divider and pointed left, and the limo slowed and signaled. Cops shoved sawhorses back against a dense press corps, and we pulled in to the turnaround under the famous cursive sign--
The Beverly Hills Hotel We stepped out into a dry heat, palm trees nodding overhead, and a woman scurried forward and handed me an impressive - looking laminated pass bearing my DMV photo and a security seal. Before I could acknowledge her, Alan was prodding me through the second security perimeter, magnetometer wands and agents scrutinizing us as an air-conditioned current blew past.
We moved through a number of well-appointed halls, Alan nodding at post-standers as I robotically raised my pass on its lanyard, and then we were through a back door and out at the edge of the dais with a huddle of campaign workers, Caruthers no more than ten yards away, addressing a ballroom filled with rapt listeners. Five agents composed the inner security perimeter, positioned back from the podium and down in front of the dais. Though they were at only a five-foot standoff, you'd barely register them if you weren't looking.
After years of trying to blend in, I felt completely exposed up there before all those eyes and lenses. I took a half step back behind the curtain.
Caruthers turned, noticing me, and winked without breaking cadence. "I made a promise a year ago when I announced my intention to seek the presidency that I would run a transparent campaign. That I would do my best to bring voters inside the process"--he spread his arms to quell the applause--"because I assume that you're as
fed up with smoke-blowing as I am. We've come through a period of unprecedented irresponsibility in the White House. We can't torture to stop violence. We can't disregard our Constitution to promote democracy. We cannot cede long-term environmental strategy for shortsighted gain. It's been said a thousand times, but that makes it no less true: The ends do not--cannot--justify the means. We've seen it over and over again--and nowhere as clearly as in our woeful foreign policy of the past decade--a single decision made for the wrong reasons coming back to bite us in the ass. A single bad decision can open a world of lamentable consequences."
People rose in bunches to clap. I wondered if any of them, like me, were thinking of choices they'd made and aftermath they'd lived with.
"We need to question these decisions. We need to question our leaders. The next debate, up the road here at
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