Point of Contact

56

Jack left Lian on the third floor, more determined than ever to find the missing QC file — and the person who tried to get him killed last night. He stabbed the elevator button, his mind racing. He needed Paul to work his forensic magic, maybe find a trace of when the file had been deleted — that would determine when it had been copied and downloaded to a hard drive. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get access to computer logs and find out which computer was used — unless those were deleted, too.

The elevator doors slid open and Jack stepped in, hitting the first-floor button, still trying to work the angles. If he knew which computer was used and at what time, he could figure out who was using it, but how, if the security-camera footage and computer logs had all been erased for the last twenty-four hours?

Whoever had covered Jack’s tracks were really covering their own. But why? The only thing that made sense was that if Jack was hauled into the police department they might start retracing his steps, and that would lead the police on a search for the culprits and the crime they had committed.

Jack pocketed the phone and got back to his main problem: How to find that file?

If Paul was right and the data had been saved, the easiest way to do that would be with a USB drive.

His Dalfan security brief indicated that the only people allowed to download data from the machines were Dalfan employees with Dalfan USB drives, each registered to just one individual. If Lian really wasn’t responsible for the file disappearing, he might be able to convince her to pull every Dalfan USB and check for the file — or at least the trace of it, assuming that by now it had been transferred to somewhere else. If they could find the USB that had been used to copy it, they’d have their culprit. It was a long shot, but the only one he could think of.

The elevator door slid open and Jack headed for his office, nodding at the security receptionist at her desk, frantically typing away at her desktop. He waved his flash card and passed through the security door.

Jack saw that half of the workstations and offices were empty in the main work area. He bumped into several people who were gathering up their belongings and leaving. He supposed it was lunchtime.

Jack waved his security card over the reader to the last door, but he could already see through the glass walls that Paul wasn’t in his office. He entered it anyway. He looked around. Didn’t see Paul’s coat or his laptop bag. He turned around. Yong wasn’t in his office, either, nor was Yong’s junior spy, Bai.

Jack headed back through the first floor, now largely empty. He approached the security receptionist, who was pulling on her raincoat. Her computer was already shut down.

“Did I miss the memo?” Jack asked.

“You haven’t heard? Typhoon Ema is on the way here. We’ve been told to go home and prepare.”

“When will it get here?”

“Tomorrow. The news says it probably won’t reach here, but the weather will get worse for sure.” She grabbed her purse.

“I’m looking for Mr. Brown, my associate. Have you seen him?”

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie over it. “He asked me to call him a cab. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, but I assumed he was going home.” She pulled on a floppy rain hat. “Sorry, but I need to go. Anything else?”

“No, thanks. Be safe.”

“You, too, Mr. Ryan. Find some high ground, and stay off the roads.” She turned, then stopped herself. “And please tell Mr. Brown I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will, thanks.”

She bolted for the front door, her rubber rain shoes scuffing on the granite floor tiles.

Jack went back to his office and grabbed his stuff, too. No point in going down with the ship — at least, not this one.

More important, he needed to find Paul.

In his office, Jack pulled on his coat and gathered his things. He noticed he was almost the last person on the floor. For a moment, he seriously considered rifling through Yong’s office, maybe even Lian’s and Dr. Fairchild’s, too. If he had the run of the place, it would be the perfect time to nose around. But there were still security cameras working and Lian’s security team was probably still on the property, even if they weren’t standing on the floor. And what would he find, anyway? Paul was the key.

Time to find Paul.

The traffic heading home was even worse than it was coming in. Jack wondered if he would have been better off walking home. Or maybe swimming.

The security receptionist was right. The BBC report he was listening to said that Typhoon Ema was now a category 2 storm, heading north from the Java Sea toward Singapore, but at its current rate of speed wouldn’t reach landfall until three a.m.

“However, a spokesman for the Indonesian Agency for Meteorology, Climatology, and Geophysics stated that computer models have proven wrong so far, and that it’s equally likely the storm will resume its westward track. Dr. Paolo Pratesh of the University of Melbourne claims that global climate change is wreaking havoc with ocean temperatures, causing the erratic behavior of storms like Typhoon Ema, and called for an emergency climate summit to address the crisis of manmade global warming.”

Jack snapped off the radio. Why did everything have to be political? He pushed his irritation aside and concentrated on the traffic in front of him. The water level in the street had certainly risen in the last few hours, hitting the bottom rim of the tires on most of the cars around him. Nothing to worry about, but he knew that underpasses and other low-lying roadways would be more difficult to navigate — maybe even impossible. But no such hazard awaited him between here and the guesthouse. He was glad he was staying close by and not across town, where his hotel had been booked.

Jack watched a low-flying passenger jet zoom across his windshield, crabbing wickedly against a stiff crosswind, heading for nearby Changi International. He wondered how soon until they closed down the airport and canceled all flights. The BBC newsreader said that wind gusts of up to 125 kilometers per hour could be expected by tomorrow morning — no way a plane could fly in that. Judging by the way the trees were bending in the wind, he was surprised they were flying now.

By the time Jack finally made it to the guesthouse, the driveway was covered with an inch of water. His boots splashed as he dashed for the front door. He fumbled with his key but finally unlocked it and stepped into the tiled hallway, where he shook off his raincoat and hung it up. He thought about calling out to Paul, but if he was sick he might be asleep and Jack didn’t want to wake him. Paul seemed a little rough around the edges this morning; Jack assumed it was another hangover, but maybe he was wrong and Paul had picked up a bug.

Jack kicked off his soaking-wet boots before planting his feet on the carpet and heading upstairs, not quite jogging, but at least he wasn’t limping. He was still stiff and sore as hell, though. When he got back downstairs to the kitchen he’d scarf down some more Advil.

He walked down the hall to Paul’s room. The door was open. The bed was made and the room empty.

No Paul.

Jack sped back downstairs to the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Paul! You around?” as he yanked open the drawer with the Advil. Jack tossed a couple tablets into his mouth and took another swig out of the kitchen faucet to wash them down.

“Paul?” Still no answer.

Where the hell was he?