Invasion of Privacy

70

Mary parked in the garage as instructed, staying in her car until the door lowered behind her. She climbed out quietly, not wanting to wake the girls or to alert anyone else who might be waiting for her inside. It was a futile gesture. Anyone watching had seen her come home. If they had someone inside, they’d have passed along the word, though the thump of the garage door was warning enough.

She entered through the laundry room and crossed the foyer. The lights were dim, and all was quiet. She paused to take a look around, Joe’s gun heavy in her hand. Her heart was pounding loudly enough to drown out a police siren.

Act like nothing’s happened, Tank had cautioned her. No calls. No texts. Assume they’re listening to everything. Don’t give them a reason to act. They’ll find out about McNair soon enough.

She checked that all the doors were locked and breathed easier. A light burned in the family room, which scared her all over again, but it was the television, sound muted. She turned it off, then returned to the stairs.

She paused to take off her sensible brown loafers, which were killing her more than her four-inch mules ever did. She held the pistol in front of her, one hand gripping the stock, the other supporting the barrel. If she saw anyone who was not her daughter-anyone at all-she was pulling the trigger until the gun was empty.

The door to Grace’s room stood open a crack. Her baby girl’s hair fairly shone on the pillow. Mary slid into the room and perched on the edge of the bed, listening to her daughter’s measured breathing, thinking it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

One present and accounted for, she reported to the admiral.

Mary crossed the hall to Jessie’s room. The curtains were drawn and she saw a lump beneath the covers. “Jess? You awake?” She stepped over a pile of clothes, her eyes getting used to the dark. “Jess?”

There came a ping from downstairs. A knock on the glass door. Tank Potter had arrived.

Mary left the room, picking up the dirty clothing on her way. Potter stood by the sliding door, hunched close like a teenager sneaking into his girlfriend’s house. Mary flipped the lock and slid the door open. “Come in.”

“Doing laundry now?”

Mary dropped the clothes onto the floor. “Never mind.”

Tank pointed at the gun. “You might want to put that away.”

“Sorry.” Mary slipped the pistol into her belt holster.

“Everything okay?”

“They’re both upstairs sleeping.”

“We should go. They’re going to discover McNair sooner rather than later.”

“Mommy.”

Mary turned to see Grace standing at the foot of the stairs, clutching Pink Pony to her chest. “Hi, mouse. Did we wake you?”

Grace’s eyes went from Mary to Tank and back again. She began to cry. Mary went to her and took her in her arms. “Are you still upset from earlier?” she whispered.

Grace shook her head violently.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m sorry,” came the muffled response.

“What for?” Mary held her daughter at arm’s length, wiping away a tear with her thumb.

Grace swallowed heavily. “I should have told you, but she said she’d be back. She promised.”

“Honey, who are you talking about?”

“Jessie.” Grace tried to speak but was overcome by another gust of tears.

“What about Jessie, dear?”

“She’s gone. She went to go look for the hackers.”

–

“No answer.”

Phone in hand, Mary stood next to Jessie’s bed, her stomach crawling with the thousand worries of every mother.

“Text her,” said Tank.

Mary typed: “Jess. Call me immediately. You are not in trouble. I need to know you are all right. I love you. Mom.” She added “Please,” then erased it and sent the message.

“Don’t worry,” said Tank. “She’s just with a boy. What’s his name…Gary.”

“Garrett,” said Mary, then to Grace: “Do you remember his last name?”

Grace shook her head.

Mary admired the cleverly arranged pillows, the dark Red Sox cap set atop them to simulate her daughter’s hair. “Jess doesn’t like boys,” she explained, as much to herself as to Potter. “I mean, she likes them, but they don’t like her, so she doesn’t…you know the drill. She likes computers and hacking and watching old episodes of The X-Files.” Mary willed the phone in her hand to buzz, indicating her daughter’s incoming text. “What if they…,” she said, looking at Tank.

“Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s no reason to think that-”

“No reason?” Mary whispered venomously. “Joe’s dead. Your friend was murdered six hours ago. And I was almost-” She bit her tongue, aware of Grace standing in the doorway behind them.

“Is it the hackers, Mommy?”

This was the second time her daughter had mentioned hackers. “Excuse me, sweetie-what do you mean by ‘the hackers’?”

“The people who erased Daddy’s message-the people Jess is looking for. Did they get her?”

The hackers. Latest in a long line of imaginary nightmarish adversaries, following “Injuns” and “Nazis” and “alien abductors.”

“It’s not the hackers. Mr. Potter is right. Jess must be with Garrett.”

“And her TA,” added Grace. “So she’s safe.”

This was the first Grace had mentioned anything about a teaching assistant. “Pardon me? Do you mean Linus?”

“She said she was seeing her TA, too. He was going to help her figure out the clue.”

Mary turned on the reading lamp above Jessie’s desk and looked around for a notebook or a handout from school that might contain the TA’s number. There was a PC Magazine and a copy of Wired. But nothing from the university about Jess’s classes. What had happened to spiral notebooks and black speckled composition books?

She opened the drawer. Complete pandemonium. Pens and pencils and erasers and receipts. She freed a photograph. Jess and Joe at a symposium on the future of the Net that they’d attended last year. Mary replaced the photo and continued to rummage through the mess. Her fingers touched something cool and round pushed against the back corner. “What’s this thing?”

In her hand she held a slim green metallic tube.

“An e-cigarette,” said Tank.

“A what?”

“You put some kind of oil inside and an electric spark vaporizes it. It’s the latest thing.”

“My daughter doesn’t smoke.”

“She doesn’t like boys either.”

Mary dropped the e-cigarette into the drawer. She knew she should feel shocked or disappointed, but all she could muster was a vague sense of surprise. At the moment e-cigarettes ranked low on her list of punishable offenses. She closed the drawer and made a search of the floor and closet. “No backpack,” she said. “She has her laptop.”

Tank stood in the doorway, biting his lip. “We should really go.”

“Not yet.”

Mary pushed past him and went downstairs. She took a seat at her work alcove and double-clicked on the search bar. “Don’t,” said Tank. “They see everything.”

“I don’t care,” said Mary as she logged onto the UT website. “I’ve got to find Jess. I don’t have time to play their games.”

In a few seconds she’d pulled up a course description and syllabus of Jessie’s summer school class. The professor’s name stood at the top, along with his office address and phone numbers. Below was similar information for his teaching assistant, Linus Jankowski, PhD from MIT, with a concentration in artificial intelligence and game theory.

The call to his mobile number went to voicemail. “Mr. Jankowski, this is Mary Grant. I understand that my daughter may have visited you earlier this evening. It’s almost one a.m. and she isn’t home yet. If you’ve seen her or have any idea where she might be, please call me at this number. Don’t worry about the time. I’ll be up. Please consider this an emergency.”

“Mom, where are we going?” asked Grace. “Do I need to get dressed?”

“Where are we going, Mr. Potter?” Mary asked.

“Not sure yet. First let’s get to my car.”

“Just a sec.” Mary pulled up Netflix and selected The Conversation, the movie starring Gene Hackman.

“What’s that for?” asked Grace, mystified by the old movie.

“It’s about someone who secretly listens to people.” Mary looked over her shoulder at Tank. “They should like it.”

“Oh? What happens?”

“The people start secretly listening to him. It drives him crazy.”

71

It was past midnight.

Alone in his office, Ian stood transfixed as Mary Grant came to magnificent three-dimensional holographic life before him. It was not a likeness in the ordinary sense but a rendering of her everyday life as reflected by her online activity, and as such, a far more penetrating portrait of her entire self. In a way it was a new form of art. Da Vinci had mastered perspective. Monet had given them impressionism. Picasso, cubism. Yet no matter the style, the artist was perpetually seeking a glimpse of the subject’s innermost soul. Now Ian had penetrated those secret confines.

He turned in a circle, his face bathed in the eerie glow. He had programmed the malware to log on to each site the Grants visited, in order of frequency. As it did, the tower grew ever taller, while screens appeared behind screens-two, three, four deep-until he stood encircled by a stack of translucent images as tall as himself, extending outward to all corners of the room. It wasn’t science. It was art. He would call it “Cyberrealism.” Accurate to within a digital brushstroke.

Ian sipped from his tea as his eyes ran up and down the screens. He was looking for ways in, seeking his victim’s most vulnerable spot. It was a question not of too few but of too many. Where to start?

Banking? He had unfettered access to her accounts and could do with her money as he pleased. Credit cards? It would take only a few purchases to push her over the limit. Social media? An unsavory message, a wildly offensive post, could destroy her reputation in an hour. His eyes flitted from one screen to the next, but when they stopped, it was not at a website for a bank, a credit card company, or a social media site but on an icon for a photo app.

He raised a hand toward the image, only to lower it a moment later, his fingertips tingling as if shocked. Not yet. Pictures were for dessert.

A turn of the head and he landed on Mary’s e-mail account. He touched the screen and brought up all new mail. Most messages were from friends expressing condolences. He read a few, moved to older messages, skipping back in time, unsure what he was looking for.

He continued scanning past messages from family, friends, banks, schools, until his attention came to a halt at the word Hazelden. The mail was addressed to JS Grant and cc’d to Mary. Ian opened it immediately. It was a personal communication from the world-famous hospital informing its former patient, Joseph S. Grant, that he was delinquent on his payments and asking when he would settle the balance due for his stay three years earlier.

Ian turned, accessed the Grants’ insurance site, and navigated to a history of past payments. Almost all were for the child’s treatments, and they totaled hundreds of thousands of dollars. He scrolled back three years earlier and found a claim for $74,000 for a ninety-day stay in Hazelden’s alcohol and substance abuse rehabilitation unit. The insurance company had paid $60,000, leaving the family with the balance of $14,000.

Ian turned and found the blue icon he had passed over earlier. He touched it with a fingertip and the screen filled with photographs of the Grant family. Most were of the girls, both alone and together, the younger, blond child irrepressibly sunny, the older, dark-haired child willful, challenging, even spiteful. The photos showed the family at the beach, rafting down a river. Then came the obligatory first-day-of-school pictures. The older girl, Jessie (he knew now), was dressed in baggy dark jeans and a T-shirt advertising a rock band. The younger girl wore a pleated skirt and a pink button-down shirt. At Halloween the older girl wore no costume, while her sister dressed as a strange yellow creature with a single eye. Ian believed it was called a Minion and was a mischievous character from a popular film. Further along he arrived at Thanksgiving. A photo of father and daughters. He tapped the photo and it filled the screen. So here was Joseph Grant. Finally we meet. He was tall, robust, and good-humored. No sign of the impetuous meddler. The man who would sacrifice his life for his career.

Ian tapped the photo again and returned to the library. Christmas. A photo of the family standing in front of a modest tree. Really, Mr. Grant, thought Ian uncharitably, can’t you do better than that? The four Grants were dressed in their Christmas best: dark suit for the father (poor-fitting and of questionable quality), red cowl-neck sweater and pearls for the mother. The younger girl in a white dress, the older in her jeans and shabby T-shirt.

Ian continued examining the photos, awed by the sheer number. Was there an occasion that didn’t warrant a few snaps? Grilling burgers at a community barbecue? Making Valentine’s Day cards from construction paper? Getting a good report card? Watching television on the family couch?

His eye came to rest upon a close-up of Joseph Grant and his daughters. The FBI agent had an arm around each and was hugging them close. Ian looked away, ashamed, as if caught intruding on an intimate scene. After a moment he looked back. It was the father’s gaze directed at his older daughter that provoked his response and filled him with a familiar emotion.

Ian ducked his head, peering through the canyon of screens to the far corner of his office. He found the scuffed black briefcase and fought to summon up an image of his own father, Peter Prince. He didn’t care if it was one of such beaming paternal pride. Any image would do. Scowling, laughing, sleeping…anything.

As always, his memory betrayed him. For a man of prodigious intellect, he was able to dredge up but a single image. It came from the morning of his father’s departure. Ian saw the pinstriped suit, then the shoes, then the dimpled tie, and finally the perfectly combed hair. It took a few seconds longer for his father’s face to come into focus, and when it did, Ian still could not conjure the expression. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make Peter Prince look at him with anything but a neutral regard. Nowhere did he see the kind of pride and unconditional love with which Joseph Grant looked at his daughters.

It required a herculean effort to return his attention to the photo of Joseph Grant and his daughters. Instead of love, Ian now read hubris in Joseph Grant’s features. In place of pride, selfishness. It was the FBI agent’s fault. He’d been warned. Edward Mason had made it clear that he should cease and desist in his investigations. Grant had known what was coming.

Properly enraged, Ian closed the photo app. Sympathy ill-served a man in his position. He straightened his shoulders. With an invisible shudder, he focused his priority on the task at hand: gaining absolute and inviolable control over another human being.

Ian spun until he found the Grants’ banking website.

There was no better place to begin.

72

Mary rapped her knuckles like a machine gun against Carrie Kramer’s sliding glass door. Beginner’s Morse code for help. A minute passed before a light went on and Carrie peered around a corner, her husband hiding behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, sliding the door open.

“I need your help,” said Mary.

“It’s one in the morning. Why didn’t you call?”

“Tell you in a sec.” Mary looked over her shoulder. “Come on, guys.” Tank and Grace emerged from the shadows and bustled into the kitchen. “Lock it,” said Mary.

Carrie closed the door and flicked the lock. “Where’s Jess?”

–

Fifteen minutes, two cups of coffee, and a judicious explanation later, Mary sat with Tank in the Kramers’ study, chairs pulled up to the iMac. Grace was in bed, clutching her phone to her chest in case her big sister called.

Mary slipped in the disk containing the images from the Nutty Brown Cafe’s surveillance cameras. “Think they found McNair by now?”

“You can count on it.”

“Will they come to my house?”

“They’ll come.”

Mary took stock of her surroundings, telling herself that she and Grace were safe here, not quite believing it. For the tenth time she used Carrie’s phone to call Jessie. For the tenth time the call went to message and she hung up. “Why isn’t she answering?”

“She doesn’t want to tell you what she’s doing.”

“Where in the world could she be?”

“Trying to help her dad. At least that’s what she thinks.”

“When I get a hand on that young lady, I’m going to…” Mary imagined the dressing-down she was going to give her daughter. No matter how hard she tried, her anger wouldn’t last. “It’s my fault. I should have been here. Who do I think I am? McNair said it himself. He said, ‘Remember, Mary, you’re a mom.’ That’s all I am. I’m not Joe.”

“And you think Jessie wouldn’t have gone off if you hadn’t left?”

“Maybe…I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Mary nodded. She’d set Jess on her path the moment she’d asked her about retrieving Joe’s voice message. She didn’t know what she’d expected Jess to do, but deep down, she knew she’d expected her to do something-to come up with some solution from her laptop of tricks. “And you? You all right?”

“Hanging in there.” Tank smiled weakly, but his eyes were red, fatigued. His once starched shirt was terribly wrinkled, decorated with coffee stains and flecks of blood. She wasn’t in this alone. Tank’s name was on the same list as hers.

“Let’s take a look at that disk.”

Mary double-clicked on the first clip. The segment lasted fifteen seconds and showed Joe entering the café, followed by the man the waitress called Boots. Mary hit the Pause bar as Boots, or Supervisory Special Agent FK, stared into the camera.

“I know you,” she said, pointing a finger at the screen. She studied the man’s face: the sagging cheeks, the wiry comb-over, the sad, pouchy eyes. He had a loud voice, she remembered. He was a storyteller. A laugher. A “good-time Charlie,” the admiral might say, referring to someone who liked to drink other people’s liquor a little too freely.

“Fred…Frank…Floyd,” suggested Tank with renewed verve. “Felix…”

–

“Stop,” said Mary. “Let me think.”

“Fulton…Phillip…”

“Phillip starts with a p,” she said sharply, still glued to the image.

“Sorry. Forget I said that.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said, ‘Forget I-’ ”

“That’s it. His name is Fergus.”

“Fergus? You’re sure?”

“I met him once. It was in Sacramento last year. In the fall. Sometime before Joe started going to San Jose. I remember his name because he’s the only Fergus I ever met.”

“Supervisory Special Agent Fergus…”

“We can look him up.”

“Where?”

“The FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin. It’s a monthly online review. It lists promotions, convictions, any big cases they make. If he’s done anything important in the past ten years, he’ll be in there.”

Mary logged onto the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin’s website and typed “Supervisory Special Agent Fergus” into the search bar.

“I hope your memory is more accurate than mine,” said Tank.

“I didn’t have the concussions.”

Two links appeared. The first read: “Supervisory Special Agent Fergus Keefe assumes post of Assistant Special Agent in Charge, San Jose regional office.” And the second: “Deputy Assistant Director Dylan Walsh and Special Agent Fergus Keefe stand up Bureau’s new Cyber Investigations Division.”

“Fergus Keefe,” said Tank. “Nailed him.”

Mary felt a jolt of excitement. She double-clicked on the first link, bringing up a short article-hardly more than a press release-stating that Keefe had taken over as assistant SAC of the San Jose office in July of last year after working with Dylan Walsh at the Cyber Investigations Division since 2007. His past assignments included stints in Baltimore and New York. Keefe had graduated from the FBI Academy in Quantico in 2002.

Mary double-clicked on the second article, which discussed the founding or “standing up” of the Cyber Investigations Division. “Sid. That’s what it means.”

“I thought his name was Fergus.”

“No, CID-it means Cyber Investigations Division. It’s not someone’s name. Joe said they were the good guys. I thought he was referring to an agent he worked with, but it’s really the team Joe was part of.”

“If Fergus Keefe was still attached to that division, it explains why he was stationed in San Jose.”

“And why Joe was always traveling down to Silicon Valley. The question is, what brought Joe and Keefe all the way out here?”

“Semaphore?”

Mary typed “Keefe” and “FBI” into the Google search bar and hit Return. A dozen hits appeared. The first was from the New York Times and was titled “FBI Terminates Investigation into Claims of Extortion in Merriweather Systems Takeover.”

Dated the past December 10, the article began:

The FBI has terminated an investigation into charges of extortion levied against ONE Technologies and its founder and CEO, Ian Prince, in relation to its recent purchase of Merriweather Systems, a San Jose-based manufacturer of supercomputers and Internet hardware, according to The Smoking Gun, an online investigative site. No charges will be filed.

In November, a lawyer representing William Merriweather, son of Merriweather Systems founder and CEO John Merriweather, informed the FBI that his client had been threatened by unknown parties if he failed to vote his shares in favor of the company’s sale to the Austin, Texas-based tech giant. William Merriweather holds 6 percent of Merriweather Systems’ stock.

Fergus Keefe, a special agent with the FBI’s San Jose office, visited Merriweather Systems’ offices in Sunnyvale, California, as well as other locations. The investigation was led by the FBI office in San Jose, according to a non-public document obtained by The Smoking Gun. A spokesman for the FBI said that, following policy, he could neither confirm nor deny the existence of an investigation.

Ian Prince, chairman and founder of ONE Technologies, did not immediately respond to a message seeking comment. A ONE Technologies spokeswoman referred all questions to the FBI.

“John Merriweather’s dead,” said Tank.

“The father? To tell you the truth, I’ve never heard of him.”

“His death was a big story. He disappeared after leaving his winter home in northern California to fly to San Jose. They didn’t find him for weeks.”

“What happened?”

“Plane crash. He flew straight into the side of a mountain in bad weather.”

“Do you think Joe might have been working with Fergus Keefe on the extortion investigation?”

“Could be. ONE’s headquarters is here in Austin. They have offices in Silicon Valley, but so does everybody.”

Mary remembered McNair’s words. “Does ONE control the pipe in Cedar Valley?”

“Type in ‘DSL’ and ‘Cedar Valley.’ ”

Mary typed in the keywords and hit Return. Three companies offered DSL service in Cedar Valley: AT &T, Gessler Cable Systems, and ONE Technologies.

“Gessler is a local firm,” said Tank. “They don’t have ops in Silicon Valley. Scratch them off our list.”

“We’re down to two, then. Should we flip a coin?”

“I have something better.” Tank removed a gold wristwatch from his pocket. “Picked this up at my friend Carlos’s house.”

Mary examined the watch. “This is his?”

“Turns out Carlos was a thief. He took stuff from work and sold it. The evidence tag shows that Carlos stole the watch from the morgue two days ago. The day after your husband was killed.”

“You mean he stole personal effects from the deceased?”

“Pretty much.”

“Nice friend.”

Tank pointed at the watch. “Turn it over.”

Mary flipped the watch in her palm and read the inscription. “ ‘To H.S. Thanks, I.’ ”

“My guess is that H.S. is your husband’s informant.”

“And I?”

“I is Ian Prince.”

“The Ian Prince?”

“Only one, as far as I know.”

“So Joe was investigating ONE Technologies?”

“It fits. ONE was the target of Keefe’s investigation last year. He and your husband were investigating wrongdoing in the tech industry, dealing with a company that has offices in Silicon Valley and Austin. ONE controls at least part of the cable systems in Cedar Valley.”

“Then who is H.S?”

“Move over,” said Tank. “You’re not the only one who knows how to find someone.”

Mary scooted her chair to the side as Tank accessed the ONE Technologies website and pulled down the page listing the names and bios of the managers, beginning with Ian Prince. Tank scrolled down the page, past photographs of the executive chairman, the chief business officer, the senior vice president corporate development, and the chief legal counsel. None of the executives’ names bore the initials H.S.

Mary pointed out a secondary tab. “What about ‘Senior Leadership’?”

Tank double-clicked on the tab. More pictures of executives. Senior vice president knowledge, senior vice president advertising and commerce…

“Stop.” She was looking at a head-and-shoulders portrait of a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and crazed salt-and-pepper hair that stood from his scalp as if he’d just stuck his finger in a socket. “ ‘Harold J. Stark. Senior vice president special projects and infrastructure.’ ”

“H.S.,” said Tank. “Who works for I. Has a ring to it.”

“Is there a bio?”

Tank double-clicked on the photograph and read the condensed biography aloud. “ ‘Harold Stark is senior vice president of special projects and technical infrastructure and a ONE fellow at ONE Technologies. Before joining ONE, he was an associate professor of computer science at the University of Texas at Austin. He received a PhD in computer science from Stanford University, where his research focused on large-scale, energy-efficient data collection networks.”

“Is that it?”

“About Stark?” Tank typed Stark’s name into the search bar. “Are twenty-five thousand hits enough?”

Among the links to Stark were articles titled “How We’re Making the Web Faster,” “The Ability to Store Unlimited Amounts of Data,” “Open Networking Summit.” And then something that really caught her eye: “ ‘Hal Stark,’ ” she said aloud. “ ‘The Genius Behind Ian Prince.’ ”

“Your husband had himself a heck of an informant,” said Tank. “Stark was Prince’s right-hand man, like Nathan Myrhvold was to Bill Gates.”

“Nathan who?”

“Never mind. Just think of it like getting Judas to snitch on his boss back in the day.” He opened Stark’s Wikipedia page and read aloud. “ ‘As ONE’s twenty-first employee and its first VP engineering, Stark has shaped much of ONE’s infrastructure. For the past four years he has worked closely with Ian Prince to map out the company’s foray into supercomputing, and he was instrumental in the company’s acquisition of Merriweather Systems.”

“There’s that company again,” said Mary. “What do they do?”

“John Merriweather created really fast computers. Supercomputers. The most powerful in the world.”

“We’re still just guessing that Joe was looking into ONE.”

“You really believe that?”

At the bottom of the first page was a link to Stark’s ONE X page, a compendium of pictures and events that Stark found interesting. Halfway down was a photograph of Stark standing in front of a red sports car. A caption read, “Me and my million-dollar baby.”

“Stark drove that car to the meet with my husband.”

“A LaFerrari? How do you know?”

“You could see it in the photograph of the crime scene on the front page of your paper.”

“Satisfied now?”

Mary nodded. “But why did they have to meet so far out of town? Why didn’t Stark just e-mail him whatever he was giving him?”

Tank smiled ruefully. “All tech corporations spy on their own execs. As director of special projects, Stark would know about all the products being developed-what worked, what didn’t, what was going to be the next big thing. Ian Prince is legendary for his paranoia. I heard that he makes employees go through a metal detector and empty their pockets each time they exit the building. Whatever evidence of wrongdoing Stark was giving your husband, he couldn’t e-mail it to him. He had to deliver it in person. Joe needed hard evidence. That’s the key.”

“But we’ll never-” Mary bit her tongue. The key. Joe had used those words in his message to her, hadn’t he? She was no longer sure of exactly what he’d said, only that the word brought to mind something she’d seen much too recently, something that reminded her of Hal Stark’s “million-dollar baby.” “Bring up the picture of the car again.”

Tank double-clicked on the photo, and there was Stark standing in front of his new sports car, staring right back at them with his best shit-eating grin.

“What is it…something about the car?” asked Tank.

“Not the car. The horse.”

“There’s no horse in the picture.”

“On the hood. The Ferrari insignia.” Mary zoomed in on the black stallion rampant on a yellow field. “I’ve seen it before.”

“So has everyone.”

“I mean, I’ve seen it at my house.” Mary stood. “Stay here. I have to go get something.”

73

Peter Briggs parked his BMW in the shadows of a willow tree a hundred yards past the Grants’ house. Surveying the street, he slipped a pistol from his holster and affixed a noise suppressor. According to the Mole, Mary Grant and her younger daughter remained in the home while the older girl was out with a boyfriend. Briggs’s plan was to enter, gain access to the bedrooms, and execute both targets, leaving the weapon behind to create the appearance of a murder-suicide. Distraught widow takes her daughter’s life before taking her own. It happened every day. The older girl’s absence would only add to the mystery.

Briggs chambered a round, then thumbed the safety on. He did not like disobeying Ian, but he had little choice. Men like Ian were divorced from the everyday nuts and bolts of a problem. They had forgotten that it takes a mower and a man pushing it to cut the grass. They only saw the result: an immaculately manicured lawn. It came down to a question of fundamental beliefs. Ian believed that technology could solve all his problems. Briggs knew better. Some things a man had to do with his own two hands.

Briggs left the car and disappeared into the shadows. He advanced at a jog, keeping close to the homes. It had been a while since he’d been in the field, and the adrenaline was pumping. Once it had been for his country. Tonight it was for his company, but his allegiance was no less fierce. Maybe all that rot that Ian spilled about the source of a man’s loyalties wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe countries were obsolete.

–

Two minutes.

Mary let go of the fence, landing awkwardly. She limped to the sliding door, let herself in, and collapsed on the first chair she saw. Her phone sat on the table, a decoy left behind on the chance their pursuers were tracking its location. A check of the screen showed that Jess had not called.

“Two minutes,” Tank had said. “Get in, find what you have to find, and come back.”

With an effort, she made it to Joe’s study. She sat at his desk, retrieved his gadget box, and upended it, sending the flash drives clattering everywhere. In the dark she spotted the phony pack of bubblegum, the heart-shaped pendant, and the car key. Not any car key, she knew now, but the key to a LaFerrari owned by Mr. Harold J. Stark, senior vice president special products of ONE Technologies. Or a replica thereof.

She turned on the reading lamp. The key was fat and black, with the Ferrari insignia printed beneath a translucent orb in its center. She pressed her thumb against the stallion and out popped the flash drive.

Joe’s plan came to her as if it were her own. She saw Harold Stark entering his office, inserting the flash drive into his computer, downloading the evidence Joe had asked him to procure. She saw him again at the end of the day, dumping the key into the plastic tray along with the rest of his personal effects and passing through the security checkpoint, no one the wiser.

A noise interrupted her thoughts. The sound of one of her wooden chairs scooting an inch. Her eyes went to the desk lamp.

The light…

–

The kitchen door was open an inch.

Briggs stepped inside. His pistol was drawn, held low, finger brushing the trigger guard. Inadvertently he knocked one of the chairs. It squeaked like hell, and hurriedly he lifted it off the ground. He froze, listening, thinking that it had been too long since he’d been operational. He waited until he was satisfied that the house was still and everyone asleep, then set the chair down. He crossed the kitchen and went through the foyer into the garage, wanting to confirm that the car was there. He retraced his steps, noting that a television was on in the family room, muted, no one watching.

Antennas bristling, Briggs raised his pistol and climbed the stairs. The doors to the girls’ rooms were closed, as was the door to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He stopped by the first door to the right. According to the Mole, it belonged to the younger girl. He steeled himself. It would be fast. He didn’t want things getting out of hand.

He opened the door and stepped inside, activating the pistol’s laser sight, pointing the beam of red light at the pillow. He fired twice, advancing toward his target. The bed was empty, sheets and covers pulled back.

Briggs turned on a heel, wary. He decided that it made sense that the girl wasn’t in her bed. She was a frightened lamb. She needed her mother. He moved rapidly to the end of the hall. A check of the knob confirmed that the door was unlocked. He drew a breath, pushed it open, and walked toward the bed, arm outstretched. This time he did not fire. The room was empty.

He pushed his commo mike to his mouth and spoke to the Mole. “No one’s here.”

“I saw her drive home. I’m still showing her phone on the premises.”

“She’s smarter than we thought.”

Briggs lowered the weapon. Mary Grant had done a runner on them. If she was really smart, she’d get as far away as possible. Not likely. Not her.

Back downstairs, he noted a light burning in a room off the front entry. Had it been on before, or had he missed it?

“Just checking one more thing,” he said, starting down the hall. “Keep the channel open.”

–

Tank stood at the curtain inside the Kramers’ living room, keeping an eye on Mary’s driveway. Five minutes had passed since she’d left-three more than he would have liked. He didn’t see a reason to worry. No cars had driven past. He hadn’t spotted any figures in the shadows, no silhouettes slipping toward the Grants’ front door. Still, he was unable to dispel his butterflies. It wasn’t Mary’s delayed return that worried him so much as the larger, hopeless predicament they found themselves in. They were in over their heads, and they had no one to turn to. Not the paper. Not the police. Certainly not the FBI. It was down to him and Mary. Alamo odds.

“Tank?”

The timid voice made him jump. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

Grace stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed animal. “Where’s my mom?”

“She’ll be right back. She had to get something from your house.”

“I already have Pink Pony.”

“Something else.”

Grace remained where she was, pale and fragile as Meissen china.

“You okay?” he asked.

Grace shook her head.

“Don’t worry about your sister. Jessie’s going to be just fine.”

“It isn’t that.”

“Oh? Would you like to tell me, or do you want to sit down and wait for your mom?”

“My leg hurts.”

“Your leg? Did you sleep on it funny?”

Grace shook her head again. Tank took another look at the Grants’ driveway. Nothing had changed. He had the window cracked a few inches. The neighborhood was silent as a grave.

“Show me.”

Carefully she peeled back the hem of her nightgown to reveal a bruise covering her lower thigh.

“Where did you get this?”

“I fell on the trampoline.”

“Looks like you were hit by a Mack truck.” Tank saw her eyes well up. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I was just joshing. I mean, it looks kind of bad.”

“Jessie said it looked like grackle poo.”

“One mighty big grackle.”

For a moment a smile broke through the pain. “I’m scared.”

“It’s just a bruise.”

“You don’t understand. I might be getting sick again.”

“The flu?”

“ALL. It’s when your body doesn’t make enough white blood cells. The doctors are pretty sure I’ll be okay. Eight out of ten children under the age of fifteen who have it survive.”

“That’s good.” Tank nodded understandingly, hoping that a smile would hide his shock. He knew what ALL was. “I’m sure you’re okay. Let’s go get some ice for that.”

Tank took the child’s hand and together they walked into the kitchen. On the way he checked his watch.

Eight minutes.

Something was wrong.

–

Mary huddled at the rear of the desk’s kneehole, pasting her body to the wall as the man pounded down the stairs. Footsteps crossed the foyer. She’d had no choice but to leave the lamp burning. Anyone watching the house would surely catch the study going dark.

A pair of boots appeared in the doorway, stopped for exactly three heartbeats, then came toward the desk.

“What’s this, then?” the intruder said in a hushed voice.

In her hurry, she’d left the flash drives on the desktop.

The man sat down in Joe’s chair. His boot shot forward, cleaving the gap between her knees and her head. She sucked in a breath, her face inches from the man’s trousers.

Something thudded onto the desk. For the second time that night she smelled gunpowder, and she knew that it came from the intruder’s pistol and that yes, those were shots she’d heard. He had come to kill her and the girls.

“You check Stark for cached thumb drives?” This time the voice was stronger, and she waited for someone to respond, horrified that a second person might be in her home.

“He must have had something,” the man continued after a pause. “He didn’t drive all the way out to Dripping Springs just to talk to Grant.”

The accent was South African, and she knew he was speaking to someone over a phone or, more likely, a closed-circuit communications net.

“Keefe didn’t know how Stark was bringing out the evidence. That bugger Grant didn’t tell anyone. He knew that Mason was with us. He was a cagey one.”

At the mention of Fergus Keefe’s name, Mary nearly gasped. Now it made sense why she hadn’t seen him at the hospital. Keefe had betrayed Joe.

“You’d better have checked the bodies.”

The South African began swinging his boot like a pendulum, the laces brushing against Mary’s cheeks.

“If any evidence does surface, your name is at the top of the list…I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian thought you sold him out. I might think it, too…I’m glad you’re sure. Then you have nothing to worry about. Because here’s what I’m sure about: Stark had the evidence on him and you rank amateurs missed it.”

Just then Mary’s phone began to ring in the kitchen.

The chair slid back. The boot swung past her nose one last time. “Hold on.”

The South African hurried out of the room as the phone continued to ring.

Jessie.

Mary looked at her watch. It was two-thirty. Suppose Jessie was on her way home. Suppose she was coming down Pickfair right this instant. Even if she wasn’t, suppose the intruder managed to learn her location. He was a killer. Mary wouldn’t allow her daughter to fall into harm’s way.

She scrambled out from beneath the desk. She didn’t try to move quietly. There wasn’t time. She felt for Joe’s pistol, but it was at Carrie’s with her jacket and her purse.

“Hello,” said the South African into the phone. He’d flattened his accent and sounded like the admiral. Annapolis aristocracy.

Mary picked up the bowl on the entry table. It was an iron cooking bowl from Thailand, heavy, with sloped sides and sharp edges, employed since their return to hold the family’s keys. She entered the kitchen. The intruder was tall and lean, dressed in black, his back to her. One hand held her phone, the other a pistol. If he turned, he could shoot her dead. By all rights he should have heard her approaching, but she knew he was more intent on listening to Jessie, and anyway, he didn’t think anyone else was in the house.

Using both hands, she lifted the bowl high and brought it down on the crown of his skull. She grunted as it struck his cranium, like she grunted when she hit a double in softball, her wrists and forearms aching with the contact. The man buckled at the knee as she lost hold of the bowl and it clattered to the floor. He turned and she saw camouflage on his face, pale blue eyes that shone even in the dark. He blinked rapidly, raising the gun as he collapsed. It was a reflex. He was not trying to shoot but reaching for a handhold even as he lost consciousness. Mary jumped back. He landed hard, leading with his cheek, and lay still.

Mary pried the phone from his hand. “Jessie?” she said. “It’s Mom. Where are you?”

A man answered. “Mrs. Grant? This is Linus Jankowski. I’m returning your message. Calm down, okay? Everything’s just fine.”

“Linus? Is she with you? Can I talk to her?”

“No, ma’am. She isn’t. I thought she might have called to tell you.”

“Where is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, Mrs. Grant. At least, she was when she left. I told her to call you.”

“What do you mean she left? Where is she?”

“Right about now, I imagine, she should be landing in Vegas.”

“Las Vegas?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s going to DEF CON.”

74

Ian set down his cup of tea, eyes watering from the strain of staring at so many screens for so long a time. His job was done. In the morning Mary Grant would discover the vastly altered landscape of her living situation. She was prideful and obdurate, to a fault. But she was not stupid. She would choose the carrot, not the stick.

Yawning, Ian crossed the office and sat on the corner of a credenza. You’d be proud, Father, he said silently, eyes on the black satchel. I’m not a bloody savage. You didn’t raise me to do harm. I’m a diplomat like you. Or at least as you had us all believe. I know better, don’t I? That’s why you left your satchel behind. You wanted me to know.

Ian kneeled and with care unfastened the satchel’s brass locks. He opened the case as a scholar might open an ancient text. Inside were files. Day-to-day circulars from the Prague consulate, circa 1988. Upcoming holidays. Office hours. A strictly worded communiqué stating that only the head of station and his assistant were to use the newly installed telefax machine. There was also a checkbook. The balance stood at £750. A study of the register showed regular checks written to one Off-Track Betting. The amounts came to £400 in the register alone. Further investigations had showed the sum total of all Peter Prince’s wagers to be significantly higher: £137,000 over a fifteen-year period, to be exact. Nearly $250,000. Chump change today, but to a diplomat earning £38,000 a year, a tidy sum indeed.

Ian dropped the checkbook. There was one last item inside the case. He picked it up and laid it in his palm. Exhibit A: one Walther PPK nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Government issue. Serial number 9987C.

Peter Prince wasn’t a second-rate diplomat or a lousy gambler. He had not simply walked out on his family after squandering their savings, leaving them destitute. Rumors of his suicide were just that. It was all cover. Part of a carefully woven tapestry to obscure the facts of his true position. Ian’s father was a spy. He’d died on duty for Her Majesty’s government. Ian was certain of it.

Tomorrow he would finally gain the means to learn if he was correct.

He smiled in anticipation, replacing the pistol and closing the satchel.

That was when he heard the voice.

“Briggs?” he said. “That you?” Ian looked around, sure that no one else was in the office.

Briggs’s voice was emanating from a screen inside the tower. Ian retook his position inside the curtain of websites. He scanned the tower top to bottom, side to side. Briggs spoke again and he pinpointed the source.

It was a screen displaying the surveillance feed courtesy of the Grants’ desktop.

Ian stood straighter, his fatigue banished to a later time. He was not surprised, only disappointed. For now he paid close attention and watched until there was no longer need.

75

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mary entered the kitchen to find Carrie Kramer pressing a bag of ice to Grace’s leg and Tank hovering nearby like a concerned uncle.

“Just a bruise, Mom,” said Carrie. “We’re all going to be fine.”

Tank broke away and walked to her, using his bulk to provide them with a moment’s privacy. “What took so long?”

Mary stepped closer. “They tried again,” she whispered. “I had to knock him out.”

“To kill you? He’s there now?”

Mary swallowed and her throat ached. “I’ll tell you everything in a sec.” She continued past him and sat down next to her daughter. “What is it, mouse?”

“My leg hurts,” said Grace. “I tried not to let it bother me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mary gave her daughter a hug. “If something bothers you, tell me right away. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Now let me take a look.”

Grace lifted the ice bag off her leg. “It got bigger.”

Somehow Mary managed a smile. “You know what I think? I think it’s just a big bad bruise from falling on the trampoline.” She was lying. She’d never seen a bruise like that from a simple tumble. She prayed it was a reaction to the new medicine Grace was taking.

Grace poked at her leg. “It isn’t coming back, is it, Momma?”

“Doctor Rogers said you’re doing just fine. But tell you what-we should probably go to the hospital to have them check it out.”

“Now?”

“I think that’s best.”

“Can they give me something to make it stop hurting? Carrie gave me an Advil, but it’s not doing anything.”

“I’m sure they can. Now can you wait here with Carrie for a few minutes while I talk to Tank?”

Grace replaced the ice bag. “Did you find Jessie?”

“She went on a little trip, but she’s just fine.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Not yet.”

Grace considered this with genuine concern. “Then how do you know she’s fine?”

Mary laughed off the question as if it were part of some larger, amusing misunderstanding, then led Tank into the dining room. Once inside, her smile dimmed and she collapsed onto a chair.

“What happened?” asked Tank, taking the chair opposite her. “You look like hell.”

“Jessie’s in Las Vegas. She went with her friend Garrett to compete in some kind of hacking game. Apparently someone’s there who might help her figure out who hacked into my phone originally.”

“Slow down. Catch your breath.”

Mary cradled her head in her hands until her breathing returned to normal. She felt the color coming back into her cheeks. Even better, her forearm stopped throbbing from the collision of bowl and bone.

It took her ten minutes to relate all that had transpired inside her home-finding the Ferrari key, hearing the intruder enter and the shots being fired upstairs, hiding beneath Joe’s desk while the intruder sat inches away telling an associate that no evidence had been located on Stark’s body, and finally hearing the call she’d thought was from Jessie but was from Linus Jankowski and her rash decision to attack the man.

“It was Keefe,” she said. “He’s the one who betrayed Joe. He told them that Stark was the informant. The South African said that Keefe didn’t know how Joe’s informant was bringing out the evidence and that Joe was on to Edward Mason. You were right. They won’t stop until we’re all dead.”

Tank sighed. “I hate it when that happens.”

Mary stood, feeling stronger, if only because she knew what was required of her. “I may be able to reach her. Linus gave me Garrett’s number.”

“Tell her to get somewhere safe. The sheriff or the police. Even the fire department.”

“But the South African didn’t speak to Linus. They don’t know where Jessie is.”

Tank stood and stepped closer to her, suddenly angry. “Be real. If you know she’s in Vegas, so do they.”

Mary left the room to borrow Carrie Kramer’s phone and took it into the bathroom. Despite her prayers, Garrett Clark didn’t answer his phone. She left a message. “Garrett, this is Mary Grant. Listen to me. I don’t care that you and Jess are in Las Vegas. But you need to get away from that convention and go someplace safe. The people that hurt my husband-the men that killed Jessie’s dad-know where you are. Go to the police station now. I’ll be on the first flight out this morning to get you guys. Just go to the police station and stay there. Oh…and don’t use your phones. Either of you.”

Mary put down the phone and stared at her reflection. She was a mess. Her eyeliner was smeared. The circles beneath her eyes were dark enough to tar a driveway. She splashed water on her face and washed off the remaining makeup, then found a comb and tried to make sense of her hair. Standing straighter, she looked into her own eyes, trying to access some untapped reservoir of courage, to drum up some last measure of strength, or maybe just a little hope. After a moment she dropped her eyes. She had none. Still, what was she supposed to do? Give up? Throw in the towel? She couldn’t. She was a mom.

–

She found Tank lying on the couch, drifting off. She roused him and told him her plan.

“You’re sure?” Tank asked her when they’d finished hashing it all out.

“Can you think of anything better?”

“And your friend will help?”

“I think so. For Grace.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get moving.”

“You still haven’t told me where the car is.”

“The Ferrari? Don’t worry. I know exactly where it is.”

“How’s that?”

“I saw it yesterday.”

76

The knot on his skull was the size of a grenade.

Staggering to his feet, Peter Briggs drew his fingers away from his scalp. There was no blood, only a feral and incessant hammering. All in all, he decided, it might be wiser to sit for a minute. He landed in the nearest chair and after a good deal of reckoning concluded that he’d been out for five minutes.

Briggs knew that he’d sustained a concussion. By rights he should be inside an ambulance, rushing to the hospital to undergo an MRI. The idea had as much appeal as a case of the clap. Ian Prince would not appreciate learning that his chief of security had been brained by the woman he’d been forbidden to interfere with, let alone murder.

The hospital was out.

Briggs arranged his commo headset, bringing the mike to his mouth. “You there?”

“What happened? You sound like you’re dead. Must be some woman. Killed Shanks and got the best of you, too.”

“Forget about the woman. Just tell me you captured the incoming call.”

“I got the whole thing.”

“Who was it?”

“You don’t remember?”

Briggs’s last memory was of being in Joe Grant’s study looking at the flash drives. “Just tell me who it was.”

“Someone named Linus Jankowski. He’s a postdoc at UT.”

“What did they talk about?”

“She wanted to know where her older daughter was.”

“And he knew?”

“According to Jankowski, she flew to Las Vegas. I checked the flights. A Southwest Airlines jet out of Austin is due in at two-fifteen.”

“Do we have any confirmation she’s on it?”

“I’m working on the passenger list.”

Briggs struggled to take this in. It was his belief that the older daughter had merely sneaked out of the house with a boyfriend. “Why Vegas? Why now?”

“She’s going to DEF CON.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“I have an idea. Something I picked up off her texts yesterday.”

Briggs forced himself to stand and get moving as the Mole revealed what he’d learned about Jessie Grant’s interest in hacking and her questions about a particular line of code. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

“Didn’t know we had any interest in the kid.”

“Well, you should have.”

“And that line of code she was interested in…”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Briggs. “We can continue this later. I’ve got to get out of here.”

Briggs picked up his pistol and made his way outside. On the street he struggled to regain a measure of clarity, but his short-term memory was undergoing a denial-of-service attack. Too much input. Too little processing power. He stumbled repeatedly, and before long gave up tramping through flowerbeds and the protection of the shadows for the safety of the sidewalk.

He spotted his car and crossed the street, still weaving drunkenly. A vehicle approached, headlights on bright, traveling at high speed.

“Slow down,” he called as a battered Jeep Cherokee whipped past him. He turned in time to see a large shaggy head at the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.

Tank Potter and Mary Grant.

Briggs slid behind the wheel, tossing his pistol onto the passenger seat. His head no longer bothered him. His vision was back to twenty/twenty. His sense of purpose returned with a vengeance. He pulled the car into the street and accelerated, making sure to keep his lights extinguished. He rounded the first turn and saw their taillights mounting a gentle incline a hundred yards ahead. He closed the gap rapidly.

Ahead, the Jeep barreled past a stop sign.

For Chrissakes, thought Briggs, reinvigorated by the chase. Aren’t we in a hurry?

He downshifted and ran the stop sign, too. He knew why they were driving so recklessly. They had the evidence. Mary Grant had risked returning home in order to retrieve the information that Hal Stark had smuggled out of his office.

Briggs gripped the wheel furiously. This was his chance. Were he to recapture the evidence, Ian would be in the clear. Fail and Ian was finished, and Briggs close behind him. It came down to one thing: stop Potter and the Grant woman at all costs.

The Jeep passed an elementary school and made a right onto Anderson Mill Road, wheels screeching so loudly Briggs could hear them a hundred yards back. Traffic was light, but there was enough to prevent him from taking active measures to disable the Jeep. Besides, there were electronic witnesses all around in the form of cameras posted on all traffic lights.

He followed Potter and the woman onto the four-lane thoroughfare, turning on his headlights. He knew the road. There was a blind section ahead, a long, bending curve cutting through a patch of undeveloped scrub. No stoplights. No cameras. He would have one chance to take them.

He punched the gas and came up on the Jeep’s tail. The road began its curve. He noted with satisfaction that no cars were approaching. No lights were visible in the rearview mirror. He swung to the left and accelerated, catching the Jeep. Briggs lowered the passenger window, pistol gripped loosely in his right hand. The gap between the vehicles was a foot, maybe less. He aimed at Tank Potter. He expected the Jeep to veer away, but it did nothing to evade him. A last look ahead confirmed that no cars were oncoming. Briggs could shoot with impunity.

A burst of gas. He pulled even with the Jeep. He caught the driver’s profile. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. It was him, all right. He straightened his arm. A three-shot burst would do the trick. Aim low to compensate for the kick. He felt a spurt of optimism as his finger brushed the trigger.

To be done with them…finally.

The driver leaned to the side and poked her head out the window. She was a pretty woman in her late thirties, and she appeared angry and resolute. Next to her sat a pale, wide-eyed girl with flaxen hair.

Not Tank Potter at all. And where was Mary Grant?

The woman extended her arm out the window and gave him the finger.

Briggs braked and watched as the Jeep pulled away and disappeared into the night.

77

“You flipped that man the bird!” shrieked Grace, slumping in her seat with embarrassment.

Carrie Kramer kept her eyes on the rearview mirror as the BMW receded from view. “I sure did, sweetie. He deserved it.”

“What did he do?”

“It’s what he wanted to do that scared me.”

“Are we safe?”

“We are now.”

Grace sighed and sat up a little straighter in her seat. “You can call me ‘Mouse.’ My mom does.”

Carrie ran a hand across Grace’s head. “Okay, mouse.”

She turned south on Research. Even so late, traffic flowed steadily in both directions. The sight of so many headlights was a relief like no other. Mary’s plan had worked, but only just. She wasn’t sure she’d tell her about the man with the pistol. She looked over at her passenger. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes. Can you hold on that long?”

“I think so.”

“Thatta girl.”

Grace nodded, her eyes keen. “When you drive fast,” she said, “it makes me forget all about my leg.”

Carrie hit the accelerator. “You got it, mouse.”

78

“You’re sure it’s here?” asked Mary.

Tank stared out the window. “I’m sure.”

It was 3:30. They sat in Carrie Kramer’s Lexus SUV, parked on the shoulder across the street from Bulldog Wrecker on South Congress, five miles south of the river, more out of town than in it. A sheet-metal fence surrounded the impound yard. Vacant lots bookended the property. Every few minutes a tow truck arrived, dragging its prey. The driver rang a buzzer, looked into a camera, and waited for the gate to rattle open.

“I picked up my car here Tuesday morning,” Tank went on. “The cops had it towed after I was busted for my DUI. Cost me four hundred bucks to get it out.”

Mary surveyed the lot. The neighborhood was a step below seedy and hovering just above dangerous.

“So what do I do?”

“Same thing you did at the Nutty Brown Cafe. Drive in. Flash your badge. Say you want to look at the car.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“You’re a federal agent working the homicide of a fellow law enforcement officer. You don’t care what time it is. Own it and they won’t blink an eye.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be in the car if you need me.”

Mary checked that no traffic was coming, then made a U-turn and pulled up to the gate. She rang the buzzer and held Joe’s badge up for the camera. A moment later the gate groaned and rattled open on its track. Mary drove across dirt and gravel toward the office. Two drivers rested on the fenders of their trucks, smoking cigarettes and sharing a flask. Mariachi music blared from a stereo. She saw the Ferrari parked on the opposite side of the yard, next to a Toyota and a Ford pickup. “Guess you were right,” she said.

“I know my cars.”

“Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” said Tank. “You’re the law.”

Mary climbed out of the car, adjusting her jacket to cover Joe’s gun. A bell above the door tinkled as she entered the office. A Hispanic woman stood behind the counter. She had a pistol on her belt, too, and wanted everyone to see it. “We’re closed. Open again tomorrow at eight.”

“Emergency. I’d appreciate your cooperation.” Mary badged her. “I’m here to take a look at the vehicle we brought in two days ago. I see you have it out front.”

“Sorry. Keys are all locked up. Can’t get to them till morning.”

“What about the keys of the cars those fellas just brought in? What do you do with them?”

The woman eyed the two key chains on the desk, then shrugged, beaten at her own game. “Do you have the paperwork?”

Mary leaned in. “You have two Ferraris here?”

The woman stepped to her computer and tapped the keys for much too long. “Vehicle is registered to?”

“Harold Stark.”

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Mary Grant.”

The woman ducked her head around the computer. “Same name as that agent who was killed.”

“No relation.”

The woman considered this. She was short and solid, with tattoos covering both arms. The largest showed an eagle wrapped in a Mexican flag. She smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “I want to be a police officer myself. I have my app in at APD, Department of Highway Safety.”

“Good luck.”

“I shoot competitively. Shouldn’t have a problem there. What’s that you’re carrying?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your weapon…pistol…sidearm. Whatever you feds call it.”

“It’s a Glock.”

“Nice. Nine, eleven, or sixteen?”

“Pardon me?”

“Rounds.”

Mary looked at her watch. “If you don’t get me the keys to that car, the only number you’ll have to worry about is one, ’cause that’s how many bullets I’m going to fire to get you moving.”

The attendant bucked to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Garza. Yolanda Garza.”

“Thank you, Miss Garza. If I have the chance, I’ll be sure to put in a good word.”

Yolanda Garza unlocked a cabinet on the wall behind her. When she turned back, she held a fat rubber car key like the one Mary had seen in Joe’s study earlier. “Here you are, Special Agent Grant,” she said, placing the key on the counter. “I’ll need to see your government identification as well as your driver’s license.”

Mary patted her jacket and frowned. Earlier she’d forgotten to bring Joe’s picture. This was a more serious offense. “In my purse. Be right back.”

“Leave the key.”

Mary set the key to the LaFerrari on the counter. “There you are. I’ll just be a minute.”

Garza was already back at the computer, eyes squinting as she scrolled down a page. “Take your time. I’ve got to call your boss first.”

Mary paused at the door. “Pardon me?”

“This isn’t the first time you guys have left a vehicle with us. I can’t release nothing until I speak with the SAC. Company policy. Your company.”

“You’re taking your life into your hands,” said Mary, doing a bad job of trying to sound funny. “Don Bennett doesn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.”

“Then you shouldn’t show up so late.”

Mary shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The tow-truck drivers were still perched on their fenders, smoking cigarettes. Seeing Mary, they made a halfhearted attempt to hide their flask. Mary gave them a stern look, all the while forcing herself to walk, not run.

“We need to leave,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. “She’s calling Don Bennett. She needs his permission to release the vehicle.”

“Did you get it?”

Mary opened her fist. “I switched keys when she wasn’t looking.”

“I’m beginning to think you missed your calling.”

“Let’s go before she talks to Bennett. The woman’s packing a piece the size of a bazooka.”

She put the car in gear and drove toward the exit, rolling over the pressure sensors that activated the gate. With a shudder, it began to roll on its track. Faster, she thought.

“Let’s see if we were right.”

Mary gave him the key. He pressed his thumb against the translucent dome in the key’s center. Nothing happened.

“Try it again.”

He thumbed the dome, harder this time. Still nothing. “You got any other ideas?”

“Give it to me.” Mary grabbed the key and rammed her thumb against the dome. She felt something give. The flash drive shot out of the bottom of the key. “Woman’s touch.”

“Jesus. You were right.”

“You didn’t believe me?”

“Honestly? No.” Tank twisted in his seat, an eye on the office door. “Ah, shit.”

“What?”

“You weren’t kidding about that gun.”

A siren wailed. The gate stopped dead in its tracks. In the rearview mirror, Mary saw Yolanda Garza burst out of the office door, gun drawn. The woman was shouting something to the truck drivers, who launched themselves off the fenders and ran to their cabs. Both emerged holding handguns. There was a ping of metal and simultaneously a gunshot. Then more.

The side window shattered. A tire exploded. The car listed to port. Mary ducked. “We’re at the fucking O.K. Corral.”

“Get out of the car,” shouted Garza. “Open your doors.”

Mary complied.

Tank reached across and yanked it shut. “I am not going to be captured by Evelyn Ness over there.”

“What are you going to do, shoot her? Get out of the car, Tank. It’s over. We’re done.”

Tank stripped the gun from her holster. “The hell you say. It’s not even close to over.”

“Tank!”

“Listen to me. Do as she says. Get out of the car. Look nice and peaceful. Remember you’re a mom, not an FBI agent. And on the count of three hit the ground.”

“You aren’t going to shoot anyone. I won’t allow it.”

“Eagle Scout’s word of honor.”

“But we can’t go anywhere. The front tire is flat. The car is ruined.”

“This car is ruined.” Tank snatched the Ferrari key from her hand. “This one isn’t.”

“But-”

“You feel like spending the next five to ten in jail? You used up your hall pass earlier today, and that was before we killed McNair. I may have pulled the trigger, but you’re my accomplice.”

“But he was going to kill me.”

“That’s a lot of buts hanging out there in the wind.”

“Dammit,” said Mary.

“At least let me try to get us out of here.”

Mary looked at Garza standing thirty feet away, gun aimed at her, and at the tow-truck drivers, positioned more prudently next to their vehicles. Her disdain for Mason returned, and with it her anger. If she stopped now, if she stopped before exhausting her every opportunity, she would have let them win. Ian Prince and Edward Mason and Fergus Keefe. Joe would be remembered as inept, or even a failure. Worse, his death would go unavenged.

“No shooting anyone,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. Now open the door. And remember-”

“On three, hit the ground.”

Tank nodded. “Trust me.”

Mary threw her legs from the car and stepped out. Without prompting, she raised her hands. It came to her that this was the third time in twenty-four hours that she’d had a gun pointed at her.

“Stay there,” said Garza. Then she called to the drivers. “Ray, there’s a pair of cuffs in my desk. Go get ’em and bring ’em to me.”

“One…,” said Tank.

“Open your jacket so I can see your weapon,” said Garza. “Nice and slow. And tell your partner to get out, too.”

“Two.”

Garza stepped closer, eyes narrowed, wary. Mary unbuttoned her blazer and opened it wide. “Tank, get out, please,” she said.

“Three.”

Mary threw herself to the ground. From the corners of her eyes she caught Tank jumping from the car, pistol in hand. He wasn’t aiming at Garza or at the drivers. He was pointing the gun at a cylindrical iron tank near the front gate. She spotted a diamond-shaped sticker on it and the word flammable, but only for a second. Then there was a gunshot and the tank exploded.

Mary dug her face into the dirt as the blast wave passed over her, the heat intense but fleeting. She peeked from beneath her arm and saw Tank running to the Ferrari. In front of her, Garza lay prone on the ground, unmoving. The tow-truck drivers had disappeared altogether. A fireball rose from the tank into the night sky like a giant roman candle.

She heard the Ferrari start. It was a sound like no other, a low-pitched, powerful rumble that resonated in her belly; the car was as much animal as machine. She pushed herself to her feet as Tank pulled up next to her.

He opened her door. “Get in.”

“Is she…” Mary pointed at Garza.

“Unconscious.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dammit, Mary, get in the car.”

The car was so low to the ground that she fell into the seat. The interior was like nothing she’d ever seen. Dials and gauges and lights glowed electric shades of green and yellow.

The ringing of the explosion faded and she heard a siren.

“Police,” said Tank, easing the car toward the exit. “Hold on.”

The gate lay in the center of the street, a mangled, twisted sheet of metal. To their right, far away, a police car was speeding toward them, strobes flashing. To her horror, a second patrol car followed on its tail. “Go the other way,” she said.

Tank looked to his left, where another squad car was approaching. “Must be a doughnut shop around here.”

“Which way, then?”

“I’m thinking north.”

“And then?”

“One step at a time.” He pulled into the street and steered gingerly around the gate. The police cars were closing fast, yet he made no further move. They sat stationary in the middle of the street, lights extinguished, nose pointed directly at the sidewalk and the scrub beyond.

“Hold on to the armrest.”

Mary wrapped her fingers around the leather grip. The lights from the police cars shone into the cabin, forcing her to look away.

Tank punched the gas, turning the car to the left and driving north. There was a squeal of rubber, an ungodly roar. Mary’s head hit the seatback. Her fingers tightened on the grip. The road disappeared beneath the car, the lines a blur. She’d never accelerated so rapidly in her life. It wasn’t a car; it was a rocket ship.

They passed the oncoming police car six seconds later, the speedometer reading 130 miles per hour. The headlights of the trailing cars dimmed. Tank ran a red and continued another few blocks, then braked and turned right before giving another burst of acceleration.

Two minutes later they were driving slowly through a quiet, sleeping neighborhood. Tank had one hand on the wheel and was slumped against the door.

“Are you all right?” Mary asked.

Tank touched his side and grimaced. “No, ma’am.”

“What is it?” said Mary. “What’s wrong?”

He held up a bloody hand. “I think I’ve been shot.”

79

Southwest Airlines Flight 79 touched down at Las Vegas McCarran International Airport at 2:15 a.m. local time. Jessie and Garrett were first off the plane. They ran through the terminal and down the escalator, Jessie braking by an ATM at the exit and withdrawing her maximum daily limit of $800.

“Where did you get so much money?” asked Garrett.

Jessie stuffed the bills into her jeans. “Men are kind of sick. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Garrett held the phone to his ear. “There’s a voicemail from your mother. She says that we need to go to the police station. We can’t stay at DEF CON because we need to get away from the people who hurt your dad.”

“She’s just trying to scare us.”

“I thought that an informant shot him.” Garrett held out the phone. “You’d better listen.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Jess…”

“Garrett, I came here to get Rudeboy to help figure out who hacked into my mom’s phone. What part of that did you miss?”

“The part that says we might be in danger.”

“You sure don’t look like a wuss, Abercrombie.”

“What?” protested Garrett. “Who’s Abercrombie?”

Jessie walked outside and made her way to the head of the taxi line. “So you told your parents?”

“Are you kidding?” said Garrett. “My parents would have called out the National Guard by now if I wasn’t home. My mom waits up by the door to make sure I walk in before midnight. I’m not joking. By the door. I may be disobedient, but I’m not cruel.” Garrett caught himself. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Jessie had never thought of herself as cruel. “My mom’s just freaking out because I didn’t tell her where I’ve gone. Once we get to DEF CON, if you see any guys in dark shirts and sunglasses looking at us strangely, let me know and we’ll get out of there.”

Garrett cued up the voicemail. “Just listen to her.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s your mother. She loves you.”

Jessie grabbed the phone out of his hand and deleted the message. “My mom thinks I’m a freak. She can’t stand that I don’t wear tight blue jeans or put on makeup or straighten my hair and that I hate Taylor Swift and that I’m fat and I don’t like to run or go to the gym. Okay? She may care for me. And yes, I know that she’s worried. But she doesn’t love me. Not really. My dad loved me. That’s why I’m here. You want to go, go. I’m staying.” She climbed into a minivan with an advertisement for a strip club on top. “What are you looking at?” she said.

“Nothing…I mean…oh, forget it.” Garrett climbed in and closed the door. “I’m staying.”

“Take us to the Rio,” said Jessie.

“DEF CON, right?” said the driver, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You guys are getting younger each year. Pretty soon I’ll be driving babies out there.”

“Hey, buddy,” said Jessie, “just drive.”

“Punk.”

They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard and drove past the Mandalay Bay, the Mirage, the Bellagio, temples of neon. The lights reminded her of Bangkok, the night markets, the hotels lining the Chao Phraya River. The two cities were nothing alike, really. Maybe it was just being in another city where it was hot all day and all night, with so many tall buildings. All she knew was that it made her sad. Her dad had been alive in Bangkok. Mouse hadn’t been sick yet. And she hadn’t made her mom miss her dad’s last message.

“You okay?” asked Garrett, his hand touching her arm.

Jessie wiped at her cheek. “Be quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired.”

“Me, too.”

Jessie leaned her head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Jessie wanted to say for a thousand things, but the words tripped all over each other. “Just thanks.”

The cab turned onto Flamingo Road and Jessie saw the hotel at the end of the block, towering before them like a brightly lit birthday cake. It was big and pretty, but it didn’t look as glitzy as the others. That figured. Hackers and computer nerds weren’t glitzy either. They were just smarter.

Another turn and the cab pulled beneath the hotel’s porte cochere. Jessie paid the fare and added a dollar for a tip, getting out before the driver could call her a punk again. She led the way into a lobby the size of a football field and spotted the placards for DEF CON at the entry to the East Corridor.

“This is it.” Excited, she jogged the length of the hall. A blue banner with the words Capture the Flag hung above the entrance to the Miranda Ballroom. Jessie dialed the number for Linus’s former teammate and announced their arrival. A few minutes later a short, skinny guy with a few days’ stubble and messy hair came out of the ballroom.

“You Jesse?” he said, looking at Garrett.

“Actually, I’m Garrett. She’s Jessie.”

Max shifted his gaze in her direction. “You’re Jessie?”

“Didn’t Linus tell you I was a girl?”

“Guess he forgot that part. He just said you were smart as a whip and we’d be idiots not to let you join our team.”

“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

He stuck out a bony hand. “Max. Good to have you aboard. Here, put on your shirt.” Max thrust an orange, yellow, and black T-shirt at her. “Welcome to the Ninjaneers. And here’s your ID. Wear it around your neck at all times when you’re on the playing floor.”

Jessie pulled on her T-shirt and strung the ID over her head. Her sadness and anxiety fled. She was at DEF CON. She was a Ninjaneer, and she was about to play Capture the Flag against Rudeboy. It was pretty much the coolest moment of her life.

“What about Garrett?” she asked. “He’s pretty good with code, too.”

“Sorry,” said Max. “Eight men to a team. Garrett, if you’d like to watch, there are stands all around the game floor. The room opens at seven-thirty, thirty minutes before start of play.”

“No worries.” Garrett thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll see you.”

“See you.” Jessie stared at him hard so that he wouldn’t even think of doing something cheesy like try to kiss her.

“Later.” Garrett headed off down the hall. Jessie adjusted her shirt, bending to get a look at the design of a cartoon ninja putting his samurai sword through a laptop. The drawing was lame, but she didn’t care. She was a Ninjaneer now, too, and she wouldn’t allow a word against her team.

“Come with me,” said Max. “We’re doing some warm-ups. Root-the-box problems. Standard stuff. You’ll need to meet everyone and let them know what we can expect of you.”

He pushed open the door and Jessie followed him into a cavernous ballroom. Only eight out of two thousand teams had qualified for the finals. Each team occupied a U-shaped configuration of tables arrayed around a central command square. A scoreboard on one wall listed the teams. Besides the Ninjaneers, there were the Plaid Purple Pioneers, Team Mutant X, Big Bad Daddies, the Mummies, Team Koo Teck Rai, Das Boot, and, finally, Rudeboy.

“New rules this year,” said Max. “We’ve got a TV audience, so they’ve shortened the game. We’ve got eight hours to solve four problems. Each problem is broken up into parts-‘flags’ that you have to win.”

“That’s all?”

“Short and sweet. Fewer hacks, but harder.”

Max arrived at the Ninjaneers’ command post. Six guys in team T’s were in various states of preparation-attaching network cables, plugging in laptops, lining up bottles of Red Bull for easy access. Max introduced Jessie to each member of the team. All were polite enough; none of them tried too hard to hide his skepticism. Jessie looked at the other teams. Of course she was the only girl.

“We divide our team into three squads,” said Max. “Attack, Research, and Defense. Attack analyzes the problem we’re given-usually it’s an admin code-for vulnerabilities. Once we find one, we hand the problem over to Research and they figure out any possible ways of exploiting the vuln. Defense keeps a watch on our own board to stop the other guys from stealing our flags once we get them.”

“I’m Attack,” said Jessie.

“I’ll make that decision.” Max pulled up a problem on his laptop. “Show us your stuff, hotshot.”

Jessie scanned the code. Within a minute she’d spotted three “vulns,” or vulnerabilities, and called each out to Max. “How’d I do?”

“Like I said, you’re Attack.” Max pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. “Linus said you want to beat Rudeboy.”

“I have to beat him.”

“No one has ever beaten him,” said Max. “But if you can spot vulns that quickly when the game starts, we just might have a chance.”

80

Tank parked the Ferrari next to an old oak on a deserted side street in East Austin.

“Pull up your shirt,” said Mary. “Let me take a look.”

“I’m okay. Let’s check that key.”

“The key can wait.”

Tank reached for the tablet on the rear console and Mary blocked him, pushing him gently back into his seat, raising a warning finger to let him know there would be hell to pay if he tried it again. She opened the glove compartment and freed the flashlight. The tan seat ran wet with blood.

“Gosh, Tank. You really are hurt.”

Tank lifted the tails of his shirt, revealing a pale, corpulent midsection. Blood dribbled from a hole the circumference of a pencil eraser in one of his rolls of fat. She helped him lean forward. There was an exit wound on the opposite side of his love handle. “Went through.”

“I knew there was a reason I decided to put off getting in shape till fall.”

“You need to say a prayer tonight.”

Mary opened the car’s first aid kit and took out a roll of gauze, tape, scissors, and an antiseptic. Carefully she fashioned two bandages and put them on the center console. She cut another piece of gauze and doused it with disinfectant. “Sit still. This may hurt.”

“I played ball, remember.”

“One…two…”

Tank hollered and drove a fist against the armrest. “You didn’t say three.”

“Old trick. Now, relax. The second won’t be as bad.”

“The second?”

“I thought you played ball.”

“That was a long time ago. Be gentle.” Tank looked away, eyes watering, and bit back the pain as Mary finished dressing the wound.

“Try not to move too much. I’m not sure how secure the tape is.”

Tank pulled his shirt over the wound. “Can we check the key now?”

Mary grabbed the tablet and plugged in the flash drive. An icon of a hard drive appeared on the screen. It was named Snitch. “Let’s see what Mr. Stark has to offer the FBI.”

She double-clicked on the icon. A directory listing three folders filled the screen.

“Merriweather, Orca, and Titan,” said Tank.

“Merriweather. That’s the guy who accused ONE of extortion.”

“Your boy Fergus Keefe led the investigation that cleared ONE of any wrongdoing.”

“He’s not my boy.”

Mary double-clicked on the folder. It contained a list of over one hundred documents, Word files, photographs, and spreadsheets. Her eye landed on one titled “Prince Directive to Briggs/Nov. 10.” It was an internal e-mail from Ian Prince to a Peter Briggs, head of corporate security, and read: “Peter, pursuant to our conversation regarding M, follow up on attached list of target shareholders with a view to influencing positive outcome: our interests.”

“Clever,” said Tank. “Prince says everything and nothing. Doesn’t specify who M is, doesn’t come out and say, Extort the uncooperative bastards who won’t get with the program.”

Next Mary opened a file titled “Weekly update/Keefe to Prince.” It was an e-mail sent from Fergus Keefe’s private address to Ian Prince and offered a detailed summary of the latest developments in the FBI’s investigation into ONE. “Keefe was in Ian Prince’s pocket all along.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tank.

“You just might have your story.”

Tank started the engine. “I’ll need a lot more than that. One thing’s for sure. We can’t stay here and read it.”

“Where are we going?”

Tank pulled away from the curb and drove down the street, lights dimmed. “Off the grid.”

81

“Ed, this is Don Bennett.”

“Don…hold on…Jesus, what time is it?”

“It’s five o’clock here in Texas.”

Edward Mason cleared the sleep from his throat. “Five o’clock. Yeah, all right. Give me a second.”

Don Bennett stood on his back porch, gazing over his share of the American dream: a large, rolling square of crabgrass, dichondra, and dirt that made up the backyard of his home in Westlake Hills. Toys were scattered everywhere. In the dark he could make out a tricycle, a Big Wheel, baseball mitts, and a Slip ’N Slide that did double duty as the family pool.

He picked up his oldest son’s mitt, a black Rawlings Gold Glove Gamer. In his day it had been a Steve Garvey with a webbed pocket. Don Bennett had bled Dodger Blue his entire life. Vin Scully had called the play-by-play of his youth, and though he hadn’t lived in L.A. since he was eighteen, he was still a die-hard fan. He tapped the glove against his leg.

Garvey. Valenzuela. Kershaw.

It was all about loyalty.

“Hello, Don-sorry about that. I had to get clear of the wife. I don’t imagine you’re calling with good news at this time of night.”

“It’s about Mary Grant.”

“Christ…what now? Did something happen to her?”

“She stopped by the impound yard where we were keeping the Ferrari, posing as an FBI agent.”

“Asking about the car?”

“Yessir. Details are sketchy, but at some point there was an exchange of gunfire and a significant explosion. One woman was slightly injured.”

“And?”

“She stole the Ferrari.”

“Mary Grant stole the fucking Ferrari?”

“She was in the company of a tall, dark-haired male. We assume it’s Tank Potter, the reporter who drove her to the airfield yesterday. Apparently his car was towed to the same yard after he was arrested for a DUI. He must have seen the Ferrari when he came to claim his vehicle.”

“And this happened when?”

“Thirty minutes ago. I’ve been working with local police trying to locate the vehicle, but so far we’ve come up empty-handed.”

“She came at three-thirty posing as an FBI agent to steal the car?”

“That’s about all of it, sir.”

“Shit,” said Mason, almost to himself. “That’s where it was. He must have told her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Don. Just thinking out loud.”

“So you have an idea why she wanted the car?”

“This matter doesn’t concern the Austin residency.”

“A question of national security. Yessir. I remember.”

“That’s right.”

“But you see, Stark worked at ONE. Even if it’s a question of national security, as SAC here in Austin, I think I ought to know about a case involving one of the biggest corporate concerns in my area. At least about what angle Joe Grant was following.”

“If you needed to know, we’d have told you already.”

Don Bennett laid his son’s mitt on the porch and set out across the lawn, the dew cold on his feet. He told himself that he was an obedient man. He believed in the chain of command. He was a reliable man. Above all, he was loyal to his own. And that included Joe Grant.

Bennett was thinking about the call Mary Grant had asked about when they’d met for lunch two days earlier. Who, she’d demanded, had called 911 to look after Joe?

Bennett hadn’t answered, though he’d already heard the call himself. It was standard practice in a homicide to gather data from emergency responders. Since then he’d listened to it so many times he had it memorized.

“This is Special Agent Joseph Grant, FBI. Send an ambulance to the Flying V Ranch on Highway 290 exactly nine miles outside of Dripping Springs. I’m parked in a blue Chevy Tahoe. The victim is suffering from a gunshot wound.”

“What is his age?”

“He’s forty-two. Look, I don’t have time. I have to make another call.”

“Is the wound life-threatening?”

“I don’t know yet…I mean, yes, it is-possibly fatal. Send someone. Hurry.”

“Sir, do you know the victim’s name?”

“It’s me. Do you understand? Now do it. And hurry.”

Bennett winced at the memory. Joe Grant had known he was about to be killed and had called in his own evac. And the other call? It was to his wife. The voice message that had been mysteriously erased from her phone. The message that Edward Mason had ordered him to do nothing to help restore. And that was what had Bennett so upset: why hadn’t Joe called him or any one of the other agents at the Austin residency? Why had he called his wife instead?

Edward Mason went on. “Where are they now?”

“No idea. The police tried to follow them, but they didn’t have any vehicles able to keep up.”

“It’s a fire-engine-red sports car. There can’t be too many on the streets at this time of night. All right, then. Get a team out to her home, and to Potter’s, too. I want both of them brought in for questioning.”

“I doubt they’re there. I mean, given the circumstances…”

“She’s got to be somewhere. She’s a mother, not a criminal mastermind. Just do your job. Find her.”

“And the car, sir.”

Bennett could just make out a mangled expletive before the phone went dead.

–

Inside his home, Don Bennett poured himself a shot of whiskey. He took the glass and sat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on the surface. A minute later his phone rang. He checked the number and answered.

“You get that?” he asked.

“Every word.”

“And now?”

“Just do your job.”

82

Seated in the cockpit of ONE 1, Ian Prince completed his preflight checklist. Takeoff was scheduled for 0630. Weather en route was calm and clear. He forecast flying time to be two and a half hours, so he’d be arriving in Utah at approximately 0800 local time. He put down his clipboard and watched the sun creep over the horizon.

Today was the day.

Serena, the chief flight attendant, poked her head into the cockpit. “Everyone present and accounted for.”

“Mr. Briggs manage to find his way aboard?” It was a rhetorical question. Ian had seen Briggs arrive at the FBO and hurry across the tarmac, looking far worse for wear. Noticeably, Briggs had not come inside the cockpit to say good morning or to offer his usual briefing.

“He looks like he had a pretty rough night,” said the attendant.

“Well, we all know Peter.”

“Katarina is ready for you anytime after takeoff, but she says to hurry if you want to take all your fluids. Mr. Gold and Mr. Wolkowicz are sleeping in the guest compartment. Forward door is secured and ready for takeoff.”

Ian taxied to the main runway and radioed the tower for clearance. He received it, and a moment later eased the thrusters forward. As the speedometer touched 120, he eased the yoke toward him. The nose rose effortlessly. The wheels left Earth’s embrace. ONE 1 climbed into a cloudless blue sky.

Ian remained at the controls until the plane reached its cruising altitude of 38,000 feet, then handed off responsibilities to his copilot. “Stick is yours.”

“I have the stick.”

Ian made his way into the main compartment. Briggs sat upright in his seat, reading from his tablet.

“Interesting night?” asked Ian, taking the seat across from him.

“Had worse.”

“And Mary Grant?”

“Nothing to report. The ball’s in your court, right?”

“So it is. I don’t anticipate having any more problems with her.”

“If you say so.”

“See you when we get to Utah.” Ian patted Briggs on the shoulder and headed aft to his private quarters. He felt like a man whose vision had been restored after long years of blindness.

Finally he could see.

83

The cabin sat on a patch of grassland at the end of a dirt road, as lonely as the sole house on a Monopoly board. They’d passed the last dwelling several miles back, and that was already twenty miles due east of the highway.

“When you said ‘off the grid,’ you weren’t kidding,” said Mary as she got out of the car. “And you come here for what, exactly?”

“Quail hunting. I call it my lodge. Not much to look at this time of year, but in the spring the creek fills up and the grass grows waist-high.”

“And no one knows about it?”

Tank hauled himself out of the car and walked unsteadily to the house. “Plenty of people do. But they’re my buddies. There isn’t any paperwork or court records or deeds that Ian Prince or Edward Mason can check to give them the idea we may be hiding out here. Water comes from our own well. Power from my generator. Nothing they can trace.”

“I can see that.”

Mary stood behind him as he fished his keys out of his shorts. She was thinking about the poster on Jessie’s wall and its line about “information wanting to be free.” She believed she understood what it meant. Words, ideas, expressions, all had a life of their own-if not a life exactly, some inchoate animus that screamed for attention. You might keep them quiet for a while, but their very existence militated toward exposure and dissemination. The same went for the evidence Stark had put on the flash drive.

Tank threw open the door. “After you.”

Couch, table, potbellied stove, cabinets. “Nice,” said Mary. “Abe Lincoln would have felt right at home. You’re only missing a chamber pot.”

“Facilities are out back. This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton.”

“I noticed that. Even have the half-moon painted on the door.”

“We aim to please.”

Tank locked the door behind them before collapsing on the couch. “Coffee and mugs are above the sink.”

“You doing okay?”

“I’ll make it.”

Mary fed the stove with kindling and got a fire going, then heated a pot of water and made coffee while Potter sat with the tablet, immersing himself in Stark’s files. “He delivered the goods. No question.”

Mary sat beside him. There were the three folders, Merriweather, Orca, and Titan, each brimming with hundreds of files. They began with Merriweather.

The directory showed e-mails from Ian Prince to Edward Mason and from Mason to Prince; from Prince to Peter Briggs, and from Briggs to a Wm. McNair. (It was Briggs who’d texted McNair: “Done?”) There were also e-mails from Prince to Harold Stark. Next came a dozen FBI case files that should never have appeared on a private corporation’s server. Joe had worked the Merriweather case along with Randy Bell and Fergus Keefe, and it appeared that Ian Prince had obtained every witness interview, every progress report, every request for evidence the agents had ever filed.

A cursory examination showed that the Merriweather investigation had begun promisingly. Several key Merriweather shareholders gave sworn affidavits about intimidation tactics directed against them by individuals they suspected of working for ONE Technologies. Another shareholder spoke of an anonymous threat to expose his son’s drug addiction if he did not vote his shares for ONE. There was an affidavit from Merriweather’s chief financial officer that confidential sales data had been stolen from the company’s servers, and laterally, a complaint by the chief technical officer about the theft of secret engineering data for a project called Titan (which Mary and Potter presumed was the subject matter of the folder of that name).

But then the investigation went sideways. One witness recanted his affidavit, claiming that he had been coerced into making a false statement. Another fell ill and could not be interviewed. Requests for information from ONE went unanswered. Subpoenas were challenged. It was a classic case of stonewalling. But instead of pressing harder, which was the FBI’s normal modus operandi, the Bureau backed off. A memo from Fergus Keefe to Joe and Randy Bell requested that they terminate the investigation. Both men objected, but to no avail. A week later John Merriweather perished in a plane crash and the case was officially closed. The sale to ONE Technologies was approved shortly thereafter.

There was more to it than that, as Harold Stark had made sure that Joe would find out. With a mixture of anger and disbelief, Mary read through a series of e-mails from Ian Prince to Edward Mason requesting that the FBI’s deputy director “tamp down” the Merriweather investigation. Lobbying on Ian’s behalf was the director of the NSA, who called ONE’s acquisition of Merriweather and the forthcoming Titan supercomputer “paramount to ensuring the continued supremacy of United States intelligence- and data-gathering efforts around the world.” Mason responded that so far the investigation had not turned up sufficient evidence to indicate criminal wrongdoing, and he would do his utmost to bring the case to a quick and favorable conclusion.

At this Mary offered a disgusted expletive. When did a sitting deputy director of the FBI offer any kind of comment to the CEO of a company it was investigating? she asked Tank. Let alone promise that he would aid in shutting the investigation down?

A moment later they discovered the reason. They found the smoking gun: an e-mail from Ian Prince to Edward Mason confirming the transfer of $10 million to a numbered account in Liechtenstein of which Mason was the sole beneficiary.

“Ten million,” said Tank. “That buys a lot of margaritas.”

“Ian Prince must have wanted Merriweather pretty badly.”

“I’m beginning to guess why.”

“Titan?”

He nodded grimly.

Setting the tablet on her lap, Mary opened the Titan folder. Not e-mails and documents this time, but complex computer engineering schematics. Diagrams showing the layout and manufacture of Titan’s internal components, many with significant sections highlighted in yellow and words like bypass, backdoor, override. To a layman the plans were as incomprehensible as they were impressive. Aware of this, Hal Stark had provided a one-page explanation for the common man.

“It’s the mother lode,” said Tank after they’d finished reading. “He’s got it all. Hook, line, and sinker.”

“Do people in the government know he’s modified their computers?”

“No chance. I don’t think they’d appreciate Ian Prince looking over their shoulders.”

Mary laid her head back and sighed.

“Look at this,” said Tank after a minute. “From Mason to Prince. It’s about Joe.”

Mary snapped to attention. In the message Mason warned Prince that a secret task force had been established by Dylan Walsh, the chief of the FBI’s Cyber Investigations Division, to look into ONE’s hacking of the FBI’s servers for six months during the company’s takeover of Merriweather Systems. The task force was named Semaphore.

“Joe was investigating ONE all the time,” said Tank. “He knew exactly what Prince was up to.”

“You got your story.”

“Story? I’ve got a book,” said Tank. “But I’ll start with a story. How’s this for a lead: ‘Last December, Edward Mason, deputy director of the FBI, received a ten-million-dollar payment from Ian Prince, founder and chief executive officer of ONE Technologies, to a numbered account at the National Bank of Liechtenstein in exchange for halting the FBI’s investigation into charges against the company of extortion and shareholder intimidation relating to its takeover of Merriweather Systems’?”

“Sounds good.”

“Front page. Above the fold.”

Mary was looking back at the Merriweather folder. “There’s something we missed.”

“What is it?”

“Something a lot worse than extortion.” Mary moved the cursor onto the icon for a document inside the Merriweather folder titled “Crash.”

The document ran to one page and was a screenshot of computer code. At the top, a single line of clarification: “Malware used against John Merriweather’s on-board navigation system (serial number XXX77899). Installed 12/15 by Ian Prince.”

Mary looked up. “You said that John Merriweather flew his plane into the side of a mountain. Pilot error.”

“Apparently not.”

“Your story just got a lot better.” She checked her watch and stood, shocked at the time. “I have to go. My flight leaves at seven-fifty-five.”

“Hold on,” said Tank. “You still have five minutes. Let’s take a look at Orca.”

And five minutes was all they needed to learn about Ian Prince’s plans to construct the largest supertanker ever built. Not even a supertanker, really, but an island, by the look of the elevations provided. An island with homes for a few thousand people, factories, offices, an airstrip, a beach, its own nuclear power plant, and, every bit as impressive, rising directly in its center, a mountain. An island or a ship or something entirely new.

“Why did Stark name the file Orca?” Mary asked.

“Because he’s a bit of a joker. Orca’s the name of the shark fisherman’s boat in Jaws,” said Tank. “The movie. Don’t you remember what Roy Scheider says when he and Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss are way out in the middle of the ocean and he first sees the shark?”

“No,” said Mary. “I don’t.”

“ ‘You’re going to need a bigger boat.’ ” Tank put down the tablet. “Ian Prince built himself the biggest boat ever.”

“What kind of shark is he afraid of?”

Tank shrugged and pulled himself off the couch. “Time for you to skedaddle.”

“I can’t drive that thing. Even if I could, I couldn’t. The police will be looking everywhere for it.”

“Take my truck. It’s out in the shed. Keys are in the ignition.”

“And you?”

“I’ll find a way back into town.”

Mary stood and walked with him to the door. “We did good,” she said.

“Your husband did good. But our work won’t be done till we get that story to the paper.”

“Isn’t there a way we can send over all the files?”

“No connection out here. No cell service. No wireless. Like I said-”

“ ‘Off the grid.’ ”

“Yep.”

Mary kissed Tank on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I told you, I’m in this game for myself. Now go get your daughter.”

Mary stepped outside and crossed the yard to a ramshackle shed. The truck was an old Ford, even more beat-up than the Jeep, with manual transmission and springs pushing through the worn-out seats. The engine turned over on the first try. She stopped in front of the cabin. “Write your story.”

“Our story,” said Tank.

Mary put the truck into drive and headed down the dirt road. A wind had picked up and filled the cabin with the scent of thistle and loam. In the rearview mirror she saw Tank waving. She thought he was calling to her. She wasn’t sure, but it sounded as if he was saying something about a buggy whip.

84

“Mine.”

Its official name was the Intelligence Community Comprehensive National Cybersecurity Initiative, though it was better known as simply the Utah Data Center. And it sat on 240 acres carved from the hillside directly above Highway 71, between the town of Bluffdale and Salt Lake City.

No measures had been taken to hide the facility. Four data halls measuring 100,000 square feet and built parallel to one another housed the thousands of servers necessary to store the oceans of data it collected. The halls were serviced by a dedicated cooling station. An on-site power plant provided the compound’s electricity. To the naked eye it looked like nothing more glamorous than a giant Walmart or Costco or Target distribution center, the kind of gargantuan bland warehouses that lined highways in rural areas all over the United States.

And it belonged to the National Security Agency, which was to say that it belonged to the combined intelligence establishment of the United States of America.

After the successful demonstration of ONE’s Titan supercomputer, it would belong to Ian Prince.

–

“This is it,” said Bob Goldfarb, the Emperor’s gnomish assistant. “Time to see what all those exaflops get us.”

“Like a hammer on a walnut,” said Ian. “AES doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Goldfarb, eyes twinkling with dreams of world domination. “And so does the president.”

Not all of the Utah Data Center was visible to the naked eye. The Operations Room sat inside a nuclear-hardened concrete bunker three hundred feet below the surface. It was a SCIF inside a SCIF, with floor-to-ceiling monitors on the walls, rows of analysts’ workstations, flags standing in the corners.

This morning the Operations Room was filled to capacity, seats taken by a mix of government and military personnel, the overflow lining the walls. The briefing was beyond top-secret or ultra top-secret or whatever was the latest term for the highest security clearance in the land. The vice president was present and stood with his coterie next to General Terry Wolfe. Even the president was in attendance, if from two thousand miles away, joining them along with the national security adviser and the director of the CIA from the Situation Room beneath the White House.

Ian stood against the back wall, arms crossed. He’d left Briggs in the visitors’ lounge, along with a dozen other high-ranking officers and officials who did not possess adequate clearance. Ian was part of the brain trust. General Wolfe called him his own Oppenheimer. While others theorized, Ian had built the damned thing.

Seventy years ago a similar group had gathered in the dunes of White Sands, New Mexico, to gaze at a round object perched atop a tall tower and bear witness to the first atomic explosion in the history of mankind. Fat Man and Little Boy were but a black-and-white memory. The new kid on the block was named Titan.

The NSA had purchased it for but one purpose: to decrypt information culled from the deep Web, or Deepnet-the part of the Internet invisible to the common man. The Deepnet included all passwordprotected data, both government and commercial; all U.S. and foreign government communications; and all noncommercial file sharing between trusted peers. The problem had never been collecting the information. With sieves at every transit point in every communications hub on earth, the NSA was capable of collecting all it wanted. The problem was decryption.

All data found on the Deepnet was encrypted according to the Advanced Encryption Standard, or AES, a theoretically unbreakable shell encasing each message to protect it from intruding eyes and to ensure that only the intended recipient read it. To date, no machine had been able to crack the AES in anything close to a quick and efficient manner.

Titan would change that.

Titan, with its enormous processing power, its gargantuan intellect, its unfathomable speed, could break any code within seconds. Titan was the hammer to AES’s shell. One blow, and crack! The shell would disintegrate.

Ian could see by the skeptical expressions that few present this morning believed Titan would work. Ian had no doubt. He knew.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please.” General Terry Wolfe stood at the front of the room, fussing with his eyeglasses. “We’ve gathered here today to witness the first operational test of the new Titan supercomputer. We’re going to start with an intercept we pulled down from our friends in Moscow. Judging from the format, it looks like it’s from FSB director Gromov to a counterpart in Kiev. We’ve been at it for two days now and we can’t crack the shell.” A nod to a technician. “Go ahead. Let’s see what Titan can do.”

The technician fed the intercept into Titan. Lines of encrypted code flooded the main screen: letters, symbols, numerals, a seemingly random mishmash. The word Processing flashed at the bottom as Titan ran the message through multiple decryption programs simultaneously.

“Two days and we can’t make head nor tail of it,” whispered Goldfarb. “Not all the bright Russians are working for Google.”

Ian stared at the screen, hands clasped behind his back, as the seconds ticked by. A minute passed, and then another. Someone cleared his throat. A chair slid across the floor. There was a cough. Reports of Titan’s superpowers had been overrated.

“At least you got the heat issue fixed,” said Goldfarb. “That’s a start.”

Someone said, “Hey!”

A hush swept the room.

“Here we go,” said the Emperor.

Ian didn’t alter his expression as the mishmash of letters, symbols, and numerals was replaced line by line with a message, not only decrypted but translated into flawless English.

From: Yuri Gromov, Director, FSB

Recipient: Boris Klitschko, President, Ukraine

Text: In regards to the premier’s upcoming visit, he has asked that you have ten kilos American dry-aged filet per day on hand to be prepared medium rare, sliced thinly, and served to Ivan at 6 a.m., 1 p.m., and 8 p.m. promptly. There will be an afternoon snack of one kilo steak tartare. Ivan also requires at least five cashmere blankets and two veal shank bones with marrow.

“Who the hell’s Ivan?” It was the president, asking from the Situation Room.

“I believe it’s his dog,” said the CIA director. “An Irish wolfhound.”

Laughter all around.

Ian felt a presence at his side. He looked over to see the vice president glaring at him. “So we built a one-and-a-half-billion-dollar data center employing the world’s most advanced supercomputer to learn what the Russian premier’s dog likes to eat.”

The vice president had long opposed the expansion of the secret state and was a vocal opponent of the Utah Data Center.

The laughter died.

“Happy, Mr. Prince?” he whispered. “Get to add another zero to your fortune. You guys are all snake-oil salesmen. Only your gadget can save the world. Give me a break. What are we supposed to do with all this stuff, anyway?”

“I think you’re missing the point,” said Ian. “It isn’t what’s in the message, it’s the fact that we were able to read it.”

The vice president turned his attention to the Emperor. “Anything else up your sleeve, General Wolfe?” he barked.

The NSA director fidgeted as he adjusted his eyeglasses yet again. “Impress us, Dave,” he said to an air force colonel seated nearby.

“Yessir.” Dave punched away at his keys. Voices played over the loudspeaker. Ian recognized the language as Mandarin, but a northern dialect. A translation of the conversation appeared in real time on the main screen.

“The meeting began fifteen minutes ago,” said someone identified only as Speaker 1. “The vice president, the director of the National Security Agency, and many other government functionaries are in attendance. Pictures show that sixteen vehicles arrived at the site in the last hour. We believe they are testing the new hardware that was recently installed.”

“What is it?” said Speaker 2. “Titan?”

“We are not yet certain, but most probably it is a more sophisticated processing apparatus.”

“Are we at risk?”

“Absolutely not. No one can penetrate our systems.”

“Gentlemen, we are listening to a general at the Chinese Ministry of State Security in Beijing speaking to China’s vice premier, over a secure, encrypted line. Normally it would take us several hours to break the encryption, if we could at all. As we are all witnesses, the translation is real-time. It seems, Mr. President, that the Chinese are talking about us. They are discussing the demonstration of Titan. Here. Today. Now. The pictures they are referring to come from one of their spy satellites looking down on us from a few hundred miles up. In effect we are spying on our enemies spying on us-and we are having a better time of it.”

In the Situation Room, the president did nothing to hide his pride. “And it’s these new machines that are enabling this?” asked the vice president.

“Yessir,” said Wolfe. “It is. Here’s another we have queued up. This conversation began three minutes ago and is continuing.”

This time it was Arabic voices, but the translation was as timely and accurate as before. Wolfe explained that the group was listening in on a conversation between the Saudi Arabian minister of defense and a man named Mohammed Fawzi, an Algerian who headed up Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb.

“My forces are being decimated,” said Fawzi. “We have nowhere to hide.”

“Patience, my friend,” said the Saudi.

“Fuck patience. Time is an expensive commodity. We need money to purchase it, money for better communications equipment, for more safe houses, and to pay men to take the place of those martyred.”

“The king will make his usual contribution.”

“Five million dollars isn’t enough. I need at least ten if we are to continue with Paris as the king wishes.”

“The king does not like Paris. He was asked to leave a hotel there once. The Meurice. It is owned by Jews. You must continue with Paris.”

Wolfe killed the feed. “Please be aware that the Central Intelligence Agency has been in the loop about Paris for some time now.”

The vice president raised a hand to summon the room’s attention. “Just one question,” he said. “If you guys can listen to the Chinese all the way in Shanghai or Beijing or wherever the hell they are, and to Al-Qaeda wherever the hell they are, and everyone’s talking on secure and encrypted links, what’s to stop you from listening in on the president when he’s talking to the British prime minister over our own secure encrypted link?”

“Yes,” echoed the president. “How do I know you won’t be listening to me?”

General Wolfe pulled at his cuffs, then adjusted his glasses. His eyes darted to Ian and Bob Goldfarb, then back to the screen. “Because, Mr. President,” he said with a Boy Scout’s solemnity, “that would be illegal.”

These days, thought Ian, the law is the last refuge of a scoundrel.

–

One hour later Ian was back aboard ONE 1, seated in the aft lounge. Katarina had given him his supplements. His IV was dutifully administering his phosphatidylcholine, bathing his telomeres with life-extending nutrients. His laptop was open in front of him, his eyes keenly studying the screen.

Seven years running.

David Gold entered the cabin, slim, tanned, a force. “Ian, you wanted to see me.”

Ian looked up, placing a mental bookmark to remind him where he was. “Yes, David. One question: are we getting all of it?”

“Oh yes,” said the Israeli computer scientist. “Our machines capture everything that goes in and out of the Operations Room. That’s what Clarus does.”

“So I really can listen in on the president and the British PM on their secure line?”

Gold dug his chin into his throat, a man affronted. “Why, of course. Tell me, is there anything that Titan can help you with? Anything that’s of pressing concern?”

Ian tapped his fingers on the table. A name came to mind. A fiery, red-headed Mick with a big mouth and dangerous opinions.

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

85

Gordon May walked around his airplane, the Battleax, stopping here and there and standing on his tiptoes to polish its fire-engine-red fuselage. Three days remained until the last race of the season. Despite his vehement protests, the race stewards had denied his objection. He was baffled how they were unable to recognize that Ian Prince had cut to the inside and forced him out of his pattern, endangering his life. The ruling left the series between them tied at two wins apiece.

Come Sunday, it would be all or nothing.

May climbed into the cockpit and fired up the engine. The propeller stuttered, then caught, the eight-piston engine coming to life, roaring like a bull with its balls caught in the ringer. He taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway. It was another cloudless day in the high desert of northern Nevada.

He planned on a short flight. A run to put the engine through its paces and see if it was capable of holding a speed of 550 knots for prolonged periods.

He gazed at the instrument panel. He’d kitted out Battleax with the same state-of-the-art avionics that powered an F-16. Glass displays. Touch-screen monitors.

Additionally he strapped a tablet to his leg that linked wirelessly to the engine. In this manner he could adjust fuel flow, oxygen mix, and oil pressure, fine-tuning the motor’s torque while in the air.

“Tower, this is Golf Bravo 415 requesting permission to take off.”

“Roger that, Golf Bravo 415. You are number one for takeoff. Runway is yours.”

“Roger, Tower.”

Gordon May continued to the end of the runway, then made a 180-degree turn. He stopped to make a final check of his gauges, then began his rollout. At 90 knots he rotated the front wheel. The nose kicked into the sky and he shot upward like a screaming banshee.

He flew northeast, in the direction of Pyramid Lake. The air was calm. The updrafts and chop that often rolled off the Sierra Nevada to the west were nowhere to be found. At 15,000 feet he leveled off and took a few moments to enjoy the view toward Lake Tahoe to the west and the Oregon border to the north.

May tightened his harness and settled into his seat. Today was about speed. It was about pushing Battleax to her limits.

He made another check of his gauges. Oil pressure was normal, engine temp squarely in the black. Satisfied that his baby was ready to rumble, he laid his hand on the throttle and eased it forward, increasing his airspeed to 400 knots. He smiled. The engine had never sounded better. He felt as if he were strapped to a rocket. Ian Prince didn’t stand a chance.

May increased the airspeed to 500 knots, then 520. The plane kept its nose, the frame as solid as a rock. He pushed the throttle further and the airspeed rose to 550. It was these last few knots he’d lacked during the last race, which had allowed Prince to pass him. He checked the tablet and enriched the fuel mix, adding high-grade test fuel and siphoning out some of the oxygen. The result was an increase of torque, the blast of acceleration an aircraft required to overtake a competitor.

The plane responded as he’d hoped.

Sunday couldn’t come soon enough.

It was then that the nose dove. One moment he was flying level to the horizon, the next he was heading for the surface of Pyramid Lake.

Stunned, May hauled back on the stick, leveling the plane out. He looked at the tablet, but the screen was dark. He tapped on the glass, to no avail. The engine coughed and the plane jerked, as if something had hit it from below.

May took a breath, calming himself. Everything had been working marvelously ten seconds ago. His ground crew had signed off on all their modifications. It was a glitch. Nothing more.

He began an easy turn back to the south. It was time to go home and get Battleax back on the ground. He double-checked that his tablet was indeed dead. When he returned his attention to his controls, the avionics screen had gone dark. In fact, the entire display was black. Simultaneously the stick slammed forward and the plane went into a dive. May threw both hands around the stick and pulled back with all his might. The stick did not budge. The nose dipped further, and further still, until he was flying directly at the ground.

He cut the gas, but the engine didn’t slow. In fact, he was certain that the rpm’s were increasing. He played with the pedals, with the flaps, trying everything to pull out of the dive. Nothing worked. The plane was no longer his.

“Tower, this is Golf Bravo 415 declaring an emergency. Am in uncontrolled descent.”

The tower didn’t answer.

May felt his consciousness slipping away. The g’s were mounting. He felt the pressure on his eyeballs and in his chest. It was difficult to breathe. For the first time he took his eyes entirely off his instruments and gazed out the windscreen. The water was approaching fast. He was below one thousand feet.

With a last effort he pulled back on the stick.

“Please,” he shouted.

The stick gave. The nose rose. “Thank god,” he said.

And then the stick dived forward and Gordon knew that all was lost.

As the water approached and his windscreen filled with blue, he realized that this was not an accident, that his avionics had not failed, but that somehow someone had taken control of his aircraft. He could think of only one person. And as the plane struck the water and disintegrated into a thousand pieces, he screamed his name.

“Prince!”

86

Jessie Grant sat in her assigned seat at the Ninjaneers post watching the clock tick down the seconds until Capture the Flag began. Her laptop was plugged in and fully charged. Her phone was charged, too, and ready for use should additional browsing be necessary.

“Two minutes,” said the announcer. “If you have to go to the bathroom, too late. You’ll just have to hold it.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. Computer geeks. She’d bought plenty of provisions to get her through the game. Mountain Dew, Skittles, and a dozen pieces of Bazooka bubblegum, the kind with the comic wrapped inside. Bazooka was her dad’s favorite.

The ballroom was packed to bursting. Grandstands erected against three walls were full. Two fixed television cameras were posted at opposite sides of the room. There was even a roving reporter going from one team to the next, interviewing players.

She gazed at the stands, looking for Garrett, but it was hard to see with the lights dimmed. Besides, Jessie was more interested in someone else. Her eyes sought out the solitary figure occupying the post farthest from the Ninjaneers. He wore a dark sweatshirt, its hood pulled far over his head. Even so he sat with his back to her and everyone else. While the other teams boasted a full complement of eight players, he sat alone. Even the sign bearing his team name was left intentionally blank. It didn’t matter. Everyone in the ballroom knew who he was.

Max came over, looking as nervous as she felt. “You ready to go, kid?”

“I guess so.”

“This can be our year. We’re counting on you!”

Jessie kept her eyes on the laptop’s screen, too embarrassed by the compliment to reply.

“All right,” Max went on, “let’s do it.” He put out a bony fist. Reluctantly, Jessie met it with her own. If they actually won this thing, he might want to do a flying chest bump. Not going to happen, thought Jess.

“One minute.”

All teams were to receive the first problem via the dedicated competition net (CTF.net) the minute the game began, but for the moment the screen continued to glow blue with the Capture the Flag logo. She drew a breath. The team was counting on her.

An air horn sounded.

The first hack appeared on the screen. It was a root-the-box problem similar to the one she’d done in Linus’s class. Jess scoured the code, seeking out the vulns put there purposefully to act as the secret passageways into the heart of the code. Right away she spotted one.

“Got it,” said Research. Once he received the vuln, he’d search through his toolbox to discover a means to exploit it.

Jessie smiled inwardly. The first problem was easiest. There was no time to be cocky. But still…

Hacking had always come easily. In many respects it was just like playing the “find what’s hidden” game in those old Highlights magazines she used to read in the dentist’s office. She remembered how she’d loved poring over the illustration-of a barnyard or a circus or a carnival-determined to spot the hidden comb, coin, tennis racket, or sailboat. Later she’d loved the Where’s Waldo? books. No one could spot Waldo and his red knit cap faster. And not just Waldo-Jess was able to pinpoint Wenda; Woof, his dog; and all the other secret characters with a speed bordering on freakish. Among all the elaborate pictorial chaos, the hidden images seemed to pop out at her. There was really no explanation for her uncanny ability, other than that she was just programmed that way.

Hacking into a network was no different. It was a question of knowing what belonged and what didn’t and having that special connection between your eye and your brain that allowed you to be the first to spot it.

“Gotcha!” Jess called out another vuln. A second later Research solved the first and the Ninjaneers captured their first flag. A cheer erupted from the spectators. Jessie looked up for a second and found Garrett looking back at her. She smiled, but was surprised at his grave demeanor. Didn’t he see the scoreboard? The Ninjaneers had their first flag.

Garrett shook his head and pointed at the board. Rudeboy had three flags.

Jessie’s heart sank. And then it sank further as Defense called out, “Shit. The bastard nabbed it already.”

On the scoreboard, the Ninjaneers’ flag disappeared.

Rudeboy had stolen it.

87

Mary bolted from her seat the moment the plane arrived at the gate and pushed her way through the packed cabin, ducking and dodging and begging her pardon all the way to the forward door.

“In a hurry, are we?” asked the flight attendant.

Mary swept past without a word and charged up the ramp. The flight to Las Vegas had landed thirty minutes late. It was ten. She’d left the last message with Garrett nearly four hours earlier. She had no idea how long Jessie had been at the police station, or if she’d continue to wait.

Inside the concourse, Mary ducked into the first electronics store she spotted and selected a prepaid cell phone costing $29.95. She placed the box on the counter along with her credit card and tapped her foot impatiently as the clerk rang up her purchase.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but this card has been declined.”

“Run it again,” said Mary. “Please.”

The clerk zipped the card through the reader a second time. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The card’s been declined.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sorry.”

Of all times…Mary put the card back into her wallet and selected another. It was the machine, not her card. She kept her balances memorized the way baseball fans memorized batting averages. “This one should work.”

She turned to survey the throngs walking in every direction. She’d never liked Las Vegas. The idea of the place ran against her Calvinist roots. It wasn’t the sin or the iniquity. It was the wastefulness. Nearly all the people she saw appeared to be in need of saving money, not handing it over to a one-armed bandit.

She yawned. She’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours, but no matter how she’d tried, she’d been unable to nod off on the flight. She was too worried about Jess. About Grace. About everything.

“Ma’am?”

Mary knew from the young woman’s tone that something was wrong. “Yes?”

“This card’s been refused as well.”

“Really? I never use it. It’s my emergency card.”

“I can only tell you what the machine says.”

Mary took back the card, more angry than mystified. “Can I give you another? Really, I’m sure it has to be your machine.”

“Ma’am, please.” The clerk looked past Mary to where a line was forming. “We accept cash.”

Mary paid for the phone with her last two twenties. A minute later she was heading down the escalator to the taxi stand, the phone pressed to her ear. The call to Garrett rang through to his voicemail. Kids, she thought crossly. They spend all day with their noses buried in their phones and refuse to answer when they actually receive a call. “This is Jessie’s mom again. I hope you passed along my message. I just landed and I’m on my way to the police station. Please call me at this number the moment you listen to this.”

She hurried past the baggage claim toward the exit. Through the windows she observed a monstrous line for cabs. She slowed, realizing that $9 and change was not enough to get her to the police station.

An ATM stood against a nearby wall.

Sliding her card into the machine, she felt a cold hand upon her shoulder, a dread voice whispering in her ear that it was no mistake that her cards were being declined. She dismissed it. Machines made mistakes all the time. There was nothing wrong with her credit.

She typed in her PIN and her screen came up without incident. Relieved, she selected a quick withdrawal of $60. The machine hummed for much too long. Finally it spit out her card and informed her that her request was denied due to insufficient funds.

This isn’t right, she told herself, refusing to believe the machine’s verdict or that the problem was in any way tied to her credit cards.

She slipped in her bank card again and navigated to her account balances. Her checking account stood at -$27.98.

Overdrawn.

It was not a word to her. Mary had never bounced a check in her life. Two days earlier the balance had stood at nearly $3,000. She would remember if a significant check was outstanding.

It was a mistake…yet it was no mistake.

For the first time she felt panic nipping at her heels.

She returned to the main menu and selected her savings account, which had a balance of $14,000 and change. It was an abysmally low sum for a couple in their forties with two children. Even then, it didn’t take into account the stack of hospital bills yet to be paid.

The screen blinked.

0

Mary stared at the display transfixed, not entirely able to grasp the new reality the single empty digit conferred. Money was her responsibility. Joe earned it. She guarded it like a hawk.

No money. No credit cards. No savings.

Her eyes filled even as the admiral commanded her not to panic. The Titanic had not just hit an iceberg. There was not a giant gash in the Grant family vessel. Water was not pouring in at the rate of 50,000 gallons a minute.

Hand shaking, she checked recent transactions. The entire balance of $14,459 had been wired out to something called MJG Enterprises. No further information given.

MJG, for Mary, Jessie, and Grace.

A closer look at her checking account showed that all her money had been transferred to the same institution.

Mary ended her session and walked outside. It was controlled mayhem, the sidewalk jammed with tourists, taxis honking, cops blowing whistles. This wasn’t fair, she told herself. It was hitting below the belt. Demoralized, she sat down on the curb and cradled her head in her hands. She was aware of people staring, but no one inquired as to her well-being. Desperation was just the flip side of joy. Both were on constant display in Sin City.

No mountain gets smaller for…

She stopped quoting the admiral. It was time to rely on herself.

After a minute she opened her purse and took stock of her situation. First some good news. She’d been wrong about having $9 to her name. In fact she had $10.80. Not a huge improvement, but when you’re starting at zero, a buck’s a big deal. She dropped her wallet back into her purse and saw something shimmer in the corner. A blink of brass or gold. She rooted through the Altoids and Kleenexes and carefully folded receipts until her fingers touched something round and smooth and polished.

To H.S. Thanks, I.

She closed the purse. The line for taxis had grown even longer during her pity party. She walked past the head of the line and crossed to the center island, where a dozen town cars sat parked, waiting for the big spenders.

“Morning, ma’am,” said a liveried chauffeur as he opened the door. “You look like you’re headed to the Strip. Let me guess…the Wynn.”

“No, I’m sorry-”

“The Bellagio. I knew it.”

“I’m not going to a hotel,” said Mary.

“Oh? Where can I take you?”

“The Pawn Stars shop,” said Mary as she slid into the air-conditioned back seat. “And step on it.”

88

The Patek-Philippe wristwatch sat on a baize-lined tray atop a display housing necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and other wristwatches.

“It’s not often we get a timepiece of this quality. Production is limited to five to six pieces a year. These are really quite rare.”

His name was Al, and by his own admission he was the store’s resident watch expert. Al was short and running to fat, with meaty forearms and an ungroomed black beard like that of the wacky pitcher of the San Francisco Giants. Cars, maybe. Motorcycles, for sure. Watches, no way.

“I’m glad you like it,” said Mary.

“I know quality,” said Al as he jotted down a number on a notepad and offered it for her inspection.

“I think you can do better.”

“Thirty cents on the dollar is generous. However, given your item’s pedigree, I can go a little higher. If you’re interested in selling it, I can offer a more attractive sum.”

“A loan will be fine.”

Al picked up the watch and held it up for inspection, as an oenophile might study a glass of vintage Bordeaux. “Exceptional.”

“It belonged to a friend.”

“I’m sorry,” said Al.

“Don’t be. He was a prick.”

Al returned the watch to the tray, crossed out his original figure, and wrote a new one. “My best offer.”

Mary tore the paper from the pad. “Done.”

“If you’ll just fill out the paperwork, I’ll be back with a cashier’s check.”

“I’d prefer cash.”

Al gave a double-take, stroking his beard for good measure. “For the entire amount?”

Mary nodded. “You can’t trust banks these days.”

Al invited her into a private office. It took several minutes to fill out the paperwork and several more for it to be processed. The terms were straightforward enough. The watch was to act as collateral against the loan. She had sixty days to repay the full amount at 22.5 percent interest per annum. It wasn’t loan sharking, but close.

A woman entered and placed a manila envelope on the desk. Al spilled the contents on the top. Crisp packets of $100 bills, still bundled from the bank. He counted the money with care, laying it in fans of $10,000 across his desk.

“Ten…twenty…thirty…thirty-six thousand dollars.”

Mary signaled her approval and Al gathered the bills like a blackjack dealer gathering playing cards, then placed the entire stack in a smaller, more discreet envelope.

Slipping the envelope into her purse, Mary enjoyed a moment of relief. The money wasn’t hers. The watch belonged to Hal Stark’s family, and she’d return it as soon she’d gotten Jessie home and Tank had published his article.

Somehow, she prayed, she’d have gotten her savings back by then, too.

“Will there be anything else?” asked Al once they’d returned to the showroom.

Mary ambled toward a nearby display case. It did not contain necklaces, earrings, bracelets, or other wristwatches.

“Yes,” she said, pointing at the item that had caught her fancy. “I’d like that one there. It is for sale, isn’t it?”

89

Tank pulled the sheet of foolscap from his old Underwood typewriter and read the final paragraph of his article.

“The Titan supercomputer developed by John Merriweather and perfected by Ian Prince is said to be the cornerstone of the NSA’s next-generation surveillance system, designed to decrypt even the most strenuously guarded messages of allies and enemies alike. Schematic data provided by ONE engineers show that ‘backdoors’ built into Titan (and nearly all machines designed and manufactured by ONE Technologies) allow unfettered access to these messages and to all information passing through it to anyone possessing the proper pass codes. Calls to the FBI and ONE Technologies have not been returned at this time.”

He grabbed a pen and wrote 30 at the bottom: old-school newspaper shorthand for “The end. Take this to the typesetter.”

With a groan, he stood and walked to the sink. He hadn’t figured that a bullet passing through his side could cause so much pain. His torso ached as if he really had been in that car accident he’d lied about to Al Soletano. He drank a glass of water but, despite some momentary refreshment, felt no better.

Leaning against the counter, he looked across the cabin at the ancient Underwood typewriter. The machine was heavy, cumbersome, arthritic, and altogether a relic. It reminded him of someone he knew.

He returned to the desk and gathered up his papers. Running to some two thousand words, the article stated that Ian Prince had overseen a campaign of extortion and intimidation against Merriweather Systems’ shareholders to convince them to vote in favor of a sale to ONE Technologies, that he had overseen the hacking of the FBI’s mainframe in Washington, D.C., resulting in the theft of over one thousand confidential files, and that he had paid Edward Mason $10 million to end the FBI’s investigation into ONE, all of it in a quest to take de facto control of the National Security Agency’s Utah Data Center.

There was no need to speculate to what end Ian Prince would abuse his access. His track record spoke eloquently of his past deeds. Intimidation, theft, sabotage, and murder were only the beginning.

Finally there was the matter of the malware that Hal Stark had posited Ian Prince had introduced into the avionics system of John Merriweather’s plane, which had led to Merriweather flying his aircraft into a mountainside. Short of getting into Prince’s computers, there was no way of corroborating the speculation. He would give the evidence to the FBI and let them handle it.

The irony, he thought.

Even without accusations of murder, the article was enough to bag him a big prize. A Pulitzer at the least. Once it ran, all hell would break loose. Tank could count on being busy for months on end, years possibly, covering all the stories sure to fall out. He felt like a hero in a World War II movie, the intrepid soldier who finds a detonation cord hidden in the sand and, with no care for his welfare, laboriously pulls it clear and follows wherever it might lead.

He could already hear Al Soletano apologizing: “You know, Tank, I was out of line when I called you a has-been. You weren’t ever just a decent reporter. You were a great one. Let’s forget all this nonsense about downsizing. The paper wants you back.”

Tank enjoyed the thought. Frankly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted his job back. He might just freelance, pull down a hefty book contract, and hang out his shingle as a roving investigative journalist.

He limped to the closet and dug around for some clean clothes, settling for a pair of Wranglers with mud on the cuffs and a flannel shirt that smelled of mothballs. He splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. It had been a long couple of days. Even so, he was shocked at his appearance. He looked as if he’d been pulled through a cotton gin one inch at a time.

Averting his gaze, he finished buttoning up his shirt and picked up the article and his notes and laid them on the tablet. With care, he yanked the flash drive clear, popped it back into the key. Without the key, it was all hearsay. Without the key, Tank Potter was a dead man.

Still thirsty, he opened a cabinet hoping to find a Coke or a root beer. Something to pep him up. There were no soft drinks, but there on the top shelf, pushed almost out of his sight, rested two small wooden crates. He stood on his tiptoes, his heart racing. Tequila. And not the Cuervo Gold he kept in the Jeep as his backstop, but Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia, a royal elixir that went for over $100 a bottle.

Tank sank down to his feet. Suddenly the pain in his side was unbearable. The past days’ travails weighed down on him. He thought of confronting Edward Mason at the airport, of discovering Carlos Cantu’s disfigured body, and of firing two shells into McNair’s chest. Any man would need a drink after going through all that.

Just one shot to steady his nerves and kill the pain in his gut.

And yet…He hesitated. As much as he desired a sip-just one-he knew he should walk out the door this second, climb into the Ferrari, and drive like hell into Austin. It was his job to get proof to the authorities. His life depended on it, and so did Mary’s.

Go. Now.

Strangely, his feet had turned into lead weights.

He reminded himself that he was a journalist. He had an obligation to the truth.

Even so, his hand reached high and took hold of one of the wooden boxes. He lowered it carefully…$100 a bottle…and carried it to the sink. He was on autopilot now. He didn’t think about getting proof to the authorities or about Mary. The fact that he was a journalist-and a damned good one-meant nothing to him.

He needed a few minutes to pry open the crate, free the bottle, and pop the cork. The smell nearly drove him to his knees. He found a glass and poured a sip, and then more than a sip, licking his lips greedily as the amber fluid filled the glass.

Reverently he raised the glass to his mouth. “Salud,” he said, to Mary and Al Soletano and even Pedro. “We got ’em.”

Only then did he hear a car driving across the scattered gravel. The engine quit. A car door slammed. Footsteps on the porch. A knock on the door.

“Mr. Potter. FBI. Please come out.”

Tank looked around the cabin. There was nowhere to run. He hid the key in the only place he knew.

“Open up, Mr. Potter.”

Tank opened the door. He recognized the agent at once. He’d seen him just the night before. Only then he hadn’t been holding a pistol. “You?” he said.

Special Agent Fergus Keefe shot him in the right knee. Tank toppled to the floor, grasping his leg.

Keefe stepped over him into the cabin. “I believe that the automobile parked out front belongs to us.”

90

Rudeboy 17, Ninjaneers 16.

With ten minutes remaining, it was down to two teams. First to capture twenty flags won. It had been back-and-forth the entire game. Every time Jess and her teammates captured a flag, Rudeboy would steal it back.

“Tell Defense to sharpen his game,” said Jess. “There aren’t enough vulns left to win if we keep losing our flags.”

She cracked her knuckles and took a swig of Mountain Dew. She was beating Rudeboy on the attack, capturing two flags to his one. But her team was having little luck preventing him from stealing them back. She saw her dad in front of the TV watching a Celtics game. “It’s defense that wins games,” he always said.

A cheer went up from the crowd. Another flag for Rudeboy.

She caught Max looking expectantly at her. We’re counting on you. A cameraman shined a light in her face. “Get lost,” she shouted.

The last problem flashed onto her screen. Immediately she knew she was in trouble. It was like nothing she’d seen before. She needed a full minute just to read the entire code. Nothing clicked. She scanned it again, feeling more lost than before. None of it made sense.

She glanced up to find Garrett staring right at her, fists clenched, urging her on. She returned her attention to the screen and then she saw it…something familiar…She didn’t know what it meant, but she felt as if she’d taken a step closer. And then she had it.

Jessie picked up her phone and pulled up the snippet of code left behind by the person who’d deleted her father’s message. She compared it to the problem and saw that she was correct. The two codes matched exactly except for a sequence on the final line. There it was-the vuln.

“Got one,” she called out, highlighting the error and sending it to Research.

“It’s a variant on Linux,” he said. “Did one like it at Caltech last year. Telecommunications protocol. We were hacking into the phone company.”

Jessie jumped from her chair and took a seat with Defense. “Move it,” she said, squeezing closer so she had a clear view of his screen. “Look,” she said. “He’s breaking in through the black matrix.”

It was Rudeboy, infiltrating their system. She blocked him with a cross-dominant strix. Easy enough. While he was figuring out what had happened, she accessed his board and found a chink. A minute later she’d stolen one of his flags. “Got one back.”

Ninjaneers 18, Rudeboy 18.

“Solved it,” said Research.

For the first time their team took the lead.

Ninjaneers 19, Rudeboy 18.

But a second later another cheer erupted as Rudeboy picked up another flag.

“Hit me with some Skittles,” said Jess.

Max dumped a mound in her palm and she threw them all into her mouth. Chewing ferociously, she went back to her original seat. “Steal one of his flags,” she called over her shoulder.

“Working on it!”

There was one flag remaining to be won. It all came down to who would spot the last vuln first and solve it.

Jessie ran her fingernails across the desk as she studied the next batch of code. Telecommunications protocol wasn’t her area of expertise. She didn’t care about hacking into phones. She liked hacking into networks, mainframes.

“One minute,” announced the referee over the loudspeaker.

If the game ended now, it would be a tie. A tie wasn’t good enough. Not when she was so close to giving the Ninjaneers their first victory. Not when she was so close to beating Rudeboy.

“Did you get it?”

“He’s blocking me. Did you?”

Jessie couldn’t answer. She needed time to work it out. Stay calm. Concentrate. It’ll come.

A cheer from the audience. She glanced up. Rudeboy had captured his twentieth flag. She ran back to Defense and shoved him out of his chair. Their only hope was to steal one of Rudeboy’s flags back.

The crowd began to count down the last twenty seconds. “Twenty…nineteen…”

Jessie was aware of Max and the others huddled behind her. Time and again she attempted to penetrate Rudeboy’s board, only to be blocked.

Ten…nine…

And there it was-wide open, a hole she could drive a truck through. She typed in the solution. Just a few more seconds…

Six…five…

She finished the last word and hit Return. She’d done it. She’d nailed Rudeboy. She’d stolen his flag. It would be a tie.

Two…one…

The air horn sounded, signifying the end of competition. Jessie stood from her chair. The scoreboard remained unchanged. Rudeboy 20, Ninjaneers 19.

“But I got it,” she said. “I broke through his defense. I captured his flag.”

“No,” said Max. “Typo in the last word.”

“What?” Jessie sat down and looked at her work. Max was right. She’d typed a c in place of an x. It was her fault all over again. “Crap!”

The Ninjaneers collapsed in their chairs, despondent. No one said a word to her. She’d made them believe they could win, and she’d let them down.

The crowd poured out of the stands. She glimpsed Rudeboy moving past the judges, disregarding the referee’s outstretched hand, ignoring all attempts to congratulate him as he skirted the podium toward the exit.

Now or never.

Jess slid over the table and made her way through the crowd. She had to speak with him. She’d come so close. One flag. It was all because of a typo.

In the hall she saw the black hoodie again. She hurried toward him, breaking into a jog, carving a path through the spectators leaving the ballroom. She turned a corner and saw him by the elevator, hands in his pockets, back to her.

She stopped and steeled herself, squaring her shoulders. She had practiced what she was going to say a hundred times and now she couldn’t remember a word. “Whatever, Jess, just talk to him,” she muttered.

A hand landed on her shoulder.

“Jessie!”

She spun. Her stomach dropped. Not now. Not here. “Mom? You came?”

“I’ve been at the police station for hours. I keep calling Garrett, but he isn’t answering. Didn’t you get my messages? Are you okay?”

Jessie nodded. She wanted to say that she was fine and that she’d almost won Capture the Flag-one stupid typo!-but there wasn’t time.

“We need to leave,” said Mary. “I’m just so glad you’re here and I found you.” She put out her arms, and Jessie saw that she had tears in her eyes. Backpedaling, Jessie avoided the hug. She glanced over her shoulder to see the elevator opening and Rudeboy stepping inside.

“Not now. Sorry, but I have to-”

“Jess, stay-no!”

Jessie pushed her mother away and ran.

She made it into the packed elevator as the doors closed.

91

“Where is it?” demanded Keefe.

Lying on his side, Tank stared at the swirls in the wood floor. Shot twice in one day, he was thinking. My luck has got to get better.

“Was it in the car?” Keefe went on. “Mr. Mason can’t see any other reason for you and Grant’s wife to do something so patently stupid as steal a piece of government property in the middle of the night. He thinks the files Stark stole were hidden in the car key. He said it had to be on a flash drive or something similar. Where is she, by the way?”

“I don’t know. Gone. An hour ago.”

“We’ll come back to that. Right now I need the key or whatever device Stark put the stolen information onto.”

“How did you find me?” asked Tank.

“Newfangled invention called LoJack. Just about every car over twenty grand has been carrying one for the past ten years.”

“I haven’t been in the market lately.”

Keefe shut and locked the door, then knelt to pat down Tank, removing his wallet and dropping all his credit cards on the floor. Finding nothing, he stood and walked the perimeter of the cabin. He stopped at the kitchen table, where he read the article. “Nice work,” he said. “Joe Grant would have had a field day with this. He’d finally have gotten the promotion to D.C. he wanted. Then again, maybe not. He was too good at his job to be put behind a desk.” Keefe studied the tablet on which Tank had backed up all of Stark’s files. “And here you are, way out here without an Internet connection.”

“Not even dial-up,” said Tank.

Keefe picked up the glass of tequila and drank half of it down. “A little early, but then again, I don’t usually shoot anyone before noon.” Then he was kneeling in front of Tank again. “So are you going to cooperate or not?”

Tank closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the floor. “Not.”

Keefe put the gun to Tank’s left knee and fired. “IRA used to do that. They call it kneecapping someone. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Tank couldn’t speak. He knew only agony.

Keefe finished the tequila and put the glass in the sink. “You know,” he said, “it doesn’t really matter whether I get the key or not. It only matters that no one else finds it. But if I do leave without it, everyone upstairs is going to think Mary Grant has it. We don’t know where she is at the moment, but I don’t imagine she can stay hidden for long. So if you don’t have the information Stark stole, we’ll have no choice but to assume she does.”

Tank began to cry. It wasn’t the pain so much as the disappointment-the despair of it all.

“In the typewriter,” he said. “The key is in the typewriter.”

Keefe retrieved the key to the LaFerrari. “Clever bastard,” he said as he popped the flash drive. “Just so you know, we’re going to kill Mary and her daughters anyway. Mr. Mason doesn’t like loose ends. Neither does Ian Prince.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Keefe stood over Tank and pointed the gun at his head. “And how do you propose to stop us?”

92

The elevator was hot and crowded. Jessie stood with her face pressed against the door, hemmed in on all sides. She was aware of Rudeboy somewhere behind her, but there were too many people to speak to him here. The elevator stopped repeatedly, disgorging passengers. The last two left at the twenty-first floor. The doors closed and she had her wish. She was alone with Rudeboy.

“Um…,” she began, facing him, smiling. “Good game.”

Rudeboy kept his head lowered, saying nothing.

“I was on the Ninjaneers. We needed better defense.”

Still no response.

Jess turned back toward the front, every atom of her wanting to shrivel up and die.

The elevator continued to the penthouses. The door opened and Rudeboy brushed past her. Jess followed. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a second. I don’t know how you manage to do attack, research, and defense all at once. That’s awesome.”

Jessie cringed. She sounded like a total fangirl.

“I actually came to play against you,” she went on blindly, hurrying to keep up. “I thought if I won, you might talk to me. You see, I have this problem. It’s about a hack. I can’t figure it out on my own. Even my TA couldn’t make sense of it. Whoever did it is, like, super-smart. In fact, I don’t know who else to ask.”

They’d come to the end of the hall.

The presidential suite.

Jessie stood back as Rudeboy slid his card key through the lock and opened the door. She caught a glimpse of marble and lots of plants and an aquarium that looked like Sea World. Rudeboy walked inside, leaving the door open. Jessie poked her head into the suite, not daring to enter. “Please,” she said, begging but not begging. “It’s about my family. My dad, really. I need your help.”

Rudeboy turned around. For the first time she got a clear look at his face. Dark, deep-set eyes; a small twitchy mouth, the lips sickeningly red, inflamed.

“Come in,” he said. “Shut the door.”

Jessie stepped inside and closed the door. The aquarium formed a wall between the entry and a living area that looked as large as her home on Pickfair Drive. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view over the Las Vegas strip and beyond.

“So you want to talk to Rudeboy?” he said.

Jessie nodded. Weird question. Obviously.

“He’s in there.” Rudeboy, or the person she’d thought was Rudeboy, pointed to a doorway.

“But aren’t you-”

The door opened. A man she’d seen a thousand times on television and on the Net walked toward her. “Hello, Jessie,” he said. “Brilliant play. You almost had me.”

“One letter,” said Jess.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” said Ian Prince.

“You’re Rudeboy?”

“Seven years running.”

“But you weren’t on the floor.”

“It’s difficult. Too much attention. My associate takes my place. He helps a bit, but I feed him the answers. You’re a gifted player, young lady. Maybe one day you’ll work for me.”

“That would be cool.”

“After all, we both live in Austin.”

Jessie was confused, off balance. It was too much to take in. Ian Prince was five feet away, talking to her. The hotel suite was insane, and there was a shark in the aquarium. “How did you know my name?”

“I know all about you. I know you love Led Zeppelin. Me, too. Favorite song?”

“ ‘Heartbreaker.’ ”

“Mine’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”

Weak answer, but Jessie wasn’t going to say anything.

Prince went on. “I know that you’re taking a summer school class at UT and that you have a younger sister named Grace. I also know that you both adore sloths.”

“Sorry, but you’re kind of creeping me out.”

“And I know that you recently lost your father. I’m sorry.”

Before Jessie could say anything, there was a sharp knock on the door. Ian Prince said, “Excuse me,” then walked to the entryway. “Come in,” he said, opening the door and throwing out a welcoming arm. “This is a surprise.”

Jessie’s mom entered the suite. Behind her was a slim, rough-looking man with a blond crew cut.

“Mom? What are you doing up here?”

Mary Grant didn’t answer. “Let her go,” she said to Ian Prince.

“So nice to finally meet you. I feel as though I know you already.”

Jessie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Mom, what is this? How do you know Ian Prince?”

“Your father did. Be quiet now, Jessie.”

Jessie backed up a step. She had no idea what was going on, only that she’d never seen her mother look so upset.

Ian Prince dropped his hand. “Close the door, Peter,” he said to the tough-looking blond guy. “Mary and I need to have a chat.”

93

“This doesn’t have to end badly. As long as I have what I need, I see no reason why we can’t go back to how things were.”

Mary sat in a low-backed leather chair facing Ian Prince in the library on the second floor of the presidential suite. “My husband is dead. You had him killed. Things can’t go back to how they were.”

“You have no money. No savings. Your credit is ruined. You have a stack of medical bills as high as a mountain. And now Grace is back in hospital in the company of a guardian-a Mrs. Kramer, whose credit card you used to book your flight to Las Vegas. Don’t ask me how I know.”

Mary contained her fear. He knew because he knew everything. She looked into Prince’s eyes, part of her questioning whether he was even human. The easy smile, the flawless complexion, the sparkling eyes and lustrous hair. He radiated health, well-being, yet it was somehow artificial, not entirely lifelike.

“I’m prepared to rectify these unfortunate reversals,” he went on. “Your checking account will be refunded. Ditto your savings. Additionally, I’ll pay Grace’s hospital bills to the penny. I’ll even provide you with a generous cushion to find your footing after so difficult a loss.” He put out a hand to touch her knee. “I only want the best for you.”

Mary knocked the hand away. “You should have thought of that before you had Joe killed.”

Ian Prince chuckled, as if this were a misunderstanding between friends. “Edward Mason told me you were stubborn.”

“He has no idea.”

The look in Ian Prince’s eyes changed. A light went out. “Of course, there’s also the matter of your husband’s pension,” he said.

“What about it?” With all their money stolen from the bank, Joe’s pension was all they had. Mary had calculated it to be a little more than $3,000 a month. If Edward Mason made good on his promise of a posthumous raise to Senior Executive Service, the amount would rise to nearly $5,000. The pension was their only remaining safety net.

“If I’m to understand correctly, the FBI considers drug or alcohol use in the course of duty as a punishable offense. Joe spent some time at Hazelden, did he not? A sixty-day course of treatment, lengthened to ninety owing to the severity of his addictions…plural. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. Even marijuana.”

“Joe hadn’t drunk or used in two and a half years. It started because of an accident at work. He ruptured a verterbra-”

“Lifting a filing cabinet while removing evidence,” said Ian Prince. “I know, I know. These things often start in the most innocuous ways. Still, Edward Mason informed me that an analysis of his blood work at the time of death is standard. Should the FBI find any abnormalities, they’ll be well within their rights to decrease his pension, if not to cancel it altogether.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“We’re far past threats, Mary.” And then Ian smiled. The light in his eyes went back on. “Regarding Grace, I nearly forgot to tell you. I’ve found a promising physician in Houston who can look after her, a Dr. Shender, at the MD Anderson clinic. A leader in his field. Brilliant.”

“Grace is fine.”

“So you told me. And I’d love for Jessie to come work for us at ONE. She’s a natural. Just like I was at her age. We can start with an internship next summer. Of course we’ll pay her college tuition and for any graduate studies she might wish to pursue. A full ride. Expenses, too.”

“No, thank you,” said Mary. “That won’t be necessary.”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that you’re in a position to turn me down.”

“I believe I am.”

“Really?”

Mary leaned closer. “Another thing the FBI frowns upon is bribery. You paid Edward Mason ten million dollars to stop my husband’s investigation into Merriweather Systems. And then there’s the matter of your hacking into the FBI’s mainframes, not to mention the original accusations of extortion against Merriweather shareholders. Don’t ask me how I know.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“We’re far past threats, Ian. I have all of Hal Stark’s files. Everything he copied from your computers to give to Joe. Any minute my associate will deliver an article to the newspaper, along with copies of the files detailing the crimes you committed.” Mary stood and picked up her purse. “I would advise Edward Mason to leave my husband’s blood as it is and not to mess with it in any way, shape, or form. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs and taking my daughter.”

As Mary left the room, Ian Prince’s head of security entered. “I believe we’ve met,” said Mary as he passed her. “Last night. My place. I was the one with the steel bowl.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Doubtful.”

Mary continued downstairs to where Jessie sat on the couch, working on her laptop alongside the man with the deep-set eyes. “Come on, peanut. We’re out of here.”

“We’re just talking about the code I found on your phone. This is Greg. He went to MIT. He totally explained it to me.”

“Hello, Greg. I’m impressed.” Mary took Jessie’s hand and yanked her off the couch. “We’re going home.”

Jessie pulled her hand free. “Okay. You don’t have to be so aggro.” She looked at Greg from MIT. “Thanks for showing me that. I didn’t see it on GitHub anywhere.”

“Too bad about the typo.” Greg smiled, and Mary thought he looked like a hyena. More than ever she wanted to get away from Ian Prince.

“I have to get my laptop,” said Jessie. “I left it in the ballroom. I hope Garrett is taking care of it.”

“Fine. Let’s just go.”

Ian Prince had come down the stairs and was standing near the aquarium. His bodyguard walked past him toward Mary. “You should have kept your mouth closed,” he said in the South African accent she’d heard the night before.

Mary didn’t see the blow coming. She felt something hard and unyielding strike her jaw. Her vision blurred. The next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, blood filling her mouth. Jessie was shouting and then she wasn’t. Strong hands pulled Mary to her feet. She saw Jess on the couch, doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her “friend,” Greg from MIT, stood above her.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Ian Prince. “Mr. Mason informs me that your friend Mr. Potter has been killed. The FBI is in possession of the evidence you alluded to. A car key. Points to Hal Stark for thinking of it-or was it your husband’s idea? Either way, very clever indeed.” He looked at his bodyguard. “Mr. Briggs, I believe we’re done here.” He approached Mary. “You should have taken my offer while you had the chance. I’m afraid it’s off the table now.”

Mary spat a wad of blood and saliva into his face. “That’s what I think of your offer.”

Ian recoiled, brushing the spit from his face. “You could never have stopped my work,” he said. “I’m the future.”

“God, I hope not.”

Ian walked from the suite.

Briggs guided Mary to a chair and sat her down. He drew a pair of flex cuffs from his jacket and fastened her wrists in front of her, then placed a length of duct tape over her mouth. Jess bolted from the couch, trying for the door. Greg tackled her and held her until Briggs cuffed and taped her, too.

“Wait until dark,” said Briggs to Greg from MIT. “We’ll send someone to help out. Until then, they’re yours. Just don’t make a mess.”

94

Tank Potter was not dead yet. He lay on the floor of his cabin in a netherworld of pain.

Standing above him, Fergus Keefe finished his call. “Hear that, Potter? Directions from the boss himself. Eliminate all loose ends. That means you, my friend.”

Tank turned onto his back. “A drink. One last one.”

“You wouldn’t rather say your prayers?”

“He and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

Keefe poured two fingers of tequila into the glass and returned. “This is good stuff. I won’t argue with you there.”

“A buck a bottle.”

“No shit. Hope you don’t mind if I help myself to the other one.” Keefe propped Tank up and put the glass to his mouth. Tank tried to take a sip, but the tequila no longer smelled so enticing. It came to him that if he hadn’t stopped to take a drink, he would have gotten away. Right now he’d be driving somewhere near Hutto with the article on the seat beside him and Hal Stark’s files safe and sound on the key and the tablet. He thought of Mary and her girls and knew that Keefe, or someone like him, would be visiting them very soon.

With the last of his strength, he pushed the glass away.

“What is it?” said Keefe.

“I can’t,” said Tank.

Keefe shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He drank down the tequila with relish, then stood. “You ready?”

Tank laid his head down. For the first time in many a year, he prayed. He prayed for Mary and her girls. He prayed that Ian Prince and Edward Mason would die terrible deaths. And he prayed for forgiveness. It didn’t take long.

“Now’s as good a time as any.”

There was the hollow thump of footsteps on the porch. Keefe moved eagerly toward the door. “Who’s that? Mary Grant still here?”

Keefe raised his pistol and yanked the door open. Tank saw his eyes widen. There was a terrific, ear-splitting noise. Fergus Keefe dropped to the floor as a hail of machine-gun bullets tore up his chest.

Don Bennett advanced into the cabin, firing a second burst into Keefe’s prone body.

“Not you, too,” said Tank, his heart sinking.

Bennett knelt at Tank’s side. “Hang on,” he said. “We’ll have an ambulance here soon.”

An older man with shaggy gray hair and a belly followed. He picked up the key to the LaFerrari off the floor. “This it?” asked Randy Bell.

“Is it, Potter?”

Tank nodded. “It’s all there.”

Bennett shouted for Bell to get a first-aid kit out of the car, then returned his attention to Tank. “I’m sure we’ll read about it in the paper.”

But by then Tank wasn’t interested in the paper or in writing an article that would win him the Pulitzer Prize or in pulling down a hefty book contract. He took hold of Bennett’s arm. “Find Mary.”

95

The Mole touched the blade to the pouch of flesh below Jessie’s eye. Her skin was so smooth. She was pure. Untouched.

“Stand up. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your mother.”

He saw the hate in her eyes and he felt himself stir. The Mole pushed the point against the skin. He saw fear, too, and this excited him more.

Jessie stood.

“Go into the bedroom.”

Mary Grant rose to her feet and charged. The Mole kicked her and she fell backward over the coffee table. He was on her in a second, the knife puncturing her neck, a rivulet of blood besmirching the blade. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. If I hear you, I’ll bury my knife in your baby girl’s belly so deep it won’t ever come out. And then I’ll bury it in yours.”

The Mole flipped the knife in his hand and brought the weighted handle down on her forehead, shutting those pleading eyes. He had plans for Mary, too.

He stood and pushed Jessie forward toward the bed.

He closed the door behind them. But not all the way. If Mary Grant made a noise, he’d be listening.

–

Seconds after the door closed, Mary struggled to her feet. She was dazed, nothing more. If anything, the pain acted as a prod. She slid off her shoes and glided soundlessly across the room to where her purse lay on the floor. She got to her knees and opened it, and her bound hands delved inside, pushing aside her wallet, the envelope containing $36,000 before finding the grip of the nickel-plated.38 revolver. An old-fashioned Saturday night special-$295 at the Pawn Stars shop.

She freed the pistol and, using both thumbs, cocked the hammer. Step by step she advanced toward the bedroom. Her neck was bleeding terribly, leaving a crimson trail on the marble floor. The door stood open an inch. She saw his naked buttocks. She moved faster. She would not allow anyone to hurt her daughter.

–

She was beautiful.

She was his.

The Mole held his phone in his left hand and the knife in his right. He wanted to film his first time. He looked forward to watching it again and again. Watching was better.

Jessie lay on the bed as he’d told her. He approached warily, ready for any outburst. He slipped the knife beneath the Ninjaneers T-shirt and cut it open down the center of her chest.

“That’s right,” he said. “Stay still and look at the camera.”

He drew nearer, smelling her, wanting all of her.

Jessie kicked out at him. He dodged her blows easily, pressing the knife against her.

“Now take the other shirt off,” he said.

He wanted to kiss her, too, but he couldn’t risk taking off the tape. He’d kiss her later, when she was still warm.

Jessie didn’t move, and he nicked her cheek.

“Next time it’ll hurt more.”

Jessie pulled off her shirt and looked away.

“Eyes open, Jess,” he said. “I want you to see everything.”

Later, when he watched, he wanted to see the life drain out of her eyes.

The Mole laid the knife against her bra, then slid it lower, against her jeans. He felt powerful, in control. He was in charge, no one else. Not Briggs. Not Ian Prince. The world was doing as he commanded, no differently than if he’d programmed its every action.

“Now these.”

Jessie tugged off her pants. He looked into her eyes as he touched her. A flicker of fear, of apprehension. And then the fear vanished. He caught a reflection in her iris, a flash of movement behind him.

Jessie wrenched her head to one side and squeezed her eyes shut.

Something hard and cold touched the base of his skull.

The Mole began to protest, desperately needing to see who was behind him, who was disobeying his program.

There was a bright light. The sun.

Then darkness.

96

Mary held Jessie in her arms and let her cry until there were no more tears.

“How’s Grace?” was the first thing her daughter asked. “She sent me a message saying she was going to the hospital.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“But you’re here with me.”

Mary nodded. “Of course I am.”

At this, Jessie began crying anew. “I love you, Mama,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

Mary had moved Jess back to the living area. The door to the bedroom was closed.

Jessie sobbed a last time and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was coming. I knew you’d say no.”

“You were right. But we can talk about that later, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And about that e-cigarette, young lady…”

Jessie drew back. “You looked in my desk?”

“Jess.”

“It’s okay. I know you were just worried.” She sat up straighter. “So why are you here? Why does Ian Prince want to hurt us? Is this because of Dad?”

“Dad was investigating him,” said Mary. “Ian Prince had your father killed to stop him.”

It took Mary ten minutes to tell Jessie everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours. She left nothing out. She spoke to Jessie as if she were an adult because that’s the way the admiral would have spoken to her. In a few months Jessie would be sixteen. If she was anything like her mother, she was as good as gone the moment she passed her driver’s test. There comes a point when you have to let go. Mary wasn’t ready yet, but she didn’t have a say in the matter.

“Tank really killed that guy?” Jessie asked afterward, needing to process all she’d heard.

“He had to. That guy was going to kill me.”

“And you really hit Briggs over the head with our steel bowl?”

“I had to.”

“Holy crap,” said Jessie. “My mom’s Wonder Woman.”

“No,” said Mary, “just your mom. That’s enough.”

“But how does Ian Prince know so much about me?”

“Somehow he hacked into our computer and got hold of our passwords. I guess he was able to see everything.”

“He took all our money.”

“For now, at least.”

“That’s fucked,” said Jessie. “Sorry, but it is.”

“You’re right,” said Mary. “It’s really fucked.”

“Mom!”

“I thought I was Wonder Woman.”

“Wonder Woman does not have a potty mouth.” Jessie buried her head in Mary’s shoulder. After a minute or so, she began to laugh. “What is it?” asked Mary.

“I have an idea.”

“What about?”

“I know how he hacked into our computer.”

“Oh?”

“I told Grace not to open messages from people she didn’t know.” Jessie got up off the couch, moved to a desk, took a seat, and tapped away at Greg from MIT’s laptop.

“What are you doing?” asked Mary.

Jessie didn’t look up. “Getting even.”

97

Ian Prince was exultant.

Semaphore was behind him. Mary Grant was no longer a worry. As important, Titan was up and running.

Back in Austin and seated contentedly at his desk, he opened the software designed by David Gold and Menachem Wolkowicz and the brain trust at Clarus, his Praetorian Guard. He logged in for the first time, creating a username and password. Seconds later he was inside.

Clarus was already hard at work, shadowing Titan’s every iteration. The NSA had wasted no time in feeding intercepts for decryption. Ian counted over fifty thousand documents in the queue. The intercepts were grouped by geopolitical source and prioritized from one to three stars, three being the most important. There were requests from Europe, Asia, the Middle East. The requests came from all the NSA’s “customers”: the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, MI6, and many, many more.

Ian went directly to the economics directorate, specifically, to the U.S. corporate subsection, and then to “Internet.” He was rewarded with a cornucopia of intercepts from his largest competitors. There was news of pending mergers, of contracts with foreign governments, of new product development. It was an all-seeing eye into every CEO’s suite, their research laboratories, their strategic planning.

Ian knew better than to act rashly. For now there was nothing to do except harvest, store, and study. He planned on remaining invisible for years to come. Knowledge, even for its own sake, was power.

He gazed across the office at the black satchel. Nearly twenty-six years ago to the day, his father had disappeared. As soon as he familiarized himself with the system, he could peek into British intelligence’s files. He had little hope of finding anything within the files of the British Foreign Office. Documents dating from 1989 would be far down the list to be digitized and placed on the Net. Records from secondary consulates in Bruges and Leipzig would figure at the bottom of those.

MI6 was a different story. Ian knew he’d find everything he needed there. The problem was that the U.K. was the United States’ sacrosanct partner. The countries exchanged information on a “per request” basis. MI6 was a customer of the NSA, just as the CIA was a customer of GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters, the NSA’s counterpart in Cheltenham, England. They did not spy on each other. Getting into MI6 would merely be a question of learning proper protocol for these exchanges. Nothing beyond his skill set. Not with Titan at his beck and call.

Ian pushed his chair back, crossed his office, and took a seat next to the satchel. He made an oath to his father that he would uncover his service record and let the world know of his accomplishments.

“Boss.” He glanced up to find Peter Briggs in his office. “You wanted to see me.”

“It won’t take long. Everything under control?”

“Last I heard from Mason, his man had recovered the flash drive. I have confirmation that the Mole took care of our problem in Vegas. Our men should be at the hotel presently. The situation is tied off, once and for all.”

“Good,” said Ian. “Seems like the right moment, then. I’m letting you go, Peter.”

“Pardon me?”

“I can’t have my chief of security going behind my back and disobeying me. Your job is to protect me, not get me into trouble.”

“What are you referring to?”

“That nasty knot on your head, to begin with. As I was doing some work last night, I happened to see you at Mary Grant’s home. You know how that works. I heard you speaking to the Mole about Mr. McNair. I told you to leave her alone.”

“I was only trying to cover your back. You’re a busy man. Sometimes you get…removed from how things really are.”

“I ordered you not to lay a finger on Mary Grant or her children. You disobeyed me. There’s nothing more to say except goodbye.”

“You’re letting me go-with all I know?”

“You’ve been paid handsomely. A call to Edward Mason will quiet any accusations should you be that stupid.”

“I took care of Merriweather and Joe Grant. Without me, you’d never have gotten the contract with the NSA.”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

But Briggs didn’t leave. He unbuttoned his jacket and advanced on Ian, his ruddy face flushed nearly crimson. He eyed the satchel mockingly. “Find anything about your father yet?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Or is it that you don’t want to look too hard?”

“What are you getting at?”

“All the time you spend staring at this silly case, daydreaming about him. Come off it, Ian, you know better. He wasn’t a secret agent. He was a drunk. He drowned facedown in his own puke in a gutter outside a Brussels whorehouse.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ask your mother.”

“We don’t speak.”

“She told you the truth twenty years ago.”

“She was lying. She hated him.”

“With good reason.” Briggs picked up the satchel. “I looked, too. On my own. I wanted to help you find out the truth. She told me everything. About the gambling. The fights. Mostly about the drinking. Still, I wanted to believe you. Most women are skags anyway. But it’s all there in the Belgian police’s files. I’ll be sure to leave you copies on my way out.”

Ian grabbed the satchel away from Briggs. “He wasn’t a drunk. It was cover. He was an agent with MI6. He was killed while on duty. They never found the body.”

Briggs was laughing at him. “Of course they did, only your mother refused to claim it. The British government refused as well. Do you know why? Because your father had been sacked six months before. Your dear old dad’s buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field, or whatever they call it over there.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Briggs jabbed his finger into Ian’s chest. “I’m going to tell the world, Ian. I’m going to tell everyone the truth about Peter fucking Prince. Everyone’s going to know what a drunken lowlife your father was.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Bank on it.”

Ian shot him. Peter Briggs staggered back a step. Ian dropped the satchel, the Walther gripped in his right hand. He fired again. Briggs fell. He was dead before he hit the floor. “Banked.”

The crack of the gunshots brought Ian to his senses. His rage vanished. Self-preservation took hold. He kneeled and freed Briggs’s pistol from his holster and placed it in his hand. It was a matter of self-defense. Anyone could see it.

He waited for his assistants to come running to his aid, but it was nearly eight and everyone had gone home. No one had heard the shots. He walked to his desk and called Edward Mason. He would tell him that Briggs had been threatening to go to the authorities. Mason would send someone. They were all in this together. There was no other choice.

The call rolled to voicemail. “Ed, this is Ian. Call me. It’s an emergency.”

Ian put his pistol in his top drawer, then returned to the body. Briggs was single. He had no family in the city. No one would miss him for days. Maybe it wouldn’t come to self-defense. There was ample time to dispose of the body. Maybe he could even tie it to Mary Grant somehow.

His personal line rang. Eight o’clock meant it was the daily call from his children in Los Angeles. The timing couldn’t be better. He would say he had been talking with his family when Briggs was killed. Ian turned the camera away from Briggs and positioned himself in front of the lens.

“Hello there,” he said with false merriment.

The screen came to life. He saw his boys, Tristan and Trevor, in the kitchen of the home in Bel-Air.

“Dad, Dad,” Tristan, the younger boy, was shouting. “We’ve got a surprise.”

Ian did his best to smile. “Really? What’s that?”

“We know you said no more animals, but this one was special.”

“Another one? What is it this time? Not another dog?”

“Just wait, Dad,” said Trevor. “You’re going to freak. It’s so cool.”

“Take a guess,” said Tristan.

“I don’t know…a cat.”

“Of course not.”

“A snake?”

“It’s easy, Dad. I mean, you sent us that video for a reason.”

“Did I? Which one was that?”

Just then Tristan picked up the animal and held it in his arms. It was large and furry, with great big claws and sad black eyes. “Say hi to Joey. He’s a three-toed South American tree sloth.”

“A sloth?” said Ian, blinking, sure he was imagining this.

“Don’t be mad,” Tristan went on. “Isn’t that why you sent us the video of the sloth trying to climb out of the crib? You knew we couldn’t resist.”

It was the video he’d sent to the Grant girls, to which he’d attached the malware. But how in the world had his sons received it?

“You’re sure I sent it to you?”

“Yeah, Dad,” said Trevor. “We know better than to open messages that come from strangers.”

“I made Mom go to the exotic pet store in Beverly Hills. Don’t you think he’s cute?”

Ian dashed to his computer. If they’d downloaded the video of the sloth, they’d imported the malware. The family’s machines were networked. The malware would grant a user free rein inside all of them-desktops, laptops, tablets. It would be simplicity itself to locate his passwords and access his files, both personal and professional. There was no telling what someone might find.

Ian logged on to his e-mail and saw that it was true: he had sent them the video. Or rather, the person who had hacked into his computer had sent it from Ian’s account.

He drew a breath, wondering how this had happened. How all of it had happened.

A shriek came from somewhere in the kitchen behind the boys. “Ian!”

It was his wife, Wendy. She came through the butler’s pantry, clutching her laptop, the screen open. “What have you done? It’s everywhere.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Is it real? Tell me, Ian, is it?” Wendy aimed the laptop at the camera, but he could see the images only faintly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Did you shoot him? Did you?”

“Shoot who?”

“Briggs! Did you?” Wendy was bawling hysterically, screaming at the boys to get out of the kitchen.

Ian brought up Rivalfox, a website devoted to the highest-trending topics and personalities on the Web. To his horror, his name was ranked first. He double-clicked on his name and was given a link to a video on YouTube titled “Ian Prince Murders Peter Briggs in cold blood.”

He hit Play, and there he was, standing in his office, speaking with Peter Briggs only five minutes earlier.

“He wasn’t a spy,” Briggs was saying. “He was a drunk.”

Ian froze as the rest of the encounter played out, filmed in high definition by the camera in his desktop.

“Your dear old dad’s buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field, or whatever they call it over there.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Briggs jabbed his finger into Ian’s chest. “I’m going to tell the world, Ian. I’m going to tell everyone the truth about Peter fucking Prince. Everyone’s going to know what a drunken lowlife your father was.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Bank on it.”

Ian shot him. Peter Briggs staggered back a step. Ian dropped the satchel, the Walther gripped in his right hand. He fired again. Briggs fell. He was dead before he hit the floor.

“Banked,” said Ian.

He looked away from the screen. Only one person could have done this: Jessie Grant. He’d sent her the sloth video, too. She possessed the skills. She’d nearly defeated him at Capture the Flag. But she was dead in a Vegas hotel room. Briggs had confirmed it.

Or was she?

Ian refreshed the page. The views were increasing exponentially.

2,000…10,000…100,000.

The video was going viral.

The entire world was watching.

“Ian, is this real?” Wendy Prince continued to shout. “Ian!”

He ended the call.

From afar he heard a siren, and then another. He hurried to the window. A dozen unmarked cars were barreling over the Meadow toward his office.

His phone rang. Edward Mason.

“Ed, hello, thank God you called. There are-”

“Mr. Prince, my name is Dylan Walsh. I’m chief of the Cyber Investigations Division at the FBI. Edward Mason is presently in custody. Our agents have surrounded your office. We ask that you surrender yourself immediately. Please walk out the front door with your hands up.”

Ian hung up the phone. Mason was in custody. The FBI had Stark’s files. They knew everything. His office was surrounded.

The number of views continued to spiral upward.

500,000…600,000.

He’d be at a million soon, and that was only the beginning. He was looking at what was certain to become the most-watched video of all time.

Ian opened the drawer and stared at his father’s pistol.