Wired

PART ONE Pursuit

Ten Months Later

David Desh stopped at the gatehouse and lowered the window of his green Chevrolet Suburban as a uniformed guard approached him. “David Desh to see Colonel Jim Connelly,” he said, handing the guard his driver’s license.

The guard consulted his clipboard for several long seconds, examined the license, and then handed it back. “Go right in, sir, he’s expecting you. Welcome to Fort Bragg. Do you need directions?”

Desh smiled wistfully and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve been here before.” He rolled past the guard station, halfway expecting to be saluted as he passed.

The leaves of several of the trees peppered throughout the sprawling North Carolina base had transformed into a pageant of striking colors in the cool autumn air. It was the most picturesque season to return to Fort Bragg, home of a number of military units, among them USASOC; the US Army Special Operations Command. It was also home to the unit in which Desh had served; Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, tasked with counterterrorist operations outside the United States.

As Desh passed many familiar buildings and landmarks, including a three-story climbing wall, eighty-foot rappel tower, and Olympic-sized training pool, he fought to suppress a number of conflicting emotions that welled up inside him. This was his first time back to Bragg since he had left the military and his return was bittersweet.

He arrived at his destination and parked. A few minutes later he entered Jim Connelly’s office, shook hands firmly with the uniformed man behind the desk, and took a seat facing the colonel, lowering his briefcase to the floor beside him as he did so. Desh had been in this office many times before, but never as a civilian. Books on military history and strategy were organized in perfect precision on a bookshelf. The colonel was an accomplished fencer, and a large, framed photograph of two fencers locked in battle, shot in vibrant clarity by a professional photographer, was centered behind his desk.

The colonel had angular features, light-brown hair of military length, and a matching, neatly trimmed mustache. At forty-eight, he was seventeen years Desh’s senior, but despite their different ages each man had an aura of fitness, competence, and easy self-assurance that was typical of those who had undergone the rigorous training demanded of the Special Forces.

“Thanks for coming, Captain,” said Connelly. He raised his eyebrows. “I guess I should be calling you David nowadays.”

Desh sighed. “Disappointed?”

“What, that you left the service?”

Desh nodded.

“After what happened in Iran, who could possibly blame you?”

Desh had been found nine months earlier in a bloody heap just on the Iraq side of the Iraq/Iran border, the only surviving member of his team after an operation in Iran had gone terribly wrong. He had lost three men who had each been like a brother to him. Desh found himself revisiting the horrific mission often, cursing himself for not being smarter, or faster, or more careful. He blamed himself for the deaths of his men and was consumed by guilt for being alive when they were not. The psychiatrist the military had provided insisted this was a natural reaction, but this knowledge brought him little comfort.

“I’m not sure you answered the question,” persisted Desh.

“Okay then,” said Connelly. “As a Special Forces colonel, I am disappointed. You’re as good as it gets, David. Bright, decisive, innovative. I hate to lose a man like you.” He opened his mouth to continue but thought better of it.

“Go on,” prompted Desh.

Connelly stared at his visitor for a long while and then sighed. “As a friend, on the other hand,” he said earnestly, “while I’m sorry the decision was brought on by tragedy, I think you did the right thing. And I’m happy for you.” He paused. “As good as you are,” he continued, choosing his words with great care, “you didn’t belong in the service. Not because you’re irreverent and don’t suffer fools gladly—which is true—but because you think too deeply. And you’ve never gotten numb to the necessity of taking lives. You may be unmatched as a warrior, but nothing will ever change the fact that you have the soul of a scholar.” Connelly shook his head. “The military was sapping your natural optimism and sense of humor. Even before Iran.”

Desh’s eyes narrowed as he considered Connelly’s words. He had always had a knack for seeing the humor in anything and everything. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized the colonel was right; this key facet of his personality had been steadily eroding for years.

After leaving the service he had joined Fleming Executive Protection, the largest bodyguarding service in Washington outside of the Secret Service. But while the protection business was thriving and the pay was good, Desh knew his heart wasn’t into this type of work anymore. He was in the process of deciding what would come next in his life, and while he wasn’t sure what this might be, he knew it wouldn’t involve guns or adrenaline or life and death challenges.

In the final analysis, the colonel was right. Just because you were good at something didn’t mean it was a match with your personality or psyche.

“Thanks Colonel,” said Desh earnestly. “I appreciate your honesty.” He waited a few seconds and then added, “But how are things with you?” signaling he no longer wanted to be the subject of conversation.

Connelly shrugged. “Nothing much has changed since you left. We’re still winning the war on terror hundreds of times each day.” He frowned and added, “The only problem, of course, is that we have to win every round and they only have to win once. Which means I don’t have the luxury of ever making a mistake.” There was a long pause. “But I didn’t ask you here to burden you with all of my troubles,” he finished.

Desh raised his eyebrows. “Only one of them, right?”

Connelly laughed. “True enough,” he said.

There was an awkward silence in the room for several seconds. Finally the colonel lowered his eyes and let out a regretful sigh. “David, as good as it is to see you,” he began, “I wish it were under different circumstances. But you know I wouldn’t have asked you here if this wasn’t of the utmost importance.”

“I know that, Colonel,” said Desh. He forced a smile. “That’s what worries me.”

The colonel opened his desk drawer, withdrew a brown accordion folder, and slid it across the desk to Desh, who dutifully picked it up. At Connelly’s request he pulled out a separate file from within the folder, which contained a series of 8-by-10 photographs, and examined the one on top. It was of a woman who looked to be about twenty-five, wearing well-worn jeans and a simple V-neck sweater. Cute. Desh’s physical taste exactly. Fresh-faced. Girl next door. He glanced at Connelly and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Kira Miller,” began Connelly. “Twenty-eight years old. Five foot seven. Weight: 122 pounds.”

Desh glanced back at the photo. The girl’s blue eyes sparkled almost playfully and she wore an unselfconscious, relaxed smile that conveyed a down-to-earth, friendly personality—although Desh knew better than to judge someone’s personality based on a single photograph.

“Born in Cincinnati Ohio, attended Middlebrook High School,” continued Connelly mechanically. “Parents deceased. One older brother, Alan; also deceased. Valedictorian of Middlebrook High at age sixteen. Graduated from the University of Chicago, summa cum laude, with a BS in molecular biology—at nineteen. Obtained a Ph.D. from Stanford in molecular neurobiology at twenty-three.”

“When do most people get their doctorates?”

“Twenty-seven or Twenty-eight,” replied Connelly.

Desh nodded. “Cute and geeky-brilliant. Just my type.”

“I forgot to mention, star of her high school track team as well.”

“Maybe not so geeky at that,” allowed Desh. He turned to the photo once again and found himself hoping that this Kira Miller turned out to be the damsel in distress in Connelly’s unfolding story rather than the villain.

Desh was almost six feet tall, with green eyes and short brown hair. And while he had never thought of himself as particularly handsome, the open, friendly nature of his face seemed to appeal to women far out of proportion to his looks. But while the most beautiful of women were often attracted to him, a woman’s intelligence, confidence, and sense of humor had come to matter to him far more than her appearance. He couldn’t stand to be around an empty-headed woman, no matter how beautiful, or one who didn’t have a down-to-earth personality. He wondered what Kira Miller might be like.

A part of him realized that this primitive, lizard brained interest in a girl who was nothing but a picture and a profile was foolish—but perhaps it was also a sign of returning health. He had felt numb inside since Iran, during which time he had lost all interest in starting any type of relationship. On the other hand, perhaps nothing had really changed. Perhaps he allowed himself a glimmer of interest in this woman because she was just an inaccessible two-dimensional profile, and one sure to have some unusual baggage at that, rather than a relatively safe, flesh-and-blood women whose picture wasn’t inside a top-secret military folder.

Despite this, Desh found himself hoping that this newfound spark, tiny and foolish though it was, would not be extinguished immediately. It was time to find out. “She sounds too good to be true,” he said pointedly.

The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a slight, humorless smile. “Well, you know what they say about things that sound too good to be true.”

Desh frowned. “They usually are,” he finished.

Connelly nodded.

Desh had his answer. Too bad, he thought.

Not the damsel after all.

Jim Connelly reached into a small white refrigerator that was tucked away against the wall of his office, pulled out two chilled plastic bottles of spring water, and handed one to Desh. Desh nodded his thanks, unscrewed the cap, and took an appreciative sip, while Connelly slid a wooden coaster across to him.

The colonel took a drink from his own bottle. “From what we understand, Kira Miller is even more of a genius than her record would suggest,” he said. “Especially when it comes to gene therapy. In this field, scientists who have worked with her think she might just be the most brilliant, intuitive scientist alive today.”

“Gene therapy?”

“It’s just like the name suggests,” explained Connelly. “It’s a therapy to cure disease, or even birth defects, by correcting faulty genes. Or by inserting totally new ones,” he added.

“That’s possible?”

“For quite a while now. I wasn’t aware of it either. I guess those involved in this field haven’t done a good job of spreading the word.”

“Or you and I have had our heads in the sand.”

The colonel chuckled. “I wouldn’t rule that out either,” he said, amused.

“How is it done?”

“The most popular way is to use viruses, which insert genes into host cells naturally. These viral genes commandeer our cellular machinery to make endless copies of themselves. Some types, like herpes viruses and retroviruses, actually insert their genes right into human chromosomes.”

Desh’s face showed a hint of disgust. Even though it occurred at the submicroscopic level, the thought of a virus inserting its genetic material into a human chromosome was disturbing. “Retroviruses,” said Desh. “You mean HIV?”

“The AIDS virus is in the retrovirus family, yes. But regardless of the virus type, the idea of gene therapy is to use modified versions of these viruses as delivery vehicles, forcing them to insert human genes into our cells rather than their own. If you cut out all the nasty parts of a retrovirus and add back in a human gene—say, insulin—the virus will insert perfect, working copies of insulin genes into your chromosomes. Presto—no more diabetes. Simple as that.”

“So the AIDS virus could actually be used to save lives?”

“Properly hollowed out and genetically engineered, yes. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Desh. He was intrigued. Rather than treating the symptoms of a disease, gene therapy offered an outright cure: virus-aided microsurgery on the genes themselves. “It sounds ideal,” offered Desh.

“In many ways it is,” responded Connelly thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, the field hasn’t progressed as quickly as scientists had hoped. It might sound simple on paper, but I’m told it’s treacherously complicated.”

“It doesn’t even sound simple on paper,” noted Desh wryly.

The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. “Apparently she had quite a knack for it,” he said. He lifted the water bottle to his lips and gestured at the photographs lying on the desk in front of Desh.

Desh flipped the picture of Kira Miller on its back and revealed the second photo in the stack. It was a two-story yellow brick building, not particularly attractive, with a large placard over the door that read, NeuroCure Pharmaceuticals.

“She joined NeuroCure, a publicly traded biotech company in San Diego, right out of Stanford,” continued Connelly. “She was well liked, and by all accounts performed as brilliantly there as expected.”

He gestured again and Desh dutifully flipped to the next photo, a small, nondescript building in the middle of an industrial strip. The building had an address affixed to it but no name.

“NeuroCure’s animal research facility,” explained the colonel. “The building that Kira Miller worked out of, and for which she was responsible. Notice there’s no way to tell it’s at all associated with NeuroCure, or that there are animals inside. Biotechs don’t like to advertise these facilities. Not with all the PETA types running around.”

Connelly stroked his mustache absently with the tips of two fingers, something he had had a tendency to do ever since Desh had known him. “Kira was a model employee her first two years at NeuroCure, performing with the level of brilliance expected of her. During this time she was promoted twice, which is fairly unprecedented.” He raised his eyebrows. “Then again, so is graduating Stanford with a Ph.D. at twenty-three.” Connelly leaned forward in his chair. “Which brings us to about a year ago,” he said meaningfully, a hint of weariness in his voice.

“Let me guess,” said Desh dryly. “That’s when all hell starts to break loose.”

“You could say that.”

“Interesting,” noted Desh. “Up until now, at least, you’ve painted Kira Miller as a model citizen. It must have been some year.”

“You have no idea,” said Connelly ominously.

The colonel motioned for Desh to flip to the next photograph in his thin stack. It showed a short, slightly pudgy man with a hard look, holding a cigarette loosely.

“Larry Lusetti,” said Connelly. “Private Investigator; ex-cop. One morning about eleven months ago he’s found dead in Kira Miller’s condo in La Jolla, his skull bashed in with a heavy marble bookend and his body severely lacerated. After he was bludgeoned, he fell through a picture window in the front of the condo, which explains the lacerations.” He paused. “Kira must have managed to pull him back inside and close the shutters, but a neighbor heard the glass shattering and went to investigate. When no one answered the neighbor’s knock—and then Kira sped out of her garage and raced right past him—he called the police.

“Kira Miller couldn’t be located, but later that morning police found that the victim’s apartment had been broken into and turned upside down. Turns out Lusetti had installed a motion-activated nanny-cam inside a hanging plant in the apartment. Because of the nature of his work he tended to be a bit paranoid.”

You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you, thought Desh dryly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Lusetti’s secretary alerted the authorities to the existence of the camera, which recorded some nice footage of Kira Miller ransacking the place and leaving with a large file folder and Lusetti’s laptop. They were able to enhance the footage enough to make out the label on the file she took. Turns out it was a file Lusetti had on her.”

“Interesting. Do we know why she was under investigation?”

Connelly shook his head. “No. Lusetti’s secretary knew nothing about it. And Kira Miller’s file was the only one he kept at home. There were no other records ever located that made any mention of her at all—other than the ones she took, of course.”

Connelly gestured at the photographs and Desh flipped to the next one.

“Alan Miller,” said Connelly. “Kira’s older brother.”

Desh studied the photo. Blue eyes. Handsome. He could see the family resemblance.

“Around midnight that same day, brother Alan turned up dead in Cincinnati. His house was found burned to the ground with his charred remains inside.”

“Arson?”

“No question about it. A rental car was found abandoned near the house with traces of acetone inside, the fire accelerant used in the arson. The DNA from a strand of hair found on the driver’s seat of the car matched Kira Miller’s DNA from hair samples police had taken from her condo.”

“And she had rented the car?”

“Yes. Using an alias. The name and license she used to rent it turned out to be untraceable. But the rental car agent identified her picture from ten that were shown to him. Later, police found a cab driver who recognized her picture. The Cabbie said he had picked her up a few miles from the brother’s house, about an hour after the fire, and had taken her to the airport.” Connelly frowned. “This is where the trail ends. We presume she took a flight, but if she did she used fake identification.”

Desh pulled Kira Miller’s 8-by-10 from the photo pile and examined her once again. She had such a friendly and appealing look. But this was just a carefully constructed mask. Being burned alive was one of the more horrible ways to die. Killing anyone in cold calculation in such a sadistic fashion—especially a family member—pointed to a psychopathic or sociopathic personality. And these soulless monsters were hard to spot. In fact, Desh knew, they were often quite intelligent and charismatic, and highly skilled at hiding their true nature.

Connelly nodded toward the last photo Desh held in his hand. It was of a tall man, probably in his early fifties, with wavy, seemingly uncombed salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in business casual slacks and shirt. He had a long, thin face and a wild, faraway look in his eye that reminded Desh of a stereotypical professor.

“Tom Morgan. He was NeuroCure’s Chief Scientific Officer and Kira’s boss when she joined. He was killed in an auto accident almost exactly three years after Kira Miller’s hire. In light of future events, we now think there’s a good chance it wasn’t an accident.”

Desh frowned and was silent for several long seconds, digesting what he had been told so far. “You said her parents were deceased. How did they die?”

“I figured you’d jump to this question,” said Connelly approvingly. “You really do have a singular talent for connecting dots.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” said Desh. “But these particular dots aren’t exactly difficult to connect.”

“You’d be surprised. Anyway, to answer your question, her parents both died in the same auto accident. While she was in high school. As with Morgan, the police didn’t suspect foul play at the time and didn’t do much of an investigation. But in light of everything else, it’s not hard to imagine that their daughter was behind it.”

Desh knew signs of sociopathy were usually present from a very young age if anyone was looking in the right direction. If Kira Miller could torch her brother in cold blood, she wouldn’t likely be squeamish about killing her parents either. A thorough examination of mysterious deaths and disappearances with her as epicenter was almost certain to be revealing. Perhaps brother Alan had been helping this private investigator, Larry Lusetti. This was as good a conjecture as any for why she killed him so soon after recovering the file Lusetti had on her. Alan Miller could probably have pulled any number of skeletons from his little sister’s closet—perhaps literally.

“Any other unexplained accidents in her wake?” said Desh.

Connelly nodded grimly. “An uncle drowned while swimming alone when she was twelve. And he was known to be a very strong swimmer. There were two other incidents involving teachers at Kira’s high school the next year. One turned up dead in her apartment, her face so badly eaten away by sulfuric acid it was unrecognizable. The other went missing and was never found. Neither case was ever solved.”

So the breathtaking, fresh-faced girl smiling in the photo was a psychopath, and was at the very least a double murderer. The tale Connelly had spun was truly grisly. But Desh knew the worst was yet to come. There was only one reason any of this would warrant the colonel’s attention. “So what’s the terrorism connection?”

Connelly sighed heavily, as if he had hoped he could somehow avoid this discussion. He rubbed his mustache once again and said, “As the Lusetti investigation and hunt for Kira Miller continued, the police found evidence that she had been in communication with several known terrorist organizations, including Al-Qaeda and Islamic Jihad.”

“Nice groups,” said Desh dryly.

“The case was turned over to Homeland Security. There’s a detailed report in the accordion file, but they quickly found that she had millions of dollars deposited in banks throughout the world, well hidden, including several numbered Swiss accounts. They’re certain they haven’t found it all. The methods she used to obscure the trail between herself and her money were quite sophisticated. They also found several false identities, and are convinced she has more.”

“Working with Jihadists is an interesting choice for a Western woman, even for a sociopath. These groups aren’t exactly known for being progressive when it comes to a woman’s place in society.”

“It’s a puzzle alright. She’s not Muslim and there’s no evidence she ever supported this ideology. She could be in it just for money, but somehow I think there’s something we’re missing.”

“Do you think she’s attracted to the danger of working with terrorists?”

Connelly shrugged. “It’s impossible to say. Normal motives don’t necessarily apply to psychopathic personalities. Jeffrey Dahmer murdered and cannibalized seventeen people, three of whose skulls were found in his refrigerator.”

“That’s perfectly rational behavior,” said Desh sarcastically. “He just didn’t want them to spoil.”

A smile flashed across Connelly’s face, but only for a moment. “You’ll read in the report that they found a flotation tank in her condo,” he continued. “Top of the line. That’s a pretty unusual device to have taking up space in your living room.”

“Flotation tank?”

“They used to be called sensory deprivation chambers. Basically a giant coffin filled with water and Epsom salt. Seal yourself up in one and you bob around like a cork, weightless, in total silence and total darkness. You receive virtually no sensory input while inside.” Connelly grimaced. “One can only imagine what she was doing with it. Performing bizarre rituals? Locking people in for days at a time as a means of torture?” he shuddered. “This girl is our worst nightmare: brilliant and totally unpredictable. No conscience; no remorse.”

The room fell silent. Both men were alone with their thoughts. Desh knew that any problem Connelly had that he couldn’t solve with his vast resources and was important enough for him to summon Desh had to be very, very ugly. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what it was. Maybe he should just leave now. What did it matter, anyway? Stop one villain and another would always spring up to take his place. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, at least not until his curiosity was satisfied.

Desh took a deep breath and locked his eyes on Connelly. “So let’s cut to the chase, Colonel. What are we really talking about here, biological warfare?”

Connelly frowned. “That’s right. And she’s the best around—maybe ever.” Connelly’s demeanor, already fairly grim due to the nature of the events he had been reporting, took a sharp turn for the worse.

“With her skills and experience engineering viruses,” said Desh, “I’m sure she could make them more deadly and contagious. But to what end? You can’t contain them. They could easily boomerang back on the terrorists. I know these groups aren’t very selective in who they kill, but their leaders, at least, aren’t in any hurry to meet the seventy-two virgins awaiting them in heaven.”

“My bioweapons experts tell me someone with her skill can get around the containment issue by designing in molecular triggers. The DNA not only has to be inserted, it has to be read and turned into gene products,” explained Connelly. “There are promoter regions on the DNA that control under what circumstances this happens. Triggers. Someone as talented as Kira Miller can engineer these to her specifications. Like a Trojan Horse virus that infects your computer. It lies dormant until whatever predetermined time the asshole who invented it has specified. Then it emerges and demolishes your files.”

Connelly took a deep breath and then continued. “We think she’s engineering the common cold virus to insert specific Ebola virus genes into human chromosomes like a retrovirus does,” he said gravely. “As with any cold, it would spread quickly. But now, in addition to a runny nose, those infected would get a bonus: the genes responsible for the massive hemorrhagic fever associated with Ebola. This is almost always fatal. Victims suffer from fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and uncontrollable bleeding, both internally and externally—from the corners of their eyes, their nose—everywhere.”

Desh’s stomach tightened. Ebola was the deadliest virus known. He shouldn’t have been surprised that something as promising as gene therapy and molecular biology could be bastardized to kill rather than cure. Humanity seemed to have a singular ability to find destructive uses for any constructive technology. Invent the computer, and you could be certain someone would invent computer viruses and other ways to attack it. Invent the Internet, an unimaginable treasure trove of information, and you could bet it would be used as a recruiting tool for hate mongers and instantly turned into a venue for child pornographers, sexual predators, and scam artists. Humanity never failed to find a way to become its own worst enemy.

“I still don’t see how the terrorists can be certain of avoiding the Ebola genes themselves,” said Desh.

“They can’t be. But there’s more to the story. This is where the molecular trigger comes in. Remember, the genes don’t only have to be inserted, they have to be activated.”

“So what activates them?”

“We believe she’s trying to engineer them to be triggered by a chemical. One specific to a certain food. Ingest this chemical and the inserted Ebola genetic material begins to be expressed by victims’ cells. And once the genes have been triggered, there’s no stopping them. People’s own cells are transformed into ticking time bombs. A few days to a few weeks later, boom!—you’re dead.” Connelly raised his eyebrows. “Any guesses as to what food sets it off?”

Desh looked blank.

“Pork.”

Desh’s eyes widened. Of course it would be pork. What else? Only those at the pinnacle of the Jihadist pyramid would know of the plot, but since ingestion of pork was forbidden in the Muslim religion, their followers would be safe. And Desh knew how these people thought. In their eyes, any Muslim around the world who ignored this prohibition and did eat pork deserved to die anyway.

“Our organic chemists tell me there are several complex molecules that are swine-specific. We believe the Ebola genes are set to be triggered by one of them. But even though the genes are triggered, the viral parts aren’t present, so it isn’t infectious like the natural Ebola. That’s what keeps the terrorists safe. As long as they don’t eat pork, they have nothing to worry about.”

Desh’s lip curled up in disgust. It was a masterful plan from the terrorist’s perspective. And as utterly horrific as their strategy was, it was not without its boldness or creativity. Ironically, in addition to devout Muslims, religious Jews would also be spared. This would be the only fly in the ointment of an otherwise ideal plan from the terrorists’ perspective. The fact that their most hated enemy would remain untouched would sit like open sores in their stomachs.

“Can she really pull it off?” he asked

“This is as difficult a genetic engineering project as there is, but if anyone in the world can do it, Kira Miller can. She’s that good.”

“And the expected casualties?”

“Depends on how efficiently her designed virus can insert the genes, and how efficiently the pork-specific organic chemicals can trigger them. Worst case, hundreds of millions around the world. Best case, given the high quality of medicine in the West, maybe a few hundred thousand.”

The color drained from Desh’s face. This attack had the potential to be more costly in human lives than a nuclear bomb set off in a population center. And the very nature of the attack would unleash a raging wildfire of irrationality and panic that could have an incalculable effect on civilization. “And this would be only the beginning,” he whispered to Connelly.

“That’s right,” said Connelly. “People would fear they had other Trojan Horses buried in their genetic material, primed to go off with one wrong bite. No one would know what foods to trust. Rumors would race around the world. Fear would be at a fever pitch. Economies would collapse. The most ordered societies would degenerate into chaos and devastation almost overnight.”

Desh knew this plan could set civilization back hundreds of years—which is exactly what the Jihadists wanted. No wonder Kira Miller was so wealthy. If she could convince Al-Qaeda she could execute on this plan, she could name her price. Death and devastation on a vast scale wouldn’t trouble a soulless psychopath like her in the least.

“At some point, we may be forced to issue a warning not to eat pork,” said Connelly. “But this wouldn’t buy us all that much. The warning itself would incite some of the panic we’re trying to avoid. Many wouldn’t get the message and still others would ignore it, believing it to be a government conspiracy. And we believe the Jihadists have a contingency version ready to go, with a different trigger. So sounding the alarm would just push them into plan B. The terrorist leaders would still know which foods to avoid, although since they’d only risk sharing this secret with a select few, they’d lose far more of their followers under this scenario.”

Desh shook his head in disgust. If it came to that, the need to sacrifice scores of their followers for the cause would not give them the slightest pause.

Desh placed the photographs back inside the folder and reinserted it into the accordion file. Before arriving at Fort Bragg he had already felt dead inside. Being on the grounds, a reminder of a past he so desperately wanted to forget, had made things worse. And now this. He felt ill. He needed to conclude this meeting and get some air. “So tell me,” he said pointedly. “Why am I here?”

Connelly sighed deeply. “Kira Miller has been off the grid since her brother’s murder—for about a year now. She’s vanished. Like magic. We have reason to believe she was in San Diego last November, but she could be anywhere now. Only Bin Laden and a few others have been the subject of bigger manhunts, and we’ve basically gotten nowhere. There are those who think she must be dead, but we can’t make that assumption, obviously.”

“I ask again,” said Desh. “Why am I here? Plan B? Send in a solitary man when entire armies fail?”

“Believe me, we didn’t wait until now to try the Lone Ranger approach. We’ve been sending in individual agents for several months. The best and brightest. They’ve gotten nowhere.”

“So what am I, then,” remarked Desh. “Plan E? What do you expect I can do that your first choices couldn’t?”

“First of all, you would have been my first choice had you remained in the military. You know that, David. You know my opinion of your abilities. I didn’t think I could get authorization to recruit a civilian, so I never recommended you.”

Desh looked confused. “Then how am I here?”

“Someone up the food chain realized your value and asked me to recruit you. I was thrilled that they did. Not only are you unequaled as a soldier, you found more top-level terrorists on the lamb than anyone when you were in the service. No one is as creative and tenacious on the hunt as you are. Kira Miller has a knack for gene therapy. You have a knack for finding those who are off the grid.”

Connelly leaned forward and fixed an unblinking stare on Desh. “And you’re someone I trust absolutely, someone outside the system. This woman has massive amounts of money and is quite persuasive. I wouldn’t put it past her to have found a way to monitor us, or to compromise some of our people.”

“So you think you have a mole?”

“Honestly … no. But with the stakes this high, why take chances?”

Desh nodded. He couldn’t argue the point.

“We failed as an organization. The individuals who have tried have also failed. There could be many other good explanations for this, but now it’s time to try something different.” He rubbed his mustache absently. “You have a singular talent for this and you don’t report through military channels. Let’s keep it that way. Use your own resources, not ours. In the file you’ll find the reports of your predecessors: all the information they gathered on Kira Miller.”

“I assume it will also detail their attempts to locate her?”

“Actually, no,” said Connelly. “We don’t want you to be polluted with what came before. You’ll be starting with a clean slate. And don’t communicate with me. I don’t want to know what you’re doing. You’ll find a contact number to use when you find her. The person at the other end will handle the rest. Follow his instructions from there on in.”

“When I find her?”

“You’ll find her,” said Connelly with absolute conviction. “I’m certain of it.”

“That’s two questionable assumptions you’re making,” said Desh. “The first one is that I’ll agree to take the job in the first place.”

Connelly said nothing. The silence hung in the room like a thick fog.

Desh was torn. There was a significant part of him that just wanted to walk away. Connelly would find a way to solve his problem—or he wouldn’t. But the world would keep revolving, with or without Desh on the case. There were other talented men outside the system. Let someone else be the hero. He had tried the hero business and had failed.

On the other hand, what if he really did have some special quality that would turn the tide? If he walked away and the attack succeeded, how could he live with himself? He beat himself up every day for surviving the operation in Iran when his men had not. Guilt and loss were eating away at his soul already, but would pale in comparison to the question that would torment his every waking moment—what if he really had been the only one able to find, and stop, Kira Miller?

And even though he had wanted to clear his head and put distance between himself and anyone he had know from his past life, his relationship with Connelly had been very close, and almost certainly would be again someday. There were few men he admired as much as he did Jim Connelly.

Desh stared long and hard at the colonel. “Okay,” he said wearily, a look of resignation on his face. “I’ll help you.” He shook his head bitterly, and it was clear he was annoyed with himself for being unable to refuse. “I’ll give it my best,” he added with a sigh. “That’s all I can do.”

“Thanks, David,” said Connelly in relief. “That’s all anyone can do.”

The colonel paused and now looked somewhat uneasy. “Now that you’re on board, I need to insist that you don’t go after her yourself, under any circumstances. Your job is to find her. Period. The job of the person at the end of the telephone number I gave you is to reel her in.” He paused. “Before you leave, I have to be sure you’re crystal clear about this.”

Desh stared at Connelly in disbelief. “I’m clear on it, all right, Colonel. What I’m not clear on is why. What if I found her and was in the perfect position for capture? I need to be able to strike when the iron’s hot. By the time I call someone in and they arrive, she could slip through the noose. She’s too elusive and too important to allow that to happen.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s an idiotic strategy,” he snapped.

The colonel sighed. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “But those are my orders. I made all the points you just made as emphatically as I could, but I didn’t win the day. So this is what we’re left with.”

“Okay then,” said Desh in annoyance. “I’m just a civilian now. If someone up the chain of command just had a frontal lobotomy, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“On the bright side,” continued Connelly, pressing ahead, “I was able to win one important argument with my superiors.” He smiled slyly. “I convinced them it wouldn’t be easy to entice you back. They’ve authorized me to pay you $200,000 upon initiation of the assignment as a draw against expenses. It’s all set to be wired into your account. You’ll have access to it within the hour.” He leaned forward intently. “There’s another million upon success.”

Desh’s eyes widened. A payment of this magnitude would dramatically change the course of his life. It would allow him to leave the violent world he had known behind and immediately start down whichever new path he finally chose for himself. “Thanks, Colonel,” he said. “That’s a hell of a lot of money.” Desh paused. “But you do know I agreed to help because of you, and because of the nature of the threat, and not for the money.”

A twinkle came to Connelly’s eye. “I know that,” he said. “Notice that I only brought up the money after you had agreed.” The colonel smiled. “Considering the bounty for Bin Laden went as high as $25 million, and considering the devastating consequences of failure, you’re the biggest bargain the government has ever had.”

Desh smiled. “Well, as long as the government is happy,” he said dryly, spreading his hands in mock sincerity. He paused for a moment in thought. “What about Fleming Executive Protection?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll make sure your calendar is cleared for the next month and you remain in good standing with them.” An amused look crossed Connelly’s face. “And rest assured, we’ll do it in such a way that won’t hurt your career, or your ah … reputation.” He smiled slightly at this and then added, “Do we have an agreement?”

Desh nodded. “We do.”

“Good. I’m sorry to have to pull you back in for one last mission, David, but I know you’re the right man for the job.”

Desh rose from the chair and prepared to leave. “I hope you’re right, Colonel. As always, I’ll try not to let you down.” He eyed Connelly suspiciously as something he had said earlier finally registered. “You said the wire transfer of the 200k is ready to go?”

“I just need to give the word and it’s done.”

“So how is it exactly,” said Desh, his eyes narrowing, “that you happen to have the wire transfer information for my account, without me having given it to you?”

Connelly raised his eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you’d believe it was a lucky guess?” he said with an innocent shrug.

Desh allowed a bemused smile to flash across his face. He opened his briefcase, placed the accordion file inside, and stood.

Connelly also rose from his chair. He reached out and gave Desh a warm handshake. “Good luck, David,” he said earnestly. “And be careful.”

“I won’t be eating any pork products anytime soon, if that’s what you mean,” said Desh wryly, trying to hide his anxiety.

With that, David Desh picked up his briefcase and walked purposefully out the door.

David Desh exited the grounds of Fort Bragg and drove to a nearby shopping center. He parked the Suburban at the outer edge of the sprawling lot, becoming a lone island of privacy cut off from the dense mainland of all other parked vehicles. He pulled out the dossier on Kira Miller and began a careful review. The five-hour drive back to D.C. ahead of him would be the perfect time to digest what he was now reading and plot out his initial strategy.

After a little more than an hour he returned the dossier to his briefcase and began his trek home. Her file hadn’t given him much to go on, nor had he expected it to. If the girl’s background would have led to an obvious approach, others would have found it by now.

Kira Miller had been able to hide her true nature quite well. From a very young age she had been extremely talented, ambitious, and competitive. When she set her mind to something she had accomplished it. This didn’t always win her a lot of friends growing up, and being jumped ahead in school several years did nothing to help her social life.

Even as an adult she tended to make few friends, always keeping her eye on the ball; be it setting the record for youngest ever molecular neurobiology Ph.D. at Stanford or power-climbing up the corporate ladder. In college she had dated some, but she never managed to sustain a relationship for more than eight or nine months. Desh knew that most men would find her brilliance intimidating.

The file elaborated quite extensively on everything that Connelly had told him, laying out her communications with terror groups, how these communications had been found, the airtight evidence gathered against her for the murders of Lusetti and her brother, and the Ebola gene therapy plot.

After the murders, the police investigation had revealed she had spent an inordinate amount of time in NeuroCure’s animal labs late at night, but had managed to hide this activity. The employee badge she’d been issued to unlock the door after hours was designed to record the holder’s identity and time of entry in the main computer, but she had ingeniously altered the software to prevent this from happening.

Investigators had also found that Kira had ordered far more rodents from suppliers than the company had needed for experiments. Since she was responsible for inventory, this hadn’t been caught earlier.

It was clear she had been performing secret animal experiments almost every night. In retrospect, this made sense—chilling sense. She must have brought the Jihadists some evidence that she could execute on the strategy she was proposing to get them to pay her the substantial sums of money she was known to have in banks around the world. An animal proof of concept, as it were.

Connelly and USASOC had vast resources at their disposal, both human and otherwise, and yet they hadn’t come close to finding this girl. Only someone extremely careful and extremely clever could possibly elude a government-sponsored manhunt for this long. And that was really the rub on this one. The prey was far smarter than the hunter. Desh didn’t feel any macho need to downplay his own intelligence, which was considerable, but it was undeniable that hers was in another league. So how to catch someone smarter than yourself?

It was all in your attitude. You didn’t plot a strategy designed to catch her making a mistake. This is what the others probably focused on. Instead, you counted on her not making a mistake. You counted on her doing everything exactly right. This was the answer.

As much as he had come to hate the endless violence with which he had long been associated, puzzling out the location of a dangerous adversary intent on eluding capture was a task he found completely absorbing. It was the ultimate challenge. His task was to locate a single human being among the more than six billion inhabitants of the planet, one who could be hiding almost anywhere on the incomprehensibly large surface of the Earth. So how to narrow this down?

He shot by an eighteen-wheeler as if it were standing still, completely lost in thought. His foot was heavy on the gas pedal by nature, and when he didn’t actively control himself, his default speed was usually twenty miles per hour over the posted limit. Despite conscious efforts to contain this impulse, he was beginning to feel he was beyond hope and desperately in need of a twelve-step speedaholics program.

Where are you Kira Miller? he said to himself as he changed lanes once again, blowing past two cars and returning to the left lane where he rapidly began pulling away from everyone behind him.

Was she living in a cave somewhere? Maybe. But not likely. He would start by assuming she was still in the States, hiding in plain sight. She was attempting a breathtakingly complex feat of genetic engineering. The report he had read was clear that, at minimum, she would require specialized equipment, cloned genes, ultra-fast DNA sequencers, biological reagents, and genetically identical experimental animals. A terrorist camp in Iran or Afghanistan, or even the best equipped labs in these countries, for that matter, wouldn’t be able to readily fulfill her evolving needs in this regard.

Desh decided that regardless of where she was hiding, he would begin by focusing on her computer. No matter how much she may have given up of her past life to elude pursuit, he couldn’t believe she’d swear off the Internet, especially given her need to tap into an ocean of biotechnology literature as her research progressed. But there were ways to use computers and the Internet without leaving a trail, and she had already shown an alarming degree of facility with computers when she had modified NeuroCure’s security software. Finding a single laptop among untold millions, and then having it happen to be in the lap of Kira Miller when it was found, was like finding a needle in a haystack the size of Texas.

Desh frowned as he realized this analogy fell short. The reality was that the particular needle he was after was not only lost in an enormous haystack, but was also mobile, and would be sure to dive even deeper into the haystack if it sensed someone coming.

David Desh was thirty minutes from his apartment when his cell phone vibrated inside his shirt pocket. He lifted it out and stole a quick glance at the screen. Wade Fleming appeared on the display.

He flipped open the phone. “Hi Wade.”

“Hi David,” came the reply. His boss wasted no time on small talk. “Do you happen to know a girl named Patricia Swanson?”

Desh’s brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “I don’t think so,” he said. He shrugged. “Of course it’s always possible that I met her but just forgot.”

“Then you haven’t met her. Believe me, you’d remember,” he said with absolute conviction “She’s a total knockout. I mean like centerfold material,” he added for emphasis.

“Okay,” replied Desh. “I’ll take your word for it. So what about her?”

“She visited the office about an hour ago. Asked for you by name.”

“Did she claim she knows me?”

“No. She says she’s vacationing at a few choice resort locations around the country for the next month, thinks she might have a stalker, and wants protection. Said she saw your picture and bio on our website and wants you assigned to her. I told her you had a busy month lined up, and offered up Dean Padgett.” A note of disapproval entered Fleming’s voice. “She wouldn’t have it. She wanted you, and she was prepared to pay extra to make sure she got you.” He paused. “Frankly, David, I think you might be the one who has a stalker, not her. She’s probably a bored, spoiled rich girl out for a thrill. What greater thrill than seducing your bodyguard? Must watch too many movies. Bottom line is that I got the feeling she sees you as more of a hired boytoy than a bodyguard.” He paused. “I was tempted to tell her you were gay and offer to take the job myself,” he said wryly.

Desh shook his head and a small smile crept across his face. Jim Connelly had promised to clear his calendar, and he must have had quite a laugh when he had hatched this scheme. He sure hadn’t wasted any time setting it in motion.

“So when do I start?”

“Tomorrow morning, if you take the job.”

“If I take the job.”

“I told her I needed your okay.”

“Really? That’s a first.”

“Look, David, as hot as she is, I’m not running an escort service here. I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. I’ve seen her, and it’s hard to imagine how any man could resist her for long if that’s her game plan.” He paused. “On the other hand, she is paying top dollar, and this could be legitimate. It may be that your Delta Force credentials are what impressed her and not your friendly smile. But given my doubts, I won’t insist you take this.”

“Thanks, Wade. But if I have to risk the attention of a beautiful woman,” he said with mock bravado, “that’s just what I’ll have to do. For the agency’s sake, of course.”

“Of course,” repeated Fleming wryly. “You’re loyalty to the agency is legendary, David. I’ll e-mail you the assignment details and where to find her so you can get started.” There was a long pause on the line. “And I want you to know, while the rest of us are dodging bullets and laser-guided missiles protecting hairy fat guys, we’ll be thinking of you lying on the beach with a centerfold model—dodging those dangerous UV rays.”

“Don’t mention it, Wade. That’s just the kind of team player I am.”

“Well, I don’t want to have to worry about you, David,” said Fleming sardonically, “so be sure to use a good sunblock. SPF 30 at least.”

“Good tip,” said Desh in amusement.

“You know what’s really annoying about this one?”

“That she didn’t ask for you?”

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “Aside from that,” said Fleming good-naturedly. “What’s really annoying is that you’ll probably be bringing in more money to the agency than anyone else this month. Maybe I should open up an escort service.” Fleming paused. “Take care, David,” he said signing off, but couldn’t help adding, “you lucky bastard,” before hanging up the phone.

David Desh rapped on the stained wooden door, just below its peephole and above the cheap brass “14D” affixed to it. He had removed his laptop that morning from its docking station in his apartment and it was carefully tucked under his left arm. He was wearing Dockers, a blue polo shirt, and a tan windbreaker that concealed his H&K .45 semiautomatic. A much smaller SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter was shoved in his pants at the small of his back, and identical, sheathed combat knives were strapped to each of his lower legs.

Kira Miller was working with terrorist groups who would stop at nothing to protect her. Groups who celebrated death rather than life, and who would welcome the chance to remove Desh’s head with a hacksaw—while he was still using it—if it would further their cause. The closer he got to her, the more dangerous it would be for him. Perhaps these precautions were premature, but why take chances?

Desh heard movement from inside the apartment.

“David Desh?” called a voice questioningly from behind the particleboard door, loudly enough for Desh to hear.

“That’s right,” confirmed Desh.

“Adam Campbell’s friend?”

“In the flesh.”

Desh’s friend Adam, an ex-soldier who was now a private investigator, had set up this meeting for him the night before, right after he had returned home from his meeting with Connelly.

“Do you have my retainer?”

In answer, Desh removed 60 hundred-dollar bills from an envelope and fanned them out in front of the peephole. There was a rustle behind the door as a chain was unhooked and a loud click as a dead-bolt lock was turned, followed by the door creaking open.

Desh entered the small, cluttered apartment. It bore the heavy musk of prolonged human habitation that Desh knew could be helped by an open window and the inflow of crisp, autumn air. Four high-end computers straddled a heavy glass-topped desk, all connected to each other through a spaghetti of makeshift wiring. On top of the desk sat a wireless keyboard and three high-definition, plasma monitors. Hanging on the wall above was a framed placard that read:

HACKER-CRATIC OATH

I swear to use my awesome powers for good, not evil.

Other than this and a large black-and-white poster of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue, the entire living area consisted of the desk, a single couch, a plasma television, and a small kitchen.

Desh appraised the man in front of him. His name was Matt Griffin, and he was a bear of a man. He was at least 6 foot 5 and 300 pounds, with a bushy brown beard and long, wavy hair—almost a cross between a man and a Wookie. Despite his enormous size he had a harmless air about him that made him completely non-threatening. While his bulk and appearance could quickly lead one to the conclusion he was a dim caveman, his words were spoken with the intellectual affect of an ivy-league professor. Desh handed him the money and waited patiently as he counted to sixty.

Griffin smiled affably. “Okay, Mr. Desh, I’m at your service for a period of one week. What can I do for you?”

Fleming Executive Protection had its share of computer experts, but Desh couldn’t use them for this assignment, and he was supposed to be in playboy fantasyland anyway. Matt Griffin was said to be the best in the business. He usually worked for corporate clients doing fairly mundane tasks, but from time to time he helped private investigators if their cause was right, fully prepared to engage in illegal hacking, a victimless crime, if it could result in finding a missing person or stopping a violent criminal. Desh’s friend Adam had worked with Griffin several times and had been effusive in his praise for the man, who apparently took his hacker-cratic oath quite seriously, and would only work with someone if he had assurances their intentions were honorable. Adam had vouched for Desh and told Griffin he could trust him implicitly.

Desh set his laptop on the only unoccupied space on the corner of Griffin’s desk. The giant eyed it with interest but said nothing. Desh handed him a typed page with Kira Miller’s name and last known home and work addresses, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers.

Griffin scanned the information quickly. “NeuroCure,” he said with interest, lowering himself into a black-leather swivel chair in front of his computer monitors while Desh remained standing. “Aren’t they developing a treatment for Alzheimer’s?”

“Very good,” said Desh approvingly. “You’re certainly up to speed on your biotech.”

Griffin shook his head. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about biotech,” he admitted. “My aunt suffers from the disease so I tend to keep abreast of possible cures.”

Tend to keep abreast. The dichotomy between Griffin’s Viking appearance and soft-spoken, lofty speech patterns was amusing to him. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” offered Desh.

Griffin nodded solemnly. “Why don’t you fill me in on what you’re after as completely as you can. Nothing you say will leave this room.”

“Good. Absolute confidentiality in this case could not be more vital. For your health as well as mine.” Desh locked his eyes on Griffin’s in an unblinking, intimidating stare, and held it for several long seconds. “You’re known to be a man of integrity,” he continued, “but betraying my trust would be a very, very bad idea …”

“Save your threats,” said the giant firmly. “Veiled or otherwise. You have nothing to worry about. I take my responsibilities in this regard very seriously. As I’ve told you, your information is safe with me.”

Desh knew he had little choice but to trust the oversized hacker. He stared at him a while longer, and then finally began to fill him in on Kira Miller’s tenure at NeuroCure, and the events that had transpired a year earlier. Griffin scribbled notes on a large pad of paper. Desh didn’t mention anything having to do with terrorists or Swiss banks, ending his account when the trail of the elusive Kira Miller had ended at the Cincinnati airport.

Griffin whistled when Desh was finished. “Fascinating,” he said. “And very troubling.”

Desh noted approvingly that Griffin didn’t attempt to explore why Desh had taken it upon himself to look for a psychopath who was wanted by the authorities for the brutal murder of several innocents.

“So here’s where I’d like to start,” said Desh, “I’d like to know which scientific journals this Kira Miller subscribed to as of a year ago. I’m not interested in any that were sent to her work. I want to know the journals she got at home.”

“Do you have a list of probables?”

“I’m afraid not. And, unfortunately, I went online and discovered there are hundreds of scientific journals in her areas of interest.”

The giant frowned. “Then this could take a long time. If you tell me the name of a journal I can tell you if she was a subscriber. But there’s no way to start with her address and work backwards to the journals.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not unless you’re prepared to engage in a little social engineering.”

Desh was familiar with this euphemism used by hackers. “You mean get information from humans rather than the computer.”

“Exactly. Man cannot hack using computers alone. The best hackers are also the most proficient at milking information from humans—the system’s weakest links.”

Desh eyed Griffin with interest. “Okay,” he said. “I’m game.”

“Great,” said Griffin, beaming happily. He swiveled his chair to face the monitors and his fingers flew over the keyboard, calling up one web page after another as Desh looked over his shoulder. The quartet of pricey computers, linked together, operated at blazing speeds, and Griffin’s Internet connection was the best that money could buy, and included custom enhancements. The end result of this was that web pages crammed with data and pictures and graphics each flashed up on the oversized monitor, complete, faster than the eye could follow.

Griffin scrolled through nested menus and clicked on specific options before Desh could even begin to read them. Moments later he was several layers deep in the internal computer files of the D.C. police.

“I’m surprised you can breach a police system so easily,” muttered Desh.

Griffin shook his head. “You can’t. Their firewalls and security systems are state-of-theart,” he explained. “But I found a way in last year and created a backdoor entrance so I could return anytime I wanted. And I can use the D.C system to query the San Diego Police Department’s computers for their file on the Larry Lusetti murder investigation.” Griffin continued pulling up pages on the computer as he spoke, and moments later he had the file he was after. He skimmed through it rapidly, pausing to scribble a few names, a telephone number, and a date on his note pad.

Griffin took a deep breath. “I believe I’m ready,” he said. He picked up the phone and dialed the number he had written down. A woman named Jill answered, but within a minute he had Roger Tripp on the phone, the postal carrier who had long covered the mail route that included Kira Miller’s condo.

“Hello, Mr. Tripp,” said Griffin. “Do you have a minute?”

“Well … I was just about to head out on my route,” he said. “What is this about? Jill said you were a detective.”

“That’s right, sir. Detective Bob Garcia.” Griffin consulted his notepad. “I work with Detective Marty Fershtman. You may remember that Detective Fershtman interviewed you about a Kira Miller on September 28^th of last year in regard to a homicide investigation we were conducting.”

“I remember,” said Tripp warily.

“Great. This won’t take but a minute. We’ve continued our investigation, and we had one additional question we were hoping you could help us with.”

“I’ll try,” said postal worker Tripp.

“Great. Do you happen to remember the titles of any periodicals that you delivered to Dr. Miller? Scientific oriented periodicals,” he clarified. “Do you know the type I mean?”

“I think so,” said Tripp, showing absolutely no curiosity as to why the police had interest in this information. “They kind of stood out, if you know what I mean. Not exactly light bedtime reading. Let me see.” He paused for several long moments to visualize these journals in his head. “Human Brain Mapping. That one comes to my memory the clearest. And then, um … the Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience. Either that or something really close. And then, ah, … the Journal of Applied Gerontology. I wouldn’t bet my life these are the exact titles, but I’m pretty sure.”

Griffin scribbled these names on the pad beside his other notes. He winked at Desh before thanking Tripp for his help and ending the call.

“Remarkable,” said Desh, his voice filled with respect. He had wanted to begin his search for Kira Miller by identifying the scientific journals he knew would be indispensible to her, but he had been far from certain this would be possible. But Griffin had done so almost instantly, and without even breaking a sweat.

“Quite effective, wouldn’t you say? If you have the computer skills to get information that establishes instant credibility, like dropping the name of the officer who interviewed Tripp, the world is your oyster. Once you’ve laid out your bone fides, people will tell you just about anything.”

“So it appears,” noted Desh with amusement. “Thanks for the demonstration.”

“You’re quite welcome,” said Griffin with a wide grin. “So now what?”

“Can you hack into each journal’s database of subscribers?”

“I’ll try not to be insulted that you phrased that as a question,” said Griffin. “That’s like asking Mozart if he can play chopsticks. This is why you’re paying me the big bucks,” he added, and then immediately began racing through icons and menus at an Olympic pace.

“Once you’re in, ah … Amadeus,” said Desh, “I’d like to focus in on people who bought online subscriptions to all three journals, or even two of the three, about nine months to a year ago. Chances are, this will be Kira Miller.”

“This might take a while,” warned Griffin. He got up and walked the few paces to his tiny kitchen, effortlessly lifting one of two large wicker chairs from around the small dinette and dropping it beside his own chair. Desh sat down appreciatively and continued to watch Griffin as he juggled multiple screens and programs with seemingly superhuman agility.

After about an hour he was finally able to hack into the journals’ systems, but his subsequent analysis of subscriber databases was fruitless. Over the past year, in fact, not a single person had begun subscribing to more than one of the three journals, either online or by snail-mail.

“She must have decided she could live without them while she was in hiding,” suggested Griffin.

Desh pursed his lips in concentration. His best chance to find her was to count on her not making mistakes. “All right, Matt,” said Desh, “let’s try a thought experiment. Let’s imagine she has your level of skill with computers,” he began.

Griffin looked amused at this thought. “My level of skill? My imagination may be prodigious, but that’s a lot to ask of it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Prodigious. Desh was amused once again at the giant’s choice of words. “I wouldn’t want to strain your imagination, Matt,” he said, rolling his eyes. “So let’s make this easy for you. Suppose you were on the lamb. And you knew that other computer experts were plugged in and trying like crazy to find you. Would you anticipate they’d try to track you through your online journal subscriptions like we just did?”

“Absolutely,” came the immediate reply.

“So what would you do if you were still determined to get journals you needed?”

Griffin considered. “I’d put up relays,” he responded after only a few seconds of thought. “I’d break through firewalls and shanghai any number of Internet-connected computers around the world, using them as relays, routing the incoming journals through a tangled web of these before it reached me. With enough relays, I’d be virtually untraceable.”

Desh considered. “And what if you didn’t want searchers to even have the satisfaction of knowing you were out there and receiving the journals,” he said. “Even if you were untraceable. What if you wanted the world to think you really had vanished—that you might be dead even?”

Griffin answered almost immediately. “In that case, I’d just hack into the journals and steal the subscriptions. Then there would be no subscriber record in the databases for experts to find. And you wouldn’t have to pay for it either,” he noted. “In fact, now that I think about it, that’s the best reason of all to do it this way.”

“To save money?

“No. To save an identity.”

Desh’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said as Griffin’s meaning registered. “Because the only way to buy an online subscription is by using a credit card.”

“Exactly,” said Griffin. “So if those searching for you uncovered your purchase, even if they couldn’t trace you, the false identity you used would be blown.”

“Okay. Suppose she did steal the subscriptions. Could you track such a theft?”

Griffin gazed at the ceiling as he considered the various facets of the problem. “I think so,” he said finally.

“Come on, Matt,” chided Desh. “Someone with your prodigious talent? Should be a snap for you.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” said Griffin.

“Good,” said Desh, determination burning in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly the way I intended it.”

Matt Griffin worked on the problem for an hour while Desh looked on patiently. As it neared lunchtime, Desh offered to go for takeout, an offer that Griffin readily accepted. Desh returned thirty-five minutes later carrying a paper sack containing a number of white, garden-variety Chinese takeout boxes and knocked on the door.

Griffin hurriedly undid the locks and opened the door with a broad, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his bearded face. “I did it,” he announced triumphantly.

“Fantastic!” said Desh, handing him the bag of Chinese food and shutting the door behind him. “What did you find?” he asked eagerly.

“You were right about her. She’s good. Very good.”

Griffin sat down at his desk chair and set the bag of food on the floor beside him. “If she really does have a background in biology rather than computers, I think she’s earned rookie of the year honors.”

Desh lifted the large wicker chair with one arm and moved it a few feet back so it was facing Griffin. Desh sat down, his eyes locked intently on the giant as he continued.

“It turns out that all three journals have a number of, ah … discount subscribers, shall we say, that they don’t know about. Somehow, considering the nature of these journals, that surprised me.”

“Didn’t think readers of such scholarly journals would engage in petty theft?”

Griffin nodded.

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” said Desh cynically. “So how did you sort through them to find her?” he pressed, not allowing the discussion to become sidetracked.

“Two of the journals were being siphoned to the same e-mail address as of about ten months ago. No other stolen subscriptions among the three journals had the same signature.”

“Good work,” said Desh appreciatively. “Now tell me the bad news.”

“What makes you think there is any?”

“It couldn’t be this easy.”

Griffin smiled. “You’re right, as it turns out. It’s a dead end. She’s more sophisticated than I had guessed. The e-mailed journals are routed through an impenetrable maze of computers. Even someone better than me—if such a person existed,” he added, grinning, “wouldn’t be able to trace through all the relays to find her computer.”

Desh frowned. “At least we know she’s still alive.”

“And still keeping up on the latest research,” added Griffin.

Desh nodded at the bag of food. “Dig in,” he offered.

Griffin went to the kitchen and returned with large plastic forks and the biggest cardboard plates Desh had ever seen, with a cheerful, orange-and-yellow floral pattern printed on each one. He handed a fork and plate to Desh, and dumped two full containers of cashew chicken along with a container of white rice on his plate. Desh slopped half a box of beef broccoli onto his own plate with some rice, and began picking at it, while Griffin shoveled the food into his giant maw as rapidly as he had navigated the Web.

“You’ve done a nice job, Matt,” said Desh. “We’ve made faster progress than I expected. But this is about where I thought we’d end up.”

“So any ideas of where to go from here?”

Desh nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, yes. We can’t trace her through all her relays, but can we use them to contact her?”

Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Interesting thought.”

“Well?” pressed Desh.

“Sure. It would be easy. Just name your message and I’ll send it,” he offered helpfully.

Desh held up a hand. “Not just yet,” he said. “I’d like to ping her first. Send in some tracking software that she’ll detect and defeat.”

“To what end?”

“So she knows someone’s out there turning over this particular rock looking for her.”

“You sure that’s a good idea? It gives her a warning. Also, it’s in her best interest to have as much information as possible about whoever is pursuing her. If I were her, I’d trace the ping back to us.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Desh with a thin smile. He rose and lifted his black laptop off the corner of Griffin’s desk. “I want you to set everything up on my laptop, so when she does trace the ping, she traces it back to me.” He paused. “Assuming she doesn’t already know my identity and that I’m after her. I wouldn’t rule that out,” he added warily. “Set up software that will watch for a breach and record everything possible about its source. I also want you to plant a tracer, so if she does invade my computer, it can latch on and follow the breadcrumb trail back to her.”

“She’ll be expecting that. I’ll try to plant a red herring for her to find and then a more subtle tracking program, but I suspect I won’t fool her.” Griffin shrugged. “Worth a try though,” he acknowledged.

Desh didn’t expect a tracer to work either. This wasn’t his real plan. What he hadn’t told Griffin was that he planned to imbed information on his computer for Kira Miller to find, indicating he was closing in on her. Perhaps he could force her hand. If she really thought he was skilled enough at pursuit to be dangerous to her, perhaps she would take the bait and come after him. It was the best strategy he had been able to come up with on the long drive from North Carolina. If you can’t bring the mountain to Mohamed …

Desh handed his laptop to Griffin and watched carefully as the giant worked his magic, downloading software and setting traps on his system.

About ten minutes into the exercise a troubled look came over Griffin’s face. He glanced at Desh but said nothing for several more minutes as he worked the mouse and keyboard. Finally, he stopped what he was doing and met Desh’s eyes worriedly. “I’m afraid your plan’s not going to work,” he said grimly.

Desh tilted his head in confusion. “Why not?”

“Because you were right. She does know you’re after her.”

“How in the world do you know that?”

“Because she’s already paid a visit to your computer,” explained Griffin evenly. “Last night.”

Desh felt his stomach clench. “You’re positive?”

“I’m afraid so. I confirmed it twice. She got through your firewall and invaded your computer. And she downloaded everything she needs.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“I mean everything. She has a copy of it all. Your hard drive, your e-mail logs—everything.” Griffin looked back at the computer monitor and shook his head in disbelief. “She may just be as good as me, after all,” he said with just a hint of admiration creeping into his voice.

Matt Griffin performed computer forensics on Desh’s laptop for several hours, but in the end was unable to come up with a single lead. Kira Miller had worn the computer equivalent of gloves for this theft, leaving no fingerprints or DNA behind to help give them a direction in which to search for her.

But Griffin did discover she had created a backdoor entrance for herself: one that would make future journeys into his laptop’s inner sanctum to retrieve this and other data routine, regardless of any added security.

Connelly’s suspicions were certainly warranted. There was a leak in USASOC—wide enough to steer a supertanker through. Whether this was due to a mole or otherwise was unclear, but it was the only way to explain how Kira Miller had known about Desh being put on the operation practically before he had known himself. She had been one step ahead of him before he had even taken a step, which was very troubling. If Griffin had not been placing sophisticated tracking software on his computer, Desh would never have known it had been compromised.

Kira Miller must have invaded the computers of all of Desh’s predecessors, only they had never discovered the intrusion. If they would have, Connelly would have warned him. Given her access to their computers, it was little wonder they had failed to find her. Not hard to avoid being caught when those searching for you were—quite literally—telegraphing their every move.

Desh knew he had almost been caught with his pants down. But he had been lucky. Once discovered, Kira Miller’s computer invasion played right into his hands. He wanted to lead her to his computer and plant false information: now he had the perfect conduit for this, one that was above suspicion. He instructed Griffin to leave the backdoor entrance alone.

Now, while Desh continued his search for her, he would be planning the specifics of his trap. He knew he needed to be patient. She would never believe he had closed in on her in only a day or two, so he would need to wait a while longer. And the more progress he made prior to setting his trap the better. The closer he got to her, the more clues he uncovered, the more convincingly he could craft his misinformation.

Desh returned to his high-rise apartment in the heart of Washington. He had chosen it almost entirely on the basis of its location and premium fitness center. While his daily workouts couldn’t compare to his regime while still with Delta, they still managed to keep him in excellent shape.

While upscale, the apartment was a bit cramped. Not that he cared. Being single, he didn’t need much room, and he traveled much of the time on protection assignments, anyway. Saving money while he determined what new course his life would take was more important than additional square footage. His apartment was tidy, but he had been too busy and too numb to personalize it in any way. His taste in art was eclectic, from the reality bending, impossible constructions of Escher, to the surrealism of Dali, to the serene, impressionistic work of Monet. Yet his framed reproductions of favorite works by these artists remained entombed in brown paper in his closet, a telling sign that his spirit had been sapped and he had slipped into a steady depression. Even more telling, he loved books beyond all else, and had collected many thousands over the years: but while being surrounded by shelf upon shelf of his favorites in their myriad of colors brought him great pleasure, he had yet to unbox them.

Connelly had read him perfectly. Even before Iran he had been contemplating leaving the military, struggling mightily with the decision. On the one hand, he had found friendship and camaraderie in Delta, and the importance of what he was doing could not be overstated. His work had saved thousands upon thousands of innocents from horrible suffering and death from dirty bombs, nerve toxins, train derailments, and the like, including children who were in some cases the principle targets of planned attacks, unconscionable as this was. Many Westerners were still blissfully unaware that the future of progressive society was anything but assured. Desh had been on the front lines and seen the fanaticism that threatened to turn the world’s clock back a thousand years. He was helping to defeat a rigid and destructive ideology. It was a fire that was blazing across the world that, if left unchecked, would surely consume civilization.

But he had also dreamed of settling down one day. Of becoming a father. Of raising a family. And if he remained in Delta, this was impossible. He was always on the move, being called away overseas on missions about which he couldn’t discuss with anyone—including a future wife. Being married was the sharing of two lives, and he would be unable to hold up his end of the bargain. And if he did have children, each time he left his family would wonder if this would be the time Daddy wouldn’t be coming back—or be coming back inside a body bag, in pieces—leaving his children fatherless. What kind of life would this be for them? The answer: no life at all. He had refused to even consider it.

But now he had no excuse not to pursue a wife or family. He was no longer in the military and soon wouldn’t even be involved in something as dangerous as executive protection. He had wallowed in self-pity long enough. Desh made a vow to himself: once he finished this final mission, he would find a way to get beyond what had happened in Iran and get on with his life.

He rummaged through his near empty refrigerator and found just enough leftover food to cobble together a dinner. He then spent several hours re-familiarizing himself with the contents of his laptop and the thousands of e-mails in his log. He needed to know the full extent of the data to which Kira Miller now had access.

Finally, he sat down in a comfortable chair in his living room and began reading the dossier on his quarry yet again. He knew he would probably read it dozens of times before this was over. And each time, as he learned more and more about her, he would bring a slightly different perspective to the material and would glean fresh insights.

Desh’s cell phone began vibrating, an unwelcome intrusion. He reached into his pocket, removed it, and examined the screen. It was a text message from Matt Griffin:

key discovery 4u. visit me asap. don’t call. computers, walls, phones: all might have ears.

The message drove Desh to a heightened state of awareness within seconds. Griffin had found something important and had reason to believe Kira had breached more than just Desh’s computer. Maybe Griffin was being overly cautious, maybe not, but Desh approved. He had liked the friendly hacker from the start, and the man had already demonstrated that his glowing reputation was well deserved.

Now it was time to find out if his computer expert had truly earned his pay.

Desh armed himself as usual, threw on an oxford shirt and windbreaker, and rushed to Griffin’s apartment, his mind racing almost as fast as his armored Suburban. The traffic was light, but even so the trip should have taken forty-five minutes. He made it in just over thirty.

Desh felt butterflies in his stomach as he strode briskly through the short, musty corridor of Griffin’s building, anxious to learn what the giant had uncovered. He passed several doors until he came to number 14D. He rapped once on the door and waited, staring at the peephole to help Griffin make a quick identification.

He waited for Griffin to disengage the deadbolt and chain as he had done before, but instead the handle began to turn. Years in the field had trained his subconscious to set off alarms when it encountered anything unexpected, no matter how small, even before his conscious mind could reason out why. He instantly became hyper-alert, just as a woman emerged from behind the door with a gun aimed at his chest.

Already moving forward in anticipation of trouble, Desh lashed out with his right arm to knock the gun lose, and at the same time threw his body sideways to offer a smaller target. But even as he lunged, he realized the woman had anticipated this move, and had begun backpedaling rapidly. She fired as she moved backwards, but despite her rapid retreat, she was forced to jerk her arm aside to avoid Desh’s vicious blow.

If the gun had contained bullets, Desh would have won the day. Despite her quick action and reflexes, he had interfered with her aim enough that the shot only hit his leg, and even injured in this way he would have been on his attacker in an instant, easily able to overpower her.

But she hadn’t fired bullets. She had fired electricity.

With a stun gun, a hit to the leg was just as effective as a hit to the chest. Instead of bullets, two electrode darts had leapt from her gun and stuck like Velcro to Desh’s pants, discharging their massive electric payload in an instant. The electricity completely overwhelmed the tiny electrical signals his brain was sending to control his muscles, causing him to convulse and collapse to the floor, disoriented and paralyzed.

From the instant his assailant had emerged from behind the door, he had known she could only be one person: Kira Miller.

A vague realization came across Desh’s addled mind that he was now sprawled on the floor, completely and utterly helpless, while one of the most dangerous women in the world stood calmly over him.