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A plan began to take shape, and DeBolt sent two new commands: Mobile phone numbers for Ronald Anderson, Marta Kaminski.

As he waited for a response, it occurred to him that there were certainly dozens, if not hundreds, of people with the same names — just as any Google search would produce multiple Trey DeBolts. Yet moments ago he’d been gathering information on these specific individuals, and he suspected it would carry forward — the software or technician doing the heavy lifting, whoever and wherever they were, would make the association. Slowly, painstakingly, he was learning how META worked.

Two phone numbers arrived. He touched the burner phone inside his pocket, calculating how to create the geometry he wanted. More critically, how to do it without raising complications on the other side of the Atlantic. DeBolt needed Ronald Anderson’s passport. He needed him to miss his flight, and not realize his passport had been stolen. Or …

DeBolt left his phone in his pocket and checked the terminal clock. He input a third command tentatively, not sure if it was even possible: Capture 555-321-5728 at 5:02 Eastern Standard Time.

As he waited, DeBolt saw the provisional lovers lock in a long kiss. A parting kiss. Come on …

Then:

555-321-5728 FOUND

DATA AND MOBILE DISCONNECT SET 5:02 EST

PROXY ENABLED

Marta Kaminski turned away and walked toward the exit, her extraordinarily round behind the center of Ronald Anderson’s world. She did so unaware that in precisely two minutes her phone would be hijacked.

43

Lund had spent the entire day, and most of the previous night, at the St. Elizabeths campus, headquarters of the United States Coast Guard. Until now she’d known the place as no more than an address for emails and a hub for conference calls. Like most Coast Guardsmen, she’d never actually set foot inside. She was glad the complex was situated where it was, physically removed from the Pentagon and the greater D.C. establishment. Until she learned what she and DeBolt were up against, or more precisely who, she was determined to tread carefully.

Unfortunately, as was often the case, treading carefully produced nothing. Lund had one close friend in the building, Lieutenant Commander Sarah Wells, whom she’d worked with in San Diego. Wells had made the move to headquarters six months ago, and was happy to help Lund when she’d shown up this morning. That was nine hours ago, and Wells had been sidestepping meetings all day to help Lund mine information.

“I’m sorry, Shannon,” Wells said, looking over the latest search results on her desktop monitor, “but I’m just not seeing anything on this META Project. If it exists, it’s got to be black, something really deep. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Lund replied, “actually it might. What about my suspect, the guy who flew into Kodiak?”

“Douglas Wilson of Missoula, Montana. I tried to pull up the airline manifests for that day, like Petty Officer Kalata did. Problem is, the records seem to have fallen out of the system. I even double-checked with Homeland Security. Nobody can find them.”

“But they were there — Jim found them. And he tracked down that picture I gave you this morning.”

“I know. I’ve never seen data disappear like that — but for whatever reason, it’s gone. I uploaded the photo and searched for a match, but it came up blank. Either the resolution wasn’t good enough, or there simply wasn’t a match on file. Wish I could be more help. Did you get anything more on this case up in Boston?”

While Wells had attacked the issues of META and Douglas Wilson, an increasingly distressed Lund had followed up on the murders.

“I know five men were killed in a house in Watertown. The initial reports filed by the investigators don’t ask for help in identifying victims, which tells me they know who they are. Unfortunately, the names haven’t been released, not even through law enforcement channels.”

“Is there a particular name you’re looking for?”

Actually one I’m hoping isn’t on the list, thought Lund. She said, “Well … maybe this Douglas Wilson guy.” She shuffled through a report she’d printed out. “I’d like your opinion on something, Sarah. The primary point of contact here is an Army CID special agent with an address in Boston.”

“Army? I thought the FBI was running it.”

“So did I. Last night I saw FBI-jacketed investigators on the news. Could the Army have taken this over — booted the feds off the case?”

“Not an easy thing to do, but I guess it’s possible. Let see if Army CID has put anything out.” Wells banged away at her computer. The results didn’t take long. “Voilà! Not much else, but they did put out a list of the victims.”

Lund inhaled sharply as Wells rotated the monitor to give her a better look. One by one she read off five names and ranks. Two Army, two Navy, one Air Force. None named Trey DeBolt.

“You all right?” Wells asked. “You look, like, a little pale.”

“Yeah … I’m good. I had a long night.”

Wells got up. “Well, sorry, but I’ve got to get to a staff meeting. If you’re still around in the morning we can have another go at this. Maybe the Army will have put out a progress report by then.”

“Yeah, okay. And thanks for your help, Sarah, I really appreciate it.”

The two shook hands in the hall outside Wells’ office. Lund walked toward the exit wondering where to go from here. There was no doubt in her mind that the house in Boston was the one where she’d been held yesterday. Learning that Trey was not among the victims was an incredible relief, and the idea that he could have been responsible for the carnage didn’t warrant consideration. So what had happened then? Had a different group of commandos arrived? Was a competing service or another country involved? Could Trey have fallen into someone else’s hands? Whatever the case, she knew it had to do with META.

Lund had just reached the main entrance when her phone trilled. She looked at the screen hoping to see the number she’d seen last night — Trey’s burner phone. It was different. But maybe the next best thing.

“Hi, Jim. Did you find—”

“You bitch! You cheating, lying—”

Lund jerked the phone away from her ear, both the words and volume ringing in her head. She said to the distant microphone, “Who … who is this?”

She heard a rattle over the line, like the phone was getting jostled, followed by a hushed conversation. A new voice came on the line, one she recognized immediately. “Shannon … it’s Frank Detorie. Look, I’m sorry about that—”

“Who was that?” Lund cut in. “And why is she calling me on Jim’s phone?”

A hesitation. “It was his wife, Shannon. We’re at the morgue, and she got hold of Jim’s phone and—”

“Morgue? Why are you at the morgue?”

An even longer pause, then in a muted tone, “I brought her here to identify Jim’s body.”

Lund felt as though she’d taken a punch, the air expelling from her chest. “What happened?”

“I wish I didn’t have to tell you this way. His wife found his damned phone among his possessions, and she saw a string of texts that—”

“Texts? Frank, what the hell happened?”

“Hang on.” She heard more hushed conversation. Soon it turned heated, and at the end she caught, “… you need to wait outside!” Detorie came back on the line. “Jim was killed this morning, Shannon.”

Lund leaned into the portico’s concrete-block wall.