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“They’re working on one of the engines,” Spencer said. “Otherwise I’d be game.”

“Give Alex here a list of anything you’ll need, and he’ll source it for you in Thailand,” Collins said.

Allie wrote down some basic expedition requirements, and then passed it to Drake, who added a few items. Spencer read it slowly and then jotted down his own requests. When he was done, he handed it to Alex, who looked it over and stopped at Spencer’s notes. “That’s a lot of firepower,” he said.

“That’s drug-runner territory, right? You seriously expect us to go in with peashooters?” Spencer fired back.

“You could start a war with that.”

Collins sighed impatiently. “Whatever they want, we’ll arrange. Alex, we’re running late. We still have a lot to do before the flight.” He turned to Drake and Allie. “You have your passports? Everything’s current?”

“Of course,” Allie said.

Spencer nodded.

“Then I’ll see you at LAX. Ten sharp,” Alex said.

They watched the two CIA men leave, and Drake turned to Spencer. “What did you think?”

Spencer took a long breath and stood, rolling his head to work out a kink in his neck. “What I think is that Alex might be a problem in the field. He didn’t seem to want us to have guns, or at least not anything worth mentioning. Other than that, I think the odds of us finding either a plane or a green Buddha in that jungle are about as good as my becoming a lingerie model in Milan.”

Drake made a face. “I need eye bleach to erase that from my imagination.”

Allie laughed. “We just might surprise you, Mr. Negative.” She rose and eyed Spencer. “Now, are you going to invite me for a ride in that bumblebee you have sitting outside, or am I going to have to steal the keys?”

“Drake almost wrecked it yesterday. Man’s a menace on the road,” Spencer said.

“I did not,” Drake protested, but he was smiling.

“Then let’s race your FJ against my Lambo and get a decent meal, because once we’re over there, it’s all going to be monkey brains and bugs.”

“I am not dining on monkey brains. Or bugs,” Allie said with a frown of distaste.

“Don’t worry. They won’t tell you what you’re eating. But if you find a carapace in your soup, just smile. It’s considered rude to complain.”

Chapter 8

Chicago, Illinois

Elliot London switched off the drive-time radio program he listened to every evening rush hour as he entered his neighborhood, a collection of single-story Midwestern homes in the sort of middle-class enclave typically given a name like Myrtle Cove or Arlington Ridge. Elliot’s subdivision was Bel Aire Forest, with the closest things to a tree the two struggling spruce that had been planted at the community entrance. He’d lived there for eight years in relative peace and comfort with his wife, Diane, and twin five-year-old daughters.

He’d worked his way up at the newspaper from a cub reporter to a seasoned investigative journalist, and was used to irregular hours and constant pressure when running down a story. Elliot had been honored by several professional organizations for his coverage of local and national politics, and had broken stories that had forced a congressman to resign in shame, an attorney general candidate to decline his nomination, a high-profile priest to be charged with pedophilia, and numerous city councilmen to be hauled off in cuffs.

The hate mail came with the territory. As his father, also a journalist, used to say, if you weren’t pissing people off, you weren’t doing your job. Of course, his dad had operated in a different environment from today’s corporate jungle, where only six conglomerates owned all the media outlets. Like it or not, Elliot had to tread carefully lest he be downsized in one of the endless reorganizations or mergers that were a constant in the business — he had a mortgage to pay and private school tuition to cover, as well as one of his daughter’s special education needs and medications, so he tempered his zeal with what he viewed as sensible restraint.

Elliot eased into the driveway of his ranch house and sighed with relief when he shut the engine off. Another brutal day at an end, and his family to look forward to. He caught himself in the rearview mirror and shook his head at the middle-aged man looking back, puffy bags under his eyes, hair so sparse he bore almost no resemblance to his college photos, and jowls beginning to show the effects of time and gravity. Where had the good years gone? he wondered, and then shook off the introspection. No point in beating himself up over what couldn’t be changed.

He walked up the path to his front door and took great pains to make sufficient noise unlocking it so his daughters would hear him. They delighted in greeting him at the end of every workday, and he cherished the experience as much as they did, painfully aware that soon they’d be grown, and he, older still.

The two girls came running down the hall toward the tiny foyer, and he smiled as they neared. “Daddy, Daddy!” they cried in unison, grime smudged on their faces from some unsupervised mischief they’d gotten into while their mother was preparing dinner, no doubt.

“Hailey, Casey, I swear you got more beautiful while I was gone. How is that even possible?” Elliot asked with feigned astonishment as he set his briefcase down and hugged them close.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” Diane called from the kitchen. Diane was a third grade teacher and finished her workday hours before Elliot got home. It was a good pairing and had withstood the test of time.

“Not bad. Tilting at windmills. Bringing the powerful to their knees. Righting wrongs. The usual,” Elliot said, releasing his offspring and standing.

“Oh, before I forget. Another one of those computer things came through the mail slot today. I’m guessing it’s for you.”

“Where is it?” Elliot asked, waggling his eyebrows at his daughters to delighted giggles.

“On the dinner table.”

“Thanks. Speaking of dinner…”

“It’s lasagna. Be ready in a half hour.”

“Heart healthy, right? Extra cheese and sauce?”

“Why bother making it if you’re going to skimp?”

Elliot entered the dining room and spied the small gray flash drive by his water glass. He was used to such clandestine drops — both here and at the office. For some reason whistleblowers tended to favor searching out his home address, which was readily locatable with even marginal computer skills, and he’d been receiving envelopes, CDs, photos, and now flash drives for most of his career.

He moved into his office and plugged the drive into one of his USB ports and, after scanning it with antivirus software, clicked on the menu and surveyed the contents. A screen popped up informing him that the drive was password protected. He squinted at the message. It made no sense: it asked for the last six digits of his mistress’s phone number.

The only problem was he had no mistress. He’d always been faithful to his wife, and hadn’t even had a flirtation of any note.

He scratched his head, and then an idea occurred to him. He sometimes joked about his boss, Lenny Cox, being his mistress, since work kept him from home so much.

Elliot entered the last six digits and pressed enter. An error message popped up.

“What? But that’s the number!” he said out loud.

Another thought came to him. Lenny’s extension was 408. He entered the last three digits of the phone number and then the extension and hit return.

The drive flashed several times and another screen appeared. He was in.

There was an introductory file in Word labeled “Read First.” He opened it and did as instructed, taking in the contents rapidly, his reading speed triple that of a layman.

Fifteen minutes later he stood and called out to Diane. “Honey, I’ve got a hot one. Really big. I need to go into the office.”