“No. It was an accident.” I pulled out to pass a dawdling minivan. “The kind of thing that happens when you mix Carolyn, alcohol, and heavy pieces of domestic equipment.”
“I see. So you recovered the stick and … the guy … what happened? He jumped you?”
I nodded, and a shiver ran through me. It wasn’t an episode I had any desire to revisit.
“One thing puzzles me, Marc. You went to all that trouble to hang on to the memory stick. Why turn around and give it to your friend?”
“Weimann? He wasn’t really my friend. But I needed help. And he was the only one I could think of.”
“You couldn’t think of me?”
“I didn’t know if you were still alive.”
McKenna nodded, as if conceding the point.
“The papers say you killed Weimann, Marc.”
I felt my chest tighten, and I involuntarily eased off the gas.
“Did you?”
“God, no.”
“Who torched his place?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“What were you two working on?”
“We started with the virus. That was a dead end, so I dipped into the AmeriTel data. And I found something crucial. Mike Millan? Their finance chief? Someone sent him an email, late last Saturday night. Right before their board decided to revise their bandwidth bid.”
“You think this Millan guy received a tip? An illegal one?”
“Definitely. The email was sent to his Hotmail account, and Millan forwarded it to his work address. That was a huge mistake, because it made it visible. To me, anyway. So they fired me before I could do anything with the data.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Absolutely.”
“OK. I’ll get you set up with the fraud guys, and they can take it from there.”
“I’ll give them whatever they need. But there’s more going on here than just fraud. I know where the email came from.”
“Where?”
“The White House.” I braced for a reaction, but I didn’t get one. “Its origin was pretty well disguised, but we tracked it.”
“You’re talking about high-level corruption? The AmeriTel boys had a tip from the top?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” I swerved to avoid the squashed remains of a skunk. “What I think is this: The virus was already at the White House, and it spread to AmeriTel via the crooked email. Brooking’s theory is backwards. If I’m right, and you’re the one to straighten her out, that’s got to be worth something to you, right? You could be the one who stops an attack on the White House. You could get a commendation? A medal?”
“Oh, Marc.” A grin spread across McKenna’s face. “That’s priceless. But make me a promise? When this is all done, go back to your computers. James Bond, you’re not.”
“What?” I didn’t get the joke.
“When we found out the virus was targeted at the White House, where do you think was the first place we looked?”
“The White House?”
“Right. And yes, the virus was already there. Sent from AmeriTel. That’s why three state functions got moved this week. And next week’s are all canceled, too.”
“Sounds like chicken and egg to me, with the virus.”
“You could be right, I guess. But it would be a hell of a coincidence. We think AmeriTel’s ARGUS node was the insertion point. It’s not likely the virus would loop back around to the same place it started, because of a separate fraud thing.”
“You’re sure the fraud thing’s separate?”
“I am.” McKenna took out his phone and started to type. “But you know what? We haven’t specifically checked. It would be wrong to rule it out. I’m getting my guys onto it right away. And because it’s you, Marc, if you are right, I’m not going to take any of the credit. I’m going to let you take everything that’s coming to you.”
Saturday. Late morning.
FROM A DISTANCE, THE ROTUNDA INN LOOKED LIKE A BROKEN cartwheel with only three spokes remaining. Then, from the parking lot, like a Mercedes logo with no outer circle. But either way, Reception was in the hub at its center. It had sliding glass doors that faced the parking lot—curved to match the building’s contours—and a transparent dome covering the check-in area. From there, the residential wings radiated outward, and each was painted a different primary color.
Ours was red.
“Wait here a second.” McKenna knocked on a door halfway down the corridor. “There’s something I have to check on. Then I’ll get the key for your room.”
The door opened, and I recognized the woman who’d been driving the sports car when I’d been rescued from Peever’s people on, when, Wednesday? It felt like years ago. McKenna disappeared inside, leaving me to wrestle a sudden urge to run again, and when he emerged a couple of minutes later he was holding a little cardboard wallet.
“You’re in 112, down the hall. The place is a little primitive, I’m afraid. It was probably cool when it was built, but now all it’s got going is a weird shape, the most basic cable package known to man, and rates low enough to make Uncle Sam’s nightly allowance look generous.”
“I don’t care, as long as no one’s shooting at me. But what if someone sees me and calls 911? I don’t want the cops smashing down my door.”
“Don’t worry. The staff here know we’re federal agents. They know not to interfere. And the local P.D. knows to liaise with us before mounting any kind of operation. You’re safe here. Just don’t set foot outside without me or one of my people, OK?”
“What about my things? I left my suitcase in the car. Can I at least go get it?”
“No. But give me your keys and I’ll have it brought to you.”
MCKENNA DELIVERED MY CASE HIMSELF, five minutes later.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Be my guest. I’d offer you a seat, if I had one.”
“Thanks. But I won’t stay long. I just have a quick question. One of the loose ends we’re tying up. It’s about your friend Weimann. Did he give you the memory stick back, before he … before the …”
“Before the fire? No. He didn’t have it. He gave it to the virus guy, remember?”
“He didn’t, actually. The virus guy told me Weimann made him copy it, then he took it away with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“The guy had no reason to lie. So if you don’t have it, that leaves a wrinkle. Odds are it got destroyed in the … house, but I’d prefer to know for sure.”
McKenna’s words had prompted another explanation: I’d been on my way to talk to Weimann last night because I knew he’d been in touch with Carolyn. I’d made assumptions as to why. But what if I was wrong? What if Weimann hadn’t been getting something from her? What if it was the other way round? Carolyn had been desperate to get her hands on the memory stick from minute one. Could she have found out he had it? And made a deal?
Suddenly the theory took on a much darker shade. One of the thugs Carolyn was hooked up with had been to our house. He’d tried to kill me because I had one of the sticks. Last night Weimann had taken a stick, and now he was dead. Killed at his house.
A 9mm. A box of matches. What’s the difference?
Carolyn’s thugs already knew where I lived. And Weimann would have been easy to follow after he’d rendezvoused with her. Cars like ours stand out a mile.
That was the clincher. The matching Jaguars.
The murderer thought Weimann was me.
“Are you OK, Marc? You look like you’re going to puke.”
“No. I’m not sick. But something just hit me. Weimann’s death? It was my fault.”
I walked him through the logic, slowly, step by step.
“Don’t blame yourself about your friend,” he said, when I was finished. “But your wife? With the memory stick? That could be a problem.”