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Alex called her colleague at MI-5 and explained about her visit to GRAIL and the interrogation of James Salt. He told her to drive Salt’s car to an address in Kensington not far from Five’s headquarters on the River Thames.

“What about Scotland Yard?” she asked.

Who? Now move it.”

Alex checked the surroundings. She noted a couple walking beneath some trees fifty yards away. She turned full-circle. No one else was nearby.

Corpses were heavy and ungainly. It required all of her strength to shift Salt to the passenger seat. When she slid behind the wheel, she noted that her clothing was matted with Salt’s blood. She buttoned her blazer and raised the collar to camouflage as much of it as possible.

Alex fired the engine, then spun the car in a one-eighty and left the park.

McVeigh called back five minutes later. “You haven’t contacted GRAIL again, have you?”

The anger was gone from her voice. It was operational McVeigh speaking. Alex had her reprieve. “Chris Rees-Jones called Salt a few minutes ago, but I didn’t answer. I listened to the message. Apparently she’s considering going to the company’s solicitors to admit her part in this thing before it blows up even further.”

“Good. I’ve spoken to Five. They’ve agreed to take your evidence to a magistrate straightaway. Between what’s happened on our turf and what happened over there, he should be able to obtain a warrant to storm GRAIL’s offices and Salt’s home.”

“Nice,” said Alex. The British didn’t mess around when it came to thwarting terrorist attacks. If a corner needed to be cut, so be it. They’d glue it back in place afterward.

“We’re pulling the director out of a breakfast meeting on Capitol Hill to deal with this,” continued McVeigh. “It’s clear he’ll have to go to the British PM. That means the president will have to be read in. You’re really putting the special relationship to the test.”

“Jan, I need a favor. About that South African e-mail address. Salt called someone named Skinner with a South African phone number immediately after talking to GRAIL.” Alex read off the number. “Give that to the boys in Tech. See if they can ping it, find out where Mr. Skinner is. If my hunch is correct, we’re not going to like the answer.”

“We’ll need a warrant for that.”

“The tape should do the trick.”

“You’re pushing things, kid.”

“Salt has a contact in the embassy here. He knew I wasn’t in England on official assignment.” Alex read off Salt’s number and gave the exact time of the call. “Trace it and let’s find out who he has on the payroll at the embassy and who his contact called in the Bureau.”

“Any ideas?”

“Someone in our office. Guarantee it.”

69

The house in McLean, Virginia, was a large two-story redbrick with black shutters and a lawn jockey out front to greet the guests. Astor held the knocker in his hand and waited until precisely 7:30 to rap three times. A man in the throes of dressing for work answered almost immediately. “Yes?”

“Mr. Nossey. I’m Bobby Astor. Sorry to disturb you so early, but I believe my father came by to see you on Sunday. May I come in?”

Nossey was slim and olive-skinned, with hair cut to the scalp and deep-set brown eyes. He wore khaki pants and a company polo shirt with Britium sewn above the left breast. Astor was in the right place.

“I’ve been expecting somebody,” said Nossey. “But I thought it would be the FBI or the police.”

“No law enforcement agents have been by?”

“Just you. I take it you’re not an agent or anything.”

“I’m a hedge fund manager. I live in New York.”

A light went on behind Nossey’s eyes. “Comstock?”

“That’s me.”

Nossey sipped from a coffee mug with the words U.S.S. DALLAS on its side. “Come in. I’m just about to shove off for work.”

“That your ship?” asked Astor, pointing to the mug.

“Sub, actually. I put in ten years aboard a nuke. In this house, a door’s a hatch, the floor’s the deck, and the bathroom is the head. Wife hates it. Kids think it’s fun as all get-out.” Nossey looked over Astor’s shoulder at the Sprinter parked at the curb. “Yours?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s bigger than some of the boats I served on. There a driver somewhere in there?”

“There is.”

“Why don’t you drive with me to the office? We can talk on the way. I have a call at nine I can’t miss. The new owners.” Nossey rolled his eyes.

“Sure thing.”

It took Nossey another ten minutes to finish his coffee, kiss his three children goodbye, and pat his golden retriever. Astor stood at the kitchen door, witnessing the daily ritual. He thought of his own daughter, Katie, currently vacationing in New Hampshire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her in the morning before he went to work, or for that matter when he came home. The office was his wife, mistress, and child, rolled into one. He wouldn’t apologize for it, but he could at least give her a call to say hi and tell her that he loved her.

After this meeting, he told himself.

Promise.

Astor and Nossey sat in the front of a Ford Explorer cruising at 70 miles per hour along the George Washington Parkway. The Potomac flowed to their right, green and lazy. The Sprinter followed behind, more of a bodyguard than Sullivan would ever be.

“You look like him.”

“I’m taller,” said Astor.

“I’m sorry about what happened. Any news?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I’m trying to look into what happened myself. I found your address in my father’s home. He had several articles about Britium, too. You’re not planning on listing on the New York Stock Exchange anytime soon?”

“We just got bought up by Watersmark. You must know that.”

Astor nodded. “So my dad was here on other business.”

Nossey took his cue. “He surprised me, too. I mean, he didn’t call or anything. He just showed up Sunday morning on my doorstep.”

“We have our reasons for showing up unannounced.”

Nossey waited, but Astor didn’t elaborate. “Anyway,” Nossey continued, “he was eager to learn about the company. He said he wanted to hear everything about us, A to Z. I tried to put him off. It was Sunday and the kids had a baseball game. He didn’t care. I figured if he’d come all the way down here, it must be important. I sent the kids off with my wife. He came inside and I told him.”

Astor listened intently as Nossey gave his CEO’s speech. Britium had started out ten years earlier writing application control software, code that automated infrastructure technology, translating varying computer protocols into a common, easily understood language.

“In English, please,” said Astor.

“Sorry. You Wall Street guys are pretty wonky. You usually get off on the lingo.”

“Layman’s terms will be fine.”

“In a nutshell, we write software that allows a person or a business to control and operate any kind of electronic device, anywhere in the world, via the Internet.”

“Exactly what kind of electronic device?”

“Anything. We can help a power grid monitor the temperature of all its turbines and control their speed. Or allow a supervisor to check out a security system from a remote location, to adjust lighting in a building, to control air-conditioning, check out a company’s phone system. You name it.”

“Can it control an elevator?”

“An elevator? Sure. It can control anything. And the beauty of it is that it can be done from an easy-to-use interface, kind of like a universal remote control. Take, for example, a hospital. You have all kinds of independent systems running in there. One computer system controls the security system-alarms, cameras, all that. Another runs the employee timekeeping and access system. Still another governs the heating and plumbing. And so on. The problem is that each runs on its own protocol, or language. It’s important for one person to be able to control all of those separate and independent systems from a single location. Our software translates the differing protocols into a common language. Think of it as controlling your TV, Blu-ray, and DVR via a single device from your armchair.”