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  Rudy Sanchez entered the conference room, closed the door, and looked around. The room was empty except for the two of them. Most of the lights were out except for a single table lamp with a green globe whose glow barely illuminated the cut-glass carafe of water, two elegant glasses, and the plate of cookies. The only other object was Mr. Church’s laptop, and as Rudy sat, Church consulted the screen, tapped a few keys, and closed the computer.

  Church poured them each a glass of water and handed one to Rudy.

  “I hear that Captain Ledger is throwing you a bachelor party,” said Church without preamble.

  “That is my understanding,” said Rudy after only the slightest pause.

  Church sipped his water and set his glass aside. Even in this gloom he wore tinted glasses.

  There was no sound in the room. No clock ticked on the wall, no faucet dripped, no exterior sounds intruded. Rudy sat and waited.

  After almost a full minute, Church selected a vanilla wafer, bit off a piece, munched it quietly, and set the rest of the cookie down atop his closed laptop.

  “Doctor,” said Church, “you know that Circe is my only living relative.”

  He made it a statement, but Rudy responded, “Yes, of course.”

  “You know that I keep the nature of our relationship confidential.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  Then, “There are many people who would give a lot to have a lever they could use against me. If they knew that Circe was my daughter, then they would have that lever.”

  “I—” Rudy began, but Church held up a finger. It was a small gesture, the index finger lifted an inch.

  “In a different kind of world, Doctor, this would be the point where I, as the father, would have a frank and open discussion with the man who wanted to marry my daughter.”

  “I suppose,” agreed Rudy. “Yes.”

  “A discussion filled with advice and cautions.”

  “Yes.”

  Church picked up the cookie, tapped some crumbs off it, and ate it slowly. He had a sip of water. He ate another cookie. He had some more water. Seconds passed with infinite slowness. Then minutes.

  Mr. Church ate a third cookie. He did it slowly, taking small bites, chewing thoroughly, washing it down with sips of water. Five minutes passed.

  Ten.

  In all that time there was no sound in the room except for the faint crunching of the cookies. Rudy did not move. He did not reach for a cookie. He sat and watched Mr. Church, who sat and looked at him. Behind the barrier of tinted lenses, Mr. Church’s eyes were almost invisible and totally unreadable.

  After a dozen minutes had burned to cold ashes, Mr. Church stood up.

  “I believe we understand each other,” he said.

  And quietly walked out of the room.

  Leaving Rudy there. Confused, bathed in sweat. More than a little terrified.

  “Dios mío,” he breathed.

  Now

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” insisted Rudy, but he was laughing, too.

  Then we both got calls at almost the same time.

  “Mr. Church is calling me,” said Rudy. “You don’t suppose he was listening?”

  “No, you paranoid freak. Something’s up. He’ll fill you in. But Bug’s calling me. Catch you later, brother.”

  Before Rudy disconnected he asked, “Is everything okay, Joe?”

  “Is it ever?”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Over the Atlantic, due east of Hilton Head

  Sunday, October 20, 7:26 a.m.

  “Hey, Tully, we’re getting something,” said Aldo. “An update from Bones. He says that they managed to put a bunch of those pigeon drones on most of the DMS offices. He forwarded this clip from the Warehouse in Baltimore. One of the drones is on the ledge outside of the Deacon’s office window.”

  He turned up the volume and replayed a series of audio clips. They were conversations between the Deacon and various individuals. The Ghost Box voice recognition software pinged the other parties as Captain Joe Ledger, Dr. Rudy Sanchez, Secret Service Director Linden Brierly, and computer expert Jerome Taylor. They listened to all the calls.

  Most of it was intel they already had, but Aldo replayed one section over again. Jerome Taylor — the geek they called “Bug”—was telling Church and Ledger about a UFO expert living in a lighthouse.

  Aldo’s face went pale. He switched the audio files off and turned to Tull. “We are in some deep shit, son.”

  Tull grunted. “Why do you say that?”

  “Didn’t you listen? Ledger’s going after Junie Flynn.”

  “Why is that a problem? She’s a civilian.”

  Aldo gaped at him. “Are you serious? She’s way too dangerous to—”

  But Tull shook his head. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, Aldo. You always look at these things like piecework. You need to step back and look at all of this as one project, not a bunch of items to be checked off a list. Junie Flynn is dangerous, no doubt, but she’s only as dangerous as M3 wants her to be.”

  “Bullshit, Tull. They should have let me clip her when she first started talking about the Black Book.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why? Dude, if it wasn’t for her nobody outside of the Project would ever had even heard about the Black Book, that’s why.”

  “And that is exactly why the governors gave a no-touch order.”

  “That doesn’t make any kind of sense,” groused Aldo.

  “Sure it does, but not from close up. You have to step way back and look at it from a distance. M3 see things from a big-picture perspective.”

  Aldo eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know about this stuff? Since when are you that far into this that you know the inside track?”

  Tull laughed. “I was born into it.”

  That shut Aldo up for a few seconds. Then he said, “So what do we do about this? This Ledger character’s on his way to pick her up.”

  “Hey,” said Tull, “we’re quarterbacking this thing, remember? You and me. What do you think we should do?”

  Aldo considered. “Big picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m leaning toward a scorched earth approach, man. I don’t want to engage these cats hand-to-hand. Not that I’m turning into a pussy in my old age, but I’ve read the reports. I don’t need that kind of grief.”

  Tull reached over and patted Aldo’s thigh. “You see, now you’re getting the idea. That, my friend, is a big-picture way of handling things.”

  “You agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The Oval Office, the White House

  Sunday, October 20, 7:29 a.m.

  Acting president William Collins closed his eyes and smiled as he listened to the detailed information being shared with him by the attorney general. There was an almost orgasmic flush sweeping through his body in hot waves. Each word, each detail, each amount, brought him closer to an actual physical response, he could feel it in his loins.

  When Mark Eppenfeld, the attorney general was finished speaking, Collins had to clear his throat and take a sip of water before he trusted his voice to speak.

  “And all of this is verified?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said the AG. “Once I got the tip I had it verified by three separate sources.”

  “What are the chances that this is a frame job?” asked Collins. “Could these funds have been placed in Ledger’s account?”

  “If the money just appeared there, sir, I would say yes, but I have printouts of Ledger’s banking records going back fourteen months. There is a clear pattern of deposits. As you know deposits of ten thousand dollars or more are reported by banks, so what we’re seeing are multiple deposits in smaller amounts of three to six thousand, but there are a lot of them, and they’re spread out over a number of accounts. Plus there are purchases of IRAs, bonds, and other products that establish that Ledger has bee
n trying to hide some of the money, or keep it off the IRS radar. We got his tax returns for last year and more than ninety percent of this money was never reported. And, sir, that doesn’t even take into account money paid into his brother’s bank account, and the rather large sums that appear to have been sent to numbered accounts. We’re going to have to get subpoenas for that, though the Cayman Island banks will stonewall us.”

  “How much, Mark? Give me a ballpark figure.”

  Eppenfeld sighed heavily. “It’s bad, Mr. President. Adding in the bank accounts, guesses on the offshore deposits, the certificates, and bonds, we’re talking just shy of four million. But that might be the tip of the iceberg. We have Treasury and FBI at Ledger’s apartment now and they’ve found paper records of cash purchases.”

  “What kind of purchases?” asked Collins, feeling that throb deep in his groin.

  “Real estate. Five properties, paid for in cash.”

  “Jesus. And this is all legit? None of this is planted? I need to know that we’re not being handed a live hand grenade here, Mark.”

  “I don’t think so. We’ve run down two of the Realtors so far and they’ve identified Ledger from photos. No … he’s dirty.”

  Collins gripped the phone so hard the plastic case creaked. “Why would he be this clumsy about it?”

  “He’s not being clumsy,” said the AG. “We didn’t know about this until Funke at the IRS picked out some anomalies in banking records being matched against government employee tax returns. Otherwise, Ledger might have flown under the radar for at least a few more months, and who knows what he would have cooked up by then to hide this. If he was even still in the country. With his knowledge and resources he could go off the radar at the drop of a hat. He still might if we don’t move on him quickly.”

  Collins swiveled his chair around to stare out the window. The White House lawn never looked so clean and bright and beautiful before.

  “And Deacon?”

  “Well,” said Eppenfeld heavily, “that’s a different kettle of fish. By executive order all of his records and personal information are sealed.”

  “How do we unseal them?”

  The attorney general was slow to answer. “That’s problematic, sir. Mr. Church has a great many friends in Congress and if we push too hard or too fast and it turns out that he is not involved in Ledger’s criminal activities, then we lose those people.”

  “You’re afraid of Church?”

  “I … respect who and what he is.”

  “Who and what he appears to be, you mean.”

  “No, sir,” said Eppenfeld. “I respect Mr. Church and even now, with all this about Ledger coming to light, I find it extremely difficult to believe that he is involved in any criminal misconduct.”

  That took some of the joy out of the moment. “Ledger is the Deacon’s pet shooter. How can Ledger be crooked and Deacon arrow-straight?”

  “I can’t act on supposition, Mr. President. We do not have anything on Deacon. Nothing. And, I believe it is in our best interests to approach him about this as soon as possible.”

  “No,” said Collins firmly. “No damn way.”

  “May I ask why not, Mr. President?”

  “MindReader is why not.”

  “Sir?”

  “That goddamn computer system is at the root of all this. Ledger is clearly being paid — and paid well — to use MindReader to carry out the cyber-attacks on the defense contractors.”

  “I … don’t know that we can draw that conclusion, sir. We know that Ledger has been receiving large sums of undeclared money. We have no evidence as yet about its source or the reasons for which he was paid.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Mark. Why else would Ledger be taking that kind of money?”

  There was a pregnant silence and when the attorney general spoke again there was frost in his voice. “With all respect, Mr. President, I—”

  “Oh, Christ, Mark, I apologize. Forget I said that. This situation has me on edge.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I understand.” The frost was not totally thawed.

  “Can we get a warrant to confiscate MindReader?”

  “No, sir. That is the private property of Mr. Church, and as I said—”

  “Can we get a warrant for a thorough search of the Warehouse?”

  The AG thought about that. “I can issue a warrant for search and seizure of anything in Ledger’s office.”

  “What if there is a MindReader unit in his office?”

  “Then, yes, we can take that, his laptop, and anything else that is either Ledger’s property or that is included in the inventory of his office.”

  “Do it.”

  “What about Mr. Church?”

  “If he interferes in any way I expect you to arrest him for obstruction of justice. Unlike you, Mark, I don’t believe that the Deacon is lily-white. I think he’s dirty and he runs a dirty shop, and I’m damn well going to see him taken down.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The Warehouse

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 8:06 a.m.

  The screen display on the ringing phone said “Jerry Spencer.” Mr. Church punched a button to put the call on speaker.

  “Go,” he said.

  “I’m at the car stop scene,” said Spencer, the former Washington police detective who now headed the DMS forensics unit. “I went over the two vehicles used to box Joe. They’ve been wiped pretty clean.”

  “So we have nothing?”

  “Did I say that?” asked Spencer with asperity. He was a gruff and unsociable man most of the time, and this morning was even more irritable for having a hangover. He’d been at Dr. Sanchez’s bachelor party, too. “I said it was wiped pretty clean, but nobody wipes down every single inch.”

  Church waited for the details, choosing not to provoke Spencer by prodding him.

  “I pulled two prints off the underside of the gas-cap release, flash-scanned them and ran ’em through MindReader. Got an instant hit. Prints belong to a Thomas Erb. Former Marine Force Recon. Did a two-year knock for giving a Taliban drug convoy a free pass. Got out twenty-two months ago and has been working for Blue Diamond Security ever since.”

  “Blue Diamond,” mused Church. “Now isn’t that interesting.”

  “I matched his prison ID to the phony credentials Joe got and it matches one of the guys.”

  “That’s excellent work—”

  “I’m not done. You want all of this or should I just go fuck myself?”

  “Of course,” said Church carefully, “please share whatever you have.”

  “MindReader pulled his tax returns for me, and he draws his paycheck from a local Blue Diamond office here in Baltimore. Payroll for that shop says there are twenty-four active operatives. Bug hacked their database for me and pulled up the IDs of the others. We pinged the others Joe danced with.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then Spencer said, “You going to say anything or do I just stand here with my dick in my hand.”

  “Excellent work, Detective. I’ll roll Echo Team on the Blue Diamond office.”

  “Sure, fine, whatever.”

  Spencer disconnected the call. Church punched the in-house line for Gus Dietrich.

  Interlude Two

  People’s Liberation Army Navy Secure Base

  Changxing Island

  Yangtze River Delta, China

  Twenty-nine hours ago

  The craft was there, right in front of him. Sleek, dark, massive, and absolutely immobile.

  Admiral Xiè bent down, his knees creaking under his ponderous weight, as he attempted to peer under the craft.

  “So!” he breathed in wonder and delight. There was an unobstructed view all the way to the far side of the bay. The only limit to visibility was a very faint distortion, like a heat shimmer. Otherwise, nothing. No wheels, no support framework, no landing struts. Merely a faintness of disturbed air. Xiè held out a hand to his aide, who helped him up.


  To his left, six officers in crisp uniforms stood to attention. Caps perfectly squared, pressed trouser seams as straight as sword blades, eyes staring into the middle distance with equal discipline and affected obliviousness to everything around them. Xiè would expect the same expressions if fire imps appeared or if orangutans appeared out of nowhere and began copulating on the floor. These men were the very cream of the People’s Army. None of them wore a name tag, unit patch, medals, or other identifying insignia except a single number stitched onto the front of their hats and the sleeves of their left arms. They were known only by these numbers. Even Xiè did not know their names offhand. He would have to access classified documents and open sealed files.

  And it did not matter. These men were never going to rise further within the People’s Liberation Army Navy than they were now, and they were never going to find comfortable seats in any history books. They had signed away those rights, and all others, in exchange for the honor of being part of this project. And, Xiè mused, for some financial considerations for families they would never again see.

  Xiè turned to the six officers and they immediately saluted. He returned their salute and walked over to them with his aides in tow. Even when he tried to make direct eye contact with them, the men stared into nothing.

  Very good, he thought. Like machines.

  For Xiè, the measure of military discipline was how well an individual or group of soldiers acted like parts in a greater machine. Well oiled, perfectly designed, carefully maintained. To think of these men as men would be to invite empathy and compassion, and that was a short path to weakness and self-doubt. These were parts to be added or replaced as needed. That these particular parts were of the highest standard merely meant that the machine could run at a new level of productivity. And how lovely a thing was that?

  After a few long moments of study, Xiè turned to his chief aide. “Now,” he said.

  The aide barked a terse order and the six men turned smartly and began trotting in unison along a metal catwalk, heading for the nose of the craft. If “nose” could even apply to so improbable a design. The front of the craft was whichever direction it was pointed. The cockpit, as such, was in the center — six sunken chairs arranged in a ring, facing out toward a larger circle of curved screens that allowed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree exterior view. Additional screens above and below them combined to create a nearly perfect spherical view, and the cockpit was positioned on gimbals to allow it to turn in any direction. The design philosophy was lovely, elegant, and limited only by the fact that pilots — even top fighter pilots like these six — were never truly adapted to spherical thinking. Ten years in zero-gravity flight simulators, however, had pushed them far out onto the edge. Perhaps the next generation of pilots, the ones raised in a world where this craft was part of everyday reality, would be better suited. That jump in perception and mental processing would come. Everything comes in time.