Betty compared the printouts to budget books, each emblazoned with a prior year’s date. Five in all. She carefully studied the marked pages with their highlighted rows. “Chromosomal research grants,” she said to the empty room, a habit developed after decades of solitude. “Grants broken up over dozens of disbursements, none of them more than twenty-five million dollars. But I can’t find any paperwork showing the grants were ever published, awarded, or reported on. No NOFAs.”
In the world of government-funded scientific research, the Notice of Funding Availability was the key to the kingdom. It was the government’s way of telling the world to come and get it. After the publication of a NOFA, moneys disappeared into research projects and demonstration projects—and evaluations of the evaluation protocols for research projects and demonstration projects. But rarely did a dollar leave the federal coffers without a NOFA. Certain she had missed something, she reached for her pile of procurement records. Maybe the funds went out as a payment for service.
What she found was a list of disbursements that corresponded to the funding and the grant category. But no NOFAs or service contracts or 8(a) direct awards. Nothing. Just money slipping out the back door and into accounts she couldn’t locate. More than $300 million on chromosomal research in five years.
With papers scattered around her like confetti, Betty gave a cry of triumph. The transfers had gone in a dozen different directions, but she’d learned a trick or two in her time heading the division. Money could be washed by just about everyone except the federal government. Covering every track left a smudge behind—a tiny tick of information that could build a picture for the right viewer. All she had to do was look.
TWENTY-NINE
One block from Avery’s apartment, a sedan parked and cut its lights and engine. The man behind the wheel watched silently, casually noticing the FBI agent stationed near the building’s entrance. A short time later, a U.S. marshal on security detail arrived and swapped off with the agent. Neither was aware of the visitor whose vehicle had squeezed between cars parked along the curb for the night.
At the appointed hour, Castillo dialed the encrypted phone assigned for the day. His windows had been rolled down to accept the slightest breeze and allow cigarette smoke to filter into the still, thick air. His location was secluded, interrupted only by the skitter of night creatures. But he raised the window because precaution had been drilled into every member of this skunk works team assembled in mid-January. Former soldiers all, they had an allegiance that cut across branches of government and a battlefield loyalty to their commander. “The four targets are still inside. I assume you heard the conversation.”
“Did we mirror the contents of Jared Wynn’s computer?”
“No, sir. His firewalls are military grade. He didn’t connect to the girl’s network. But we believe we know what they know.”
“Yes. They’ve identified Ani Ramji and Tigris.” The man tipped his chair back as frustration built in a crescendo in his brain, a cacophony that threatened to drown out reason. “You’ll go to Justice Wynn’s cabin tonight. Phillips will assign someone to take over surveillance. Do we still have eyes on the mother? We may need to use her as leverage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the investigation into the nurse’s death? I assume no movement there either.”
“We are being copied on all case notes. The local police are looking for her husband, but on your orders, Wargo located and disposed of him. Agent Lee has been unwilling to share his theories, but the cops assume it’s just FBI turf bullshit. If he suspects anything, he’s hiding his concerns.”
“Understood. Tangier on him?”
“Yes, sir. And I’ll be on tonight’s red-eye to Atlanta.”
“No. Check for a black flight. I don’t want there to be a record of you that Jared Wynn might be able to trace. Report your findings to Phillips.”
“Copy that.”
* * *
—
Disconnecting the call, Major Will Vance summoned Phillips to his office. While he waited, he skimmed his copy of the reports pulled from Homeland Security. His careful dispersal of funds had gone unnoticed for almost five years, only to be nearly undone by an overzealous bureaucrat in a DC back office.
The pages crumpled beneath his hand. When Phillips entered the room, Vance said without preamble, “Where are we on shutting down Betty Papaleo?”
“She’s still here, but I’ve got ears on her Homeland Security phone and her personal cell.”
Despite knowing how vulnerable technology can be, bureaucrats placed their faith in the myth of privacy. Their job relied on the fairy tales Americans told themselves about their government, despite ample proof to the contrary. Surveillance. Covert research. Targeted retribution. All disguised by pleasing stories told by men like Vance and President Stokes. “Any change at the hospital?”
“The blood work should be back from Quantico any moment. I have a flag on it, and we’ll be notified as soon as they determine what Wynn swallowed.”
“Castillo is on his way to Georgia. Send a fresh team to monitor the apartment to relieve him, and they should let him know when Avery and Jared are en route.”
“Understood.”
Vance left the office for his next call. The smartphone had been seized in a low-level sting against a group of college morons who thought the idea of kidnapping foreign dignitaries on U.S. soil seemed like a viable career option. Aided by an interjurisdictional task force, the young men had purchased a batch of burner phones, thoughtfully activated with a fake credit card provided by the ATF, from a counterfeit batch created by a Mexican drug cartel looking to diversify their portfolios.
His department’s role in the sting had been tracking the would-be domestic terrorists using an experimental system that embedded microscopic transmitters beneath the skin. Each subject had unwittingly consented to the procedure when the ersatz ringleader, a four-year veteran of the FBI, had convinced the cell to get matching tattoos.
The Science Directorate reveled in developing the type of technology that would have made Bond’s Q envious and a bit intrigued. In the quiet celebration of a successful maneuver, Vance had appropriated a handful of the smartphones for later deployment. Three of the devices had been outfitted with antihacking tech developed by the Cyber Security Division. Now the other two waited thousands of miles away, each for his call.
He drove to the Jefferson Memorial, a spot with multiple pockets of privacy and clear sky. A fitting president to overhear his latest act. The call connected on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“They’ve identified the scientist and the project. Have you located him yet?”
A long pause, then, “No. We have leads that tell us he remains in-country, but pinpointing a location is difficult.”
“Try harder. He was your problem to solve, yet he managed covert discussions with a Supreme Court justice. Archives of their discussions have been uncovered.”
“We attempted to use the discussions as bait, assuming Ramji would return for them. When they were triggered, we stopped them from downloading. Unfortunately, it was not Ramji who tripped the alarm.”
“So you are no closer.”
“No, but the rest of his team is gone.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the others. None of them embedded classified information in a chess game. Ramji did.”
“We will finish it,” the man replied. “When he next attempts to make contact—with friends, family, anyone we are monitoring, we’ll take him.”
“No, you won’t. They’ve laid a trap for him. When he comes close, we’ll take him.”
“This is my problem. I will handle him.”
Vance’s tone was flat and controlled. “You have proven that handling Dr. Ramji is not your strong suit. Leave him to me.”
Another silence, deeper and more hos
tile than the first. Finally: “Is that all?”
“Silence Nigel Cooper. He’s attracting too much attention. Agitating Capitol Hill and the White House.”
“I can do nothing permanent. Not without raising his suspicions.”
“Be creative. But shut him up.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Across an ocean, Vance corrected, “Succeed.”
* * *
—
Hours later, Castillo steered the rental car off the deserted highway and onto the road leading to the cabin. Houses along the lane had been set far back from the road, spearing along the mountain face in a ragged, distant swathe. The GPS beeped imperiously as he neared his destination; then the instructions went silent, out of signal range.
Using the map he’d memorized, he navigated through the pitch black. During his tours of duty, he’d gotten used to the absence of light on narrow passes—guided only by the headlamps on his vehicle. Soon, he drove up the driveway and shifted into park. Nothing stirred beyond the restive cries of cicadas and tree frogs. On the seat beside him, he assembled his tool kit. Lock pick, flashlight, and semiautomatic in case of guests. His phone had been tucked inside his pocket earlier, the signal no better than the GPS. He carried a sat phone for emergencies, but he would use it later.
With cautious steps and only moonlight to guide him, he approached the front door. Despite his attempts at stealth, the rotted boards of the steps creaked beneath his feet. Moving quickly, he leaped up to the landing and alighted with a soft thud. This close to the door, he could hear the chatter of wildlife joined by the burble of water and the scratching of mice. Castillo cupped his flashlight and circled the porch, which wound around the abandoned structure. Cobwebs clung to his skin, and the debris of neglected maintenance caked to his boots. But he was alone.
He returned to the front door and knelt. In hurried motions, he picked the lock, scraping away rust from inside the mechanism. The lock gave way. Rising, he turned the knob, prepared to enter the code he’d been given: 3-1-0-7-7-4. But the interior of the cabin didn’t boast electricity, let alone an alarm.
Knowing his instructions, he activated the sat phone and placed the Bluetooth in his ear. Phillips acknowledged the call.
“No alarm code,” he said in a low, hushed voice. The bud in his ear easily picked up the message and transmitted along the open cell line. “Initiating search.”
In DC, Phillips ordered, “Look for a safe or a lockbox. Whatever he left is probably in there.”
“Copy.” Castillo quartered the open main room, searching every surface and cubbyhole, to no avail. Long-forgotten board games rested beneath layers of dust. The ancient television held no secret compartments, and the drawers in the table beneath it opened easily under his hand. “Nothing here.” He swept the bathroom and found nothing of note.
“Bedroom.” He moved into the second room, which was half as large as the living room. The once-cozy space had been left too long without airing. A full-sized bed sat next to a chest of drawers and opposite a closet. After fifteen minutes of fruitless exploration, he reported, “Moving into the kitchen.”
In there, he checked the stove, finding only a nest of mice annoyed by the disturbance. The refrigerator held no secret safe, nor did any of the cabinets in the tiny galley. “Negative,” he reported. “Checking the loft.”
Upstairs, a narrow loft had been converted into a boy’s bedroom. A single, heavy oak bed had been decorated with dark sheets and little else. A constellation of stars had been sketched above in blue and white paint. The floorboards failed to reveal any hidden spaces, and the area beneath the bed was empty. No box, no safe, nothing.
“House is clean.”
Phillips ordered, “Check it again. The code must open something. Do another circuit and then reconnoiter outside.”
“Copy.” Castillo retraced his steps but stumbled over nothing new. Outside, the porch had been littered by fallen branches and mulching leaves. He spent another twenty minutes outside, including an investigation of the crawl space beneath the rotting cabin.
Grimy and damp, he scooted out from beneath the house. “I’ve checked everywhere, sir. There’s nothing here.”
Phillips exhaled slowly. Justice Wynn was sending Avery and Jared to Georgia for a reason, and Vance would expect them to find it first. “We’re missing something. Return to Atlanta and track them to the cabin in the morning. They’re booked on the six a.m. flight.”
“Yes, sir.” Castillo bounded up the porch and jammed the lock so it would appear frozen with disuse. He then circled to the rear door and did the same. The next visitors would have to expose what they knew about the cabin to get inside. “Orders?”
“Secure whatever they locate and make sure they never return to DC.”
“Will do.”
THIRTY
Thursday, June 22
Gravel snaked up the rutted road, and the rented SUV bounced accommodatingly with each pitted groove of the unpaved stretch. Wisps of clouds hung low in the early-morning light, gauzy pale with dawn. While Jared drove, Avery used her tablet to sprinkle breadcrumbs across the Internet. Downloading every chess app she could find, she logged in as WHTW5730 and issued an invitation to play to TigrisLost. Coupled with Jared’s efforts, smoking out their missing link should not take too long. If he wanted to be found.
Soon, the truck crested a rise, and a simple A-frame log cabin waited. Red flecks of dust spurted beneath the wheels as Jared maneuvered down the lane to the wooden structure. Vivian’s Georgia Cabin, which to Avery’s eyes resembled a dump more than a retreat, boasted a sagging wraparound porch sturdied by thick wooden beams at regular intervals. Slabs of window had been tended by nests of spiders, cobwebs shrouding the dust-caked glass. Jared brought the truck to a stop in a barren patch of hardened clay.
As the engine idled, Avery waited in silence. Jared had barely spoken once they’d landed in Atlanta and picked up their rental. His grunted responses to her attempts at conversation had dwindled into a tense stillness. His hands clenched and unclenched on the steering wheel. Gingerly, she reached out and touched the back of his hand.
“You ready?”
He stared out the windshield at the decaying cottage. “I haven’t been here since Mom died. Not once.” Shifting, he draped his arms across the steering wheel. “I was never closer to the judge than when we came down here. A few weeks every summer when he would stop being stern and distant. He taught me how to bait a hook. How to track. Here, he wasn’t the judge.” Jared gave a rueful chuckle. “I only called him Dad when we were here. When we were happy. Here.”
“If you want, I can go inside. You can wait for me.”
Shaking his head, he used one hand to rub at his forehead. “I’m fine. Just didn’t expect this.”
“Expect what? Nostalgia?”
“No. Loss. For the first time, I realize I’m losing my father. Again.” He turned the key to kill the ignition. “Let’s go.”
Avery climbed out of the SUV, and beneath her feet, weeds scrambled for purchase along a flagstone path that began abruptly in the middle of the clayed ground. The stones had separated in the intervening years, like the wooden steps leading up to the porch.
She made her way gingerly up the rotted boards, wary of the strength of the cabin’s foundation. Hinges rotted thick with rust hung drunkenly on their moorings. Termites had feasted on the planks of the wraparound porch, and mice had added their expertise along the baseboards.
Jared came alongside her. Avery stepped back and handed him the key Noah had given her. He tried to insert it into the lock, but the keyhole had been jammed. After a few tries, he turned to Avery. “Step back.”
Pivoting on one foot, he aimed his other heel at the knob and gave it a powerful sidekick. The decaying wood fractured, and the door swung wide. Jared crossed the threshold. “Welcome to Vivian’s G
eorgia Cabin.”
“Clearly, no door alarm,” Avery muttered with a glance at the broken doorjamb. “The code must open something else.”
“After you.”
Dust had settled on every surface, coating the single couch, the oversized chair, and the coffee table. Moving closer, Avery noticed streaks in the layers along an armoire. The doors swung squeakily on their hinges. Inside, the minute tracks showed movement of the puzzles and games inside. She straightened. “Someone’s been here. By the looks of the dust patterns, they were here recently.”
“Are you sure? Wait here for a second.” Jared went through the main room and disappeared from view. When he returned, he squatted down by the front door. He removed his phone and shined the flashlight into the doorknob. “Back doorknob was jammed, just like this one. Looks like rust, but I don’t know.” Rising, he instructed, “Check inside the games for something that might require those numbers. I’ll search the kitchen. In case we’ve had company, we need to move fast.”
They operated in silence, opening anything with a hinge or a lid. Twenty minutes later, they regrouped in the living room.
“Nothing is down here. Certainly nothing with a code.” Jared wandered across the planked floor to the stairs leading up to the second level.
“What’s upstairs?”
“My parents used the one bedroom down here. I used to bunk in the loft.” He took the steps quickly.
When she crested the stairs, he was standing near a single bed nestled against the wall below the slope of the ceiling. The loft space was cramped, most of it occupied by the rustic bed frame. A boy’s dresser snuggled beneath a narrow window.
Overhead, a wash of dark blue had been dotted with white, the dots connected by thin, careful lines.
“What’s that?”
“Dad helped me paint the constellations on the ceiling one summer when I was five,” he murmured. “I had a bad cough and couldn’t stay out very long. We drew the images from a book, and he would count the stars with me every night. I’d forgotten.”
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