Chương 13
Men like Harold often thought security was something they imposed on other people.
Shaw’s phone buzzed.
She read the update.
“Access control has a badge entry at General Wade’s office at ten sixteen.”
“Whose badge?” Mercer asked.
Shaw’s eyes narrowed.
“Civilian contractor.”
“Name.”
“Peter Laird.”
Harold frowned.
“I don’t know him.”
“Employer?”
“Base facilities subcontractor.”
I looked at the time on the wall.
Ten sixteen.
The anthem had begun at ten twelve.
Everyone important was outside.
“Camera coverage?”
Shaw typed.
“Checking.”
Mercer looked at me.
“Name familiar?”
“No.”
“Could be false.”
“Could be real.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Because sometimes ordinary people get compromised.”
Harold looked between us.
“What exactly do you think this person did?”
I pointed toward the evidence bag.
“Possibly entered your office, accessed your briefcase, and altered a document.”
“For what purpose?”
“To make sure investigators found certain information.”
His brow furrowed.
“Prague.”
“Yes.”
“Why would someone want you to find Prague?”
“That is the question.”
Michael looked at the page.
“Maybe Kessler wants you looking backward.”
I turned toward him.
He continued.
“If he’s already mapped your life, why leave a clue pointing to old operations?”
Mercer’s eyes sharpened.
“Distraction.”
“Or message,” I said.
Michael looked at me.
“What kind of message?”
“One he expects me to understand.”
The word Prague carried weight for only a handful of people.
Kessler.
Collins.
Mercer.
Me.
And one man who had died there.
At least, that was what we had believed.
I looked at Shaw.
“Pull the original operational file on Prague.”
Mercer immediately shook his head.
“No broad retrieval.”
“Restricted terminal.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
Harold’s eyes lifted at the first name.
Mercer ignored him.
“If Kessler has a watcher inside our systems, opening that file tells him exactly where our attention moved.”
“Then we do it offline.”
“With what copy?”
I thought about Collins.
He kept paper.
Always had.
He distrusted digital archives long before mistrust became fashionable.
“Collins may have one.”
“He’s in an emergency room.”
“He may have hidden records at home.”
Shaw looked up from her phone.
“Richmond investigators found a fireproof document box in his garage.”
My pulse jumped.
“Opened?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“They’re awaiting authority.”
Mercer frowned.
“Any evidence the intruder reached it?”
“No.”
“Then preserve it and transport it under chain of custody.”
Shaw nodded.
Harold stared at us.
“Who is Collins?”
Michael answered before I could.
“A man your investigation may have gotten beaten half to death.”
Harold flinched.
It was small.
Real.
“I didn’t know.”
Michael looked at him with an exhaustion that seemed older than the day.
“That’s becoming the family motto.”
Harold’s face hardened, then softened again.
He looked at me.
Not kindly.
Not yet.
But without contempt.
“Was he really at the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I notice him in the photograph?”
“Because you weren’t looking for him.”
The answer seemed to disturb him.
Maybe because that was what intelligence work actually was.
Not knowing everything.
Knowing what deserved attention before it became dangerous.
Shaw’s phone rang.
She stepped into the hallway.
Mercer looked at his watch.
“Noon.”
Harold followed his gaze.
For thirty-eight years, noon had been the moment his military career ended.
He had planned applause.
A final salute.
Maybe a drink.
Instead, he sat in a borrowed office under investigation while the Army moved on without ceremony.
His shoulders sank slightly.
“Am I retired?”
Mercer looked at him.
“Your retirement orders took effect.”
Harold gave a short breath.
“Well.”
Nobody knew what to say.
A clock clicked on the wall.
Michael stared at his father.
I stared at the page.
Somewhere in Richmond, Collins was alive.
Somewhere else, Daniel Kessler was waiting for us to react.
Shaw returned quickly.
“We have video from the corridor.”
“Laird?”
“Yes.”
“Clear image?”
“Good enough.”
She turned the phone toward us.
The footage showed a man in tan work pants and a blue facilities shirt approaching Harold’s office with a tool bag.
He badged in.
He disappeared for eleven minutes.
Then he came out.
At the far end of the hallway, he turned his head toward the camera.
I leaned closer.
I had never seen Peter Laird before.
But I recognized the way he carried his left shoulder.
The old injury.
The habit of protecting the ribs when walking fast.
My hand went cold around the edge of the table.
Mercer saw my face.
“What?”
I took the phone from Shaw and enlarged the frame.
The image blurred.
It did not matter.
Seven years vanished.
A dark stairwell in Prague.
Blood on concrete.
A man telling me to leave him because somebody had to finish the extraction.
A body we never recovered after the building burned.
Michael stepped beside me.
“Emma.”
I could barely hear him.
Mercer stared at the image.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
I looked at the man walking out of Harold Wade’s office under another name.
“No.”
I handed the phone back to Shaw.
“It’s Elias Ward.”
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Mercer took the phone from Shaw and stared at the enlarged frame as though proximity might make the impossible more reasonable.
“Run facial comparison.”
Shaw nodded.
“Already sent.”
Harold looked between us.
“You said this man died.”
“I said we believed he died.”
Michael watched me.
“That distinction seems to happen a lot in your life.”
I could not argue with him.
Mercer handed the phone back.
“If Ward is alive, Kessler may not be the architect.”
The thought had already reached me.
“No.”
Shaw looked up.
“You think Ward used Kessler?”
“I think we need to stop assuming the man whose name we recognize is the man in control.”
Harold leaned forward.
“Why would this Ward person alter my notes?”
“To point me toward Prague.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Michael looked at me.
“But you have an idea.”
I did.
I hated it.
“Because Prague is where I left him.”
Mercer’s face tightened.
“You followed extraction protocol.”
“I left him.”
May you like
“You had twelve seconds before structural collapse.”
“I know how many seconds I had.”
