Herc had spent most of the day in a kind of weird stasis, uncertain how to proceed. Boyce had been lurking behind closed doors ever since the ICD and FBI agents had left, but Herc couldn’t decide if he was having phone conferences with the big bosses or just praying that whoever was trying to cover up this shitstorm actually succeeded. Meanwhile, Herc had gone about his business as if nothing were wrong, studying topographical scans on his computer and analyzing data. But he carried the Hot Line phone in his pocket and it seemed impossibly heavy. Cait had called several times already, and every time the phone vibrated, he jumped.

In addition to his other duties, he had been working on a special project for Cait, and it wasn’t something he wanted to get caught doing. After the conversation he’d had with Agents Hart and Chang this morning, he had been waiting for the FBI to show up at his office door and charge him with conspiracy or domestic terrorism or the murder of Sean McCandless—any trumped-up charge that would allow them to throw him in a cell for the rest of his life and keep their secrets safe.

But hours had passed—it was after noon—and no one had materialized. Out in the corridor, people talked baseball and Hollywood scandals. His wife texted him to remind him they had dinner plans with Rich and Melinda Belinksy. Mundane e-mail kept arriving in his in-box. Andrea Ulman popped into his office to say she was going to get coffee, and did he want some? Herc thought he was jittery enough without caffeine but he could feel a headache coming on, so he said yes.

Satisfied that he had done all he could and praying that no one in the monitoring suite would stumble across the new lines of code he had keyed in, he closed all of the related computer files and pushed away from his desk, just as Andrea reappeared in the doorway, holding two cups of iced coffee from the second-floor café.

“You do take sugar, right?”

“Usually two, but one’ll do.”

“It will, yeah,” Andrea said. “ ’Cause I’m not going back downstairs.”

Herc took the cup from her and they stepped out into the corridor, walking toward the monitoring room together. He sipped iced coffee through the straw and savored the taste.

“I’m weird,” he said. “Hot coffee I just take with cream, but I need sugar in iced.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And you think that’s why you’re weird?”

“Wow. I’m guessing when you were a kid your parents told you that you were funny.”

“Absolutely.”

Herc sipped again. “They probably also told you that you were the smartest girl in the world, that you sang beautifully, and that you’d be president someday.”

Andrea grinned. “Nice. One jolt of caffeine just wakes you right up.”

They stepped into the monitoring room. Three rows of terraced desks, each with its own personal monitoring station, faced walls of video screen that could be configured a thousand different ways. Right now, two of the three video walls in the hexagonal room showed familiar satellite views of foreign topography, mostly but not entirely Middle Eastern. By the right-hand wall, however, half a dozen people were gathered at the base of the screen, discussing what could only be an American highway, with cars and trucks racing in both directions, a shopping mall on one side and a sprawling townhouse development on the other.

One of the analysts turned toward the first terrace of desks. “We don’t need this,” he said. “Pull way back, put a map overlay up, and just keep track of the signal.”

The woman at one of the desks gave him a thumbs-up and started tapping keys; the screen responded accordingly.

“What’s going on?” Herc asked Andrea.

She rattled the ice in her coffee cup. “Orders just came in. We’re tracking a cell phone GPS.”

“Whose?”

Andrea cocked her head, maybe tipped off by his tone that this was not an idle question. Herc kept his face neutral.

“Phone belongs to an FBI agent. Something Chang. Why?”

“Just curious,” he said, trying not to show his reaction to the name. He raised his iced-coffee cup. “Thanks for this, Andrea. Happy hunting.”

He fought the urge to hurry back to his office, walking slowly and then closing his door without slamming it. Alone in the room he took a deep breath, cursing silently, and took out the Hot Line. No, no, not that one. Your name won’t come up. They won’t know it’s you calling. Instead he used his own cell phone, the one with the account in his name. Both Hart and Chang had left him their cards, but he couldn’t call the FBI agent if her cell was being monitored, so he called Agent Hart, listening in growing frustration as it rang without answer.

Shit. He had to warn them that their movements were being tracked, but he didn’t dare leave a message. Herc killed the call and stared at the phone a moment. Then he set it down and picked up the Hot Line.

Herc searched the contacts list, pressed a button, and, on the third ring, Cait McCandless answered.

“It’s Herc,” he said, glancing nervously at the door. “Listen, they’re tracking Agent Chang’s cell. Once they figure out where she and Hart are headed, they’ll know where you’re headed. You’ve got to hurry.”

“Thanks, Herc,” Cait said, “but we don’t need to rush.”

“You’re not listening—” Herc began.

“We’re fine, Herc. We’re already here.”