46

“Are you positive?” Bruce Andrews asked, reclining in his leather chair, the Richmond skyline visible out his office window. Clouds had crept in and intermittent rain threatened.

“Absolutely, Mr. Andrews,” the technician said. “They definitely logged in under Dr. Pearce’s ID.”

“What time?” He finished the last of his coffee and set the mug on his desk.

“Two-thirteen RM. About forty minutes ago.”

“Where did she sign in from?”

“The main branch of the public library.”

“And you said she accessed the accounting files for her department, the brain chip department, and the White Oak labs.”

“Yes, sir. That and every open file the legal department has on Triaxcion. She was inside some personnel files as well: the files on Kenga Bakcsi and Albert Rousseau. That’s how we saw that she was in the mainframe—she’s not authorized to access those files.”

“Then how did she get into them?”Andrews asked, perturbed.

“She bypassed the firewall somehow. We’re not sure at this point, but it appears she knew the IP address and somehow came up with a port number. She would appear to be a very resourceful woman.”

“Yes, very resourceful. Thanks—that’s all for now. And please don’t mention this to anyone. This is highly confidential.”

The man nodded that he understood and left the office. Bruce Andrews picked up his private line and placed a call. “It would appear Jennifer Pearce is still with us,” he said.

“What? I thought your guy had taken care of her,” the voice said.

“I thought so too. It’s Wednesday afternoon, so she’s been running around for at least twelve hours getting into God only knows what.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“She signed into the company mainframe from the main branch of the public library about an hour ago. Take a photo of her with you and ask around. Be discreet. Find out if it was really her using the computer. And if she’s still with us, I’d like you to fly out to Denver tonight.”

“I’d be glad to. Ziegler should have been gone a long time ago. I told you that son of a bitch would be trouble.”

“Well, looks like you were right. Now you get to take care of it.”

“Like I said, I’d be glad to. I’m off to the library.”

“Thanks,” Andrews said, and hung up. He thought about that for a minute and realized it wasn’t often that he thanked people for doing things. But this time his colleague deserved it. It was he who had said bringing in Evan Ziegler was a bad idea. Retired navy SEALs were a different bunch, deadly and often tired of taking orders. And now he was relying on the man who’d said Ziegler was bad news to terminate him. Strange how things worked sometimes.

In retrospect, teaming up with his clandestine partner had been an excellent idea. Because of his position, the man had provided services most people wouldn’t even dream existed. He was capable of opening doors—or shutting them, for that matter—when the timing was right. The organization he worked for had resources beyond imagination, and on a few occasions they had relied on those resources to keep things on track. And they were still on track.

“So close now,” Andrews said to himself. “So close.”

Andrews busied himself with damage control on the accounting problem. If Jennifer Pearce had noticed the deviations in standard accounting practices, moving operating expenses across to the research side of the ledger, then the forensic auditors wouldn’t be far behind. And right now the last thing he needed was any attention drawn to the company. Time was a nebulous factor, an unknown. But one time frame he had to operate within was the expiry date on his options to purchase three million common shares of Veritas. And that date was looming in the near future. December 15 wasn’t that far away, and time had a habit of sneaking by when you weren’t looking. The phone attached to his private line rang and he picked up the receiver.

“It was definitely her,” the man said. “The librarian positively identified Jennifer Pearce. And guess who was with her?”

Andrews’s hand tightened on the phone. “Buchanan?”

“Yes. She ID’d him from a picture I pulled from the Montana DMV database. Not a great picture but she was sure.”

“How did Buchanan get from Montana to Richmond without you knowing about it? I thought you were monitoring the airlines, watching for his name to appear on a manifest.”

“We were and we are. I have no idea how he got to Virginia. The only plausible explanation is that he chartered a private jet.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Andrews said.

“Not really. The man is wealthy—the cost of hiring a Lear or a smaller Gulfstream would be well within his reach. It would give him anonymity and speed, either of which may have been important to him at the time.”

“Check it out. Find out how he got here. But get to Denver first and take care of that problem. Things are starting to come unglued, and I want to tie up loose ends before everything unravels.”

“Denver is not a problem. In fact, I’ll quite enjoy it.” The line clicked over to a dial tone.

Bruce Andrews sat back and smiled. Evan Ziegler had been a useful cog in the wheel for a while, but that usefulness was over. And since that was over, so was his life. Perhaps it was just morbid curiosity, but Andrews found himself wondering what method his associate would use to kill Ziegler. Certainly, a great deal of caution was necessary when dealing with someone as dangerous as Ziegler.

Killing the killer—what an excellent title for a book.