Thursday
Back home I called Rachel at work on my cell.
“Awesome!” she burbled. “I can go to the Abbey!”
“Sorry, but we won’t be there long.”
“Don’t tell me we’re going to that cabin in the middle of nowhere.”
I decided to avoid a spat. I also didn’t want to reveal the cabin’s location on the phone. Although I was supposed to have pretty good encryption, you never knew. “I’ll tell you when I see you. How soon can you get here?”
“I work until five.”
“You have to get here earlier.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Rachel, I can’t talk about it over the phone. Be here by three. At the latest.”
“What do I tell my boss?”
Her boss, Betsy McNair, was a no-nonsense fiftyish woman. She loved Rachel; me less so. “Make up something. Tell her your mother is having a meltdown and needs you.”
“That’s what I told her the last time.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll think of something.”
“How long will we be gone?”
“Bring enough for a week. Look, I gotta go. See you soon.”
It wasn’t all bad, I thought as I threw together a suitcase. The day, one of Chicago’s late winter gifts, was sharp and clear. Sunshine twinkled through the bare branches and glittered on metal like lighters at a rock concert. The drive up would be short, and we’d have nothing but five-star accommodations once we arrived. Luke lived in a mansion of which Thomas Jefferson would have approved, mostly because it was a replica of Monticello. How that happened is a long story that involves Luke’s late father. There are only nine bedrooms, most with adjoining baths, and a dozen other rooms, not including the kitchen, but we make do.
While we were waiting for Rachel, Luke said, “My turn to talk. Grizzly and I were batting around something this morning.”
“Okay.”
He sat on the family room couch and patted the seat beside him. I sat down. “A few months ago a few Chinese nationals were indicted here in the US for stealing microelectronics designs from Silicon Valley.”
“So?” I drew the word out, wondering where he was going.
“And a year before that the Justice Department indicted five other Chinese for hacking into American companies to steal technology.”
I scratched my cheek. “Your point?”
“What we’re facing with Hollander isn’t exactly the same thing. If she really did sell the system to the Chinese, Hollander’s is a case of insider theft, not hacking.”
“I still don’t get it. They’re both crimes.”
“When the government tries to go after hackers, whether they’re Chinese, Russian, or whoever, they don’t have a lot of success. Hacker attacks can be difficult to trace to specific individuals, and it’s hard to arrest or even serve subpoenas to entities outside the US. It gets complicated.”
I tilted my head. “Which means…”
“Which means if she’s caught, Hollander could be holding the bag all by herself, criminally speaking.”
“You mean the Chinese will just go on their merry way and build the anti-drone system anyway?”
“Right. They’ll pin as much as they can on her, rather than risk political repercussions with us.”
I pondered it. “Hollander is no dummy. She must have known that was one of the risks.”
“We can’t figure it out. Why would she go ahead, if she knew she would be the only fall guy? Or woman?”
“I have no idea, Luke.”
“You had drinks with her. What did you think?”
I thought back to our meeting at the Happ Inn. “Actually, I kind of liked her. For a little while, at least. Then again, there’s always someone who thinks the rules don’t apply to them. Hollander fits the mold.”
Luke paused. “Well, we’ll have more time to think about it when we’re at the cabin.”
“By the way, next time you talk to Grizzly, can you ask him something?”
“Sure.”
“Can you ask him about US drone strikes in Uyghur territory? How often they happen? You remember that article at the library.”
“I’ll ask him, but don’t forget that drone strikes are one of the few areas where China and the US can cooperate. Even Russia can get into the act. Drop bombs on the Uyghurs rather than each other, and the superpowers can say they’re fighting the war on terror together.”
“That’s what Grace said. It’s interesting, though. There’s no mention of the Uyghurs in any of the emails between Parks, Gao, and Hollander. All of it is couched in antiterrorist language: early warning systems, precise navigation that homes in on the target…things like that. Someone did mention the sophisticated weaponry being used by drug cartels. And there was even a snide comment about Amazon. But no Uyghurs.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I guess not.”
Luke checked his watch. “Hey, where is your daughter? It’s after three.”
I noticed how Rachel became “your daughter” when things weren’t going according to plan.
“I’ll call her.” I punched in her cell. It went to voice mail. “She’s probably on her way.”
Luke rose and started pacing. “We need to get going.”
I let him pace for a few moments. Then: “Stop. You’re making me nervous.” I checked the time on my cell. “It’s only ten after. What’s so urgent?”
“We should have left yesterday.”
“What do you know that I don’t?”
“Let me put it this way. If Griz makes the calls I think he’s going to, things might get hot.”
“Lovely.” I called Rachel back on my cell. Again I reached her voice mail.
Fear is contagious, and I was starting to get worried myself. To settle my nerves, I turned on the news. The weatherman had just told us it was going to be clear but seasonably cold when one of the anchors cut in.
“We have breaking news. We’ve just heard that a young woman has died in an automobile accident”—I sucked in a panicked breath: Rachel?—“on the Eisenhower Expressway.” I sagged in relief. I-290, or the Eisenhower or Ike, as it’s called, comes in from the west to downtown Chicago. Rachel would be taking the Edens, which is nowhere near the Ike.
The report cut to the scene of the accident shot by the news station’s traffic helicopter. I gasped. A battered green Toyota had been totaled, and smoke was rising from the front of the car. An ambulance was on-site, and the news helicopter zoomed in for a close-up of a body in a plastic bag on a gurney. An Illinois state trooper, the cops who patrol the highways, was talking to a reporter.
The scene cut to a camera on the ground. The news reporter, a woman, talked into it. “The victim, who has been identified as Grace Qasimi, was pronounced dead at the scene. Although it’s too soon to know exactly, authorities believe the steering failed, and she smashed into the guardrail head-on.”
“Oh God!” A wave of nausea rose from my gut and settled in my throat. “Luke! Did you hear this?” I covered my mouth with my hand.
Luke hurried into the family room. “What’s wrong? Is it Rachel?”
I could barely shake my head. “It’s Grace Qasimi. Gregory Parks’ girlfriend.” I pointed to the television.
Luke stared at the TV and watched. Then, “Oh, Christ.”
“What’s going on, Luke? I can’t believe it was an accident.”
Luke pressed his lips together. “Neither can I.”
“Then who?”
He came over and put a protective arm around me. “I don’t know.”
I remembered the man in the Baha’i Temple who’d been following us around. Was it him? If so, for whom was he working? The Chinese? Someone here? Apparently Grace had gone too far, but too far in what way? When? Whom had she offended? Whom had she threatened? I was terrified. I let myself collapse into Luke’s arms, and we held each other.