They’d become all too familiar with the route north from the boondocks, where the Agency kept a gaggle of semi-secret safe houses, back to Washington, DC. They didn’t have an exact address in the city but were working on it, and there were enough indicators pointing in a certain direction that it would have been folly to ignore them. Sam had a theory, and she was busy shooting holes in it when her new burner rang.
“Pizza by the slice,” she answered.
She heard a familiar chuckle on the other end. “Smooth,” Dan said.
“Can’t be too careful,” Sam said. “Did you do that thing I asked for?”
“Do I ever disappoint?”
“Only your wife,” Sam said.
“Touché,” Dan said. “For a big-time journalist, William Nichols didn’t know much about computer security. I hacked into his server and sent the story to the Times, the Post, both cable news outlets, both LA papers, and the BBC for good measure.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Sam said.
“I try.” He paused, switching gears. “You didn’t find anything, did you?”
“On the contrary,” Sam said. “We found plenty, but not at all what we expected. It was definitely a cleanup operation, but it was the Agency goons who got cleaned up. Somebody put four rounds into two of their shooters.”
“Holy smokes. Any sign of the hostages?” Dan asked.
“It looks like they spent a lot of time chained to the wall,” Sam said, “but they were long gone by the time we got there.”
Dan digested. “You’re saying Grange killed the guards and ran off with the hostages?”
“No,” Sam said. “I’m saying the guards were killed and the hostages are missing. The shooter is another question, but I think Grange is as good a guess as any. He’s my favorite for the Oren Stanley murder, too.”
“He’s making sure no one with ties to him is left in any condition to talk,” Dan said.
“That’s what it seems like, but I still have no idea what he’s after. He could have had the world’s most valuable paint recipe in his hands days ago. He could have been rid of the hostages, and he could have ridden off into the sunset.”
“I don’t think he has that kind of an exit in mind,” Dan said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because his cell phone just popped up on the network again. He’s in Crystal City.”
“Where?”
“Inside an office building. Hold on, let me check the address.”
Sam heard computer keys clicking. “Can this be right?” Dan mumbled. Then he said, “Sam, it looks like Grange is inside the National Intelligence Directorate building.”
Just then, Hayward’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming message. He started to look at his phone, but Sam swiped it from him. “You’re a bad enough driver when you’re not distracted,” she said.
She looked at the message. She didn’t recognize the source, and it contained nothing but a link. Against all the IT world’s advice, she clicked on the link. It took her to a naked IP address—just a computer address with no fancy English-language domain name wrapped around it. The page loaded and Sam saw another video loop that played over and over. The clip was extremely uncomfortable to watch. It depicted Katrin and Joao, both comatose and bloody, lying next to a copy of the day’s Times. They were hanging on by a thread, only hours from death.
“Hayward,” she said. “You need to drive faster.”