Sander is dead. We have a serious problem now.
The ping of the email woke Marina up. She hadn’t really been sleeping. She had dozed off after going nearly blind from staring at her phone in the dark while Grant slept beside her. After reading the article about Duncan’s death, she’d emailed every journalist she knew in New York. No one knew anything. They were saying it was a robbery gone wrong. They were saying it was a scorned lover. They were saying there had been a rash of break-ins in Duncan’s typically quiet corner of Connecticut. Some reports said that valuable antiques and a painting had been stolen. Others heard that nothing had been taken. The police thought Duncan might have startled an intruder and ended up dead.
The email was from a Mark Felt. In a groggy haze, Marina racked her brain for the name. It sounded familiar. Mark was the name she’d been given for her contact in the Tuileries. Was this him?
Then it clicked: Mark Felt was the FBI agent who helped Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein break the Watergate scandal in the 1970s.
Mark Felt was Deep Throat.
Marina felt the hairs on her arms stand on end.
This person—these people—whomever they were—were Duncan’s Deep Throat. Now they were hers.
I know. How can we talk? she typed back.
Encrypted channels only.
Marina hesitated. She wanted to do this right. Goddammit, Duncan, she thought. Where are you when I need you?
She could wait until she returned to New York. There she at least could consult another journalist about how best to communicate safely. Owen Barry at the Wall Street Journal, maybe. Another one of Duncan’s protégés and known to be something of a tech whiz. She could trust Owen. But she wasn’t scheduled to return to New York until next week. This could hardly wait that long. Given that she had a USB of data stuffed in the toe of her running sneaker in the back of the hotel closet—a USB loaded with information so sensitive that her boss was now dead—Marina didn’t know if this could wait until tomorrow, much less next week. She had to get home, as soon as possible.
“Fuck it,” she murmured aloud, and typed out contact details for further encrypted communications. She hit send.
“Hey there.”
Marina turned. Grant was sitting up, looking at her. He was shirtless, the sheet covering him only from the waist down. In the semi-darkness, he gave her a sleepy smile. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I couldn’t sleep.”
Grant reached out and cradled her face with his hand. “I know. It’s awful.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Listen, I’ll do whatever you want to do here. It’s your call. But I think we should go back to New York. In the morning, if possible.”
She winced. “This trip. You put so much work into it and—”
“Paris will be here. We’ll come back another time.”
“But the expense . . .”
Grant shrugged. “Forget the expense.”
Marina covered her face with her hands and let out a small sob.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Grant said. “Please, I don’t want you to be sad.”
“You’re just such a good man,” she said. “How did I get so lucky?”
Grant’s face relaxed. “I’m the lucky one.”
“You really wouldn’t be upset if we left?”
Grant shook his head. “I’d prefer it,” he said, his voice firm. “Duncan was family to you, Marina. And family is the most important thing in the world. Everything else is just collateral damage. Don’t worry about the trip.”
Marina pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course.” Grant pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her body. He held her for a long time in silence. Eventually he pulled back, picked up the phone, and called the airline.