65

“There’s a state-wide man-hunt in California for Walker and Monica and this guy.” Somerville brought an image up on the screen. “I’ve just run him through Homeland Security and he’s clean, but look what happened when I ran his image in the DHS database.”

“Paul Conway,” McCorkell said.

“School friend of Jasper’s,” Somerville said. “Went to college together, all the usual. Did five years for hacking and fraud. Created a new ID, now does a regular IT security job at a pharmaceutical company based in Palm Springs.”

“Can you make some calls, get the heat off Walker?”

“No. This is military now.”

“General Christie.”

“Yes. I’ve tried contacting her office all morning to liaise.”

“But?”

“I’ve not heard back.”

“Where’s she located?”

“Cyber Command. Fort Meade. But she could be set up in the Situation Room of the White House for all I know.”

“I’ll find out,” McCorkell said, picking up a phone. “And when I find out, you and I are going to pay her a visit.”

Walker checked over his shoulder again. He was feeling a little better now that they had put nearly a hundred miles between them and the paramilitary team in the mountains. But he was unnerved that there was no police or military presence of any kind on the road—it was like any other Sunday, perhaps a little quieter than usual as people lived through the fallout of all their data being hacked, and sat glued to their television sets wondering what was next.

“Relax, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,” the PI said, seeing Walker’s actions in his rearview mirror. “Anything shows, I’ll let you know. And this old girl won’t let us down.”

He patted his dash, as though knocking on wood in the hope that the Crown Vic would, indeed, not let them down. It was a good model of car, a reliable rear-wheel-drive sedan, big and roomy, used for years by police agencies country-wide until production had stopped around 2011. Walker knew that plenty of detective departments and federal agencies still hung onto them, preferring the steel frame and bodied sedans over the newer and more efficient vehicles in their fleets; the plastic jobs in the carpools were preferred only by the younger and newer members rolling through. It was more than nostalgia—it was clinging to a piece of technology that you knew worked, and that you continued to trust. Like Granger with his .38 revolver. He’d probably learned to shoot on the same model, and over the decades as all the other guys had moved to polymer-framed automatics with high-capacity magazines and better accuracy and ergonomics, he’d clung to the thing. A comfort blanket as much a talisman of protection and justice as a reminder of all that he’d done.

Walker glanced again. Still no pursuit. No Suburbans. No helicopter. He looked forward. Monica was still asleep. Granger was quiet. The news was on the radio.

So, Walker thought, Jasper has used a code that would only make sense to Paul. Did that mean he knew Paul would look into the hacks? There was no other reason. No other, unless there was another person to whom he had sent book ciphers after his friendship with Paul had petered out.

So, what did that mean? If the message was aimed at Paul, perhaps they’d been in touch more than Monica was aware of, more than Paul had admitted. Considering Jasper’s personality, was it likely that he would share such a code with a new friend, rather than one he’d known since childhood?

Maybe. Maybe, yes. Or no.

Walker looked to Monica, and he realized he was looking at this the wrong way.

Jasper knew that Paul would look at this, because he knew that his sister would get involved and force Paul to help.

Which led to the real question: if Paul knew what those numbers meant, why hadn’t he said anything?

Walker couldn’t help himself. He checked over his shoulder again, out the back window. Nothing back there but an eighteen-wheeler and a couple of soccer-mum SUVs, probably loaded with kids.

“Walker . . .” Granger’s voice was accompanied by the car slowing.

Walker looked forward. Traffic had banked up. And suddenly Walker knew why this section of the interstate was not rolling with blacked-out Suburbans and helicopters.

The flashing lights of a police roadblock.