“Yes.”

Shafer flicked to the next screen, which had rows of acronyms and dates. “DTAC — that’s date taken custody. CS, confinement site. Et cetera. You can see, he was arrested in Iraq by something called Task Force 1490. Then a couple of weeks in custody at BLD — that’s Balad.”

“Says BLDIQ SC-HVD.”

“We do love our acronyms. I don’t know for sure but figure it means something like ‘secure custody, high- value detainee.’ Then he’s transferred to 673-1. We can safely assume that’s the Midnight House. Then, a month after that, transferred back to Iraq, held again at Balad. This time not as a high-value detainee. They’d decided he didn’t have anything. And two months after that, they release him. The final note is AT-CAI.”

“Air transfer to Cairo International?”

“Probably. This match what he told you?”

“More or less.”

“And you see, the record is confined to movements and detention sites. Nothing about what he actually said.”

“I get it, Ellis. So how’s this help us?”

“That letter to the inspector general. It had twelve ID numbers. Six of them, they’re like this. Complete, with a reference to 673-1 as a detention site. Four of them, they have some gaps in time. And no mention of 673.”

“And the other two?”

“See for yourself.” Shafer typed in a ten-digit number: 5567208212. This time the screen went blank for several seconds. Then: Record not found. He retyped the code. Same result.

“And this is the other missing PIN.” Shafer typed it in. Record not found.

“Ellis. You’re sure—”

“I’m sure. They went right in my BlackBerry like the others.”

“Maybe those two were fake.” Wells knew he was stretching.

“Ten real and two fake. It’s possible. Sure.”

“Or they were so high-value that — maybe there’s another database.”

Shafer shook his head. “I checked. There’s a couple guys like that, cases where we don’t want to disclose anything about where we caught, where we’re holding them. Even in here. But it’s about four guys. And then you get something like this—” He typed in another number and the screen flashed: Restricted/Eyes Only/SCAP. Contact ODD/NCS—the office of the deputy director for the National Clandestine Service, the new name for the Directorate of Operations. “There’s always a record. Precisely because we don’t want guys to disappear from the system.”

“But two of them did,” Wells said. “How easy is deleting these records?”

“I don’t know yet,” Shafer said. “I’m guessing not very. And probably you’ve got to be very senior.”

“Senior like Vinny. But then why get us involved?”

“Guilty conscience.”

“Good one, Ellis.”

“Truly, I don’t know,” Shafer said. “There’s too many angles we can’t see yet. You’re sure Zumari’s not behind the killings?”

“I’d bet anything. He’s been hiding from the Egyptian police since he got home. And if you’d seen him — he’s not a terrorist.”

“Then it’s all pointing the same way. Inside.”

“Inside meaning somebody who was part of the squad? Or inside meaning bigger, like a conspiracy?”

“I don’t think we know that yet.”

They sat in silence, the only sound the hum of the computers under Shafer’s desk. “So you don’t want to go to Vinny?” Wells said eventually.

“Anything we tell him now isn’t going to come as much of a shock.”

Shafer was right, Wells realized. Even if Duto hadn’t deleted the numbers himself, the letter to the inspector general would have tipped him. He knew much more than he’d told them.

“WE NEED TO GO BACK to the beginning, find out what we can about 673,” Shafer said. He pulled a folder from his safe, handed it to Wells. “These are the individual personnel records for members of the squad. I warn you it’s less than meets the eye.”

Wells flicked through the file. The personnel files hadn’t been put off-limits, because they predated the creation of 673 and weren’t part of its record. They held basic biographical information on the members of the squad — names, unit histories, birthdays, home addresses.

“No obvious pattern,” Wells said. “They’re from all over. Mostly not interrogators.”

“That is the pattern. Only four of the guys have experience handling interrogations. Terreri, the LTC who ran it. Jack Fisher. The lead interrogator, Karp.”

“And my old buddy Jerry Williams.”

“Even those four, they were all over the map. None of them knew each other before 673 was formed. It’s all spare parts.”

“You think we wanted a clean break from other units.”

“Remember the legal situation at the time. Post-Abu Ghraib. Post-Rumsfeld. Pressure to close Guantanamo. The Red Cross accuses us of torturing detainees. Torture. That’s their word. And it’s the Red Cross. Not Amnesty International. Everybody knows the score. This stuff isn’t supposed to happen anymore,” Shafer said.

“But we still need intel.”

“And we think we have to get rough to get it. So, we make this new group, a few old hands and a few new ones. They’ve got a connection to the Pentagon, but nobody’s exactly responsible for it. That was the point. The whole reason for the structure.”

“Maybe so, but these guys, they’re not dumb. They would have wanted legal protection. There’s got to be a finding”—a secret Presidential memo that authorized 673 to operate. “Even if they destroyed the interrogation tapes, or didn’t make any, there’s transcripts.”

“Forget the records,” Shafer said. A note of irritation crept into his voice. “They’re gone. Focus on what we know.” Shafer held up his fingers. “One: Ten guys on the squad. Six are dead, one’s missing. Two: Millions of dollars can’t be accounted for. Murphy and Terreri, the guys who allegedly took the money, are two of the only three to survive. Three: Two detainees have vanished. Their records, anyway. Four: Duto — maybe on his own, maybe on orders from Whitby — stopped the IG from investigating. And then, for some reason, pulled us into this to do our own investigation. Five: According to the FBI, the remaining members of the squad have airtight alibis. Terreri’s been in Afghanistan for a year. Poteat’s in South Korea, and like Brant Murphy told us, he wasn’t part of the squad for long anyway.”

“And Murphy?”

“He was at Langley last week when Wyly and Fisher were killed in California. Our own surveillance tapes prove it.”

“Maybe he outsourced.”

“Doubtful.”

“Doubtful.” Contract killers were popular in the movies. In the real world they were greedy, incompetent, and more often than not police informants.

Wells stared at the ceiling. Everything Shafer had said was true, but he couldn’t see how it fit together. “What about the FBI interviews? Anything yet from them?”

“So far, no.”

“There is one other mystery,” Wells said. “Jerry Williams. We keep assuming he’s dead. What if he’s not? What if he disappeared because he got wind that someone was after 673?”

“There’s another explanation,” Shafer said.

“Not possible,” Wells said. “I know Jerry.”

“You knew Jerry. I asked Murphy about him. He said Jerry was disgruntled, thought he deserved a promotion, hadn’t gotten it—”

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