He logged on to the computer and used its browser to access one of the many services that provided free e- mail addresses. It took him less than three minutes to sign up for a new identity. Composing the short message to the Mole took longer.
You're doing an appraisal for me. A bracelet I picked up in Colorado. 0 said I should contact you directly about authenticity. Can we talk?
JQ.
He clicked on Send. Now it was just a matter of waiting. While leaving the window with the mailbox open, Quinn brought up a new window to access the website of a printing firm based in Chelsea, Massachusetts. Using a back door he'd secretly placed on their server, he routed himself to a paper supply company in Baltimore, Maryland, and from there into the computers at the Government Services Administration, the GSA, in Washington, D.C. Now it was a simple matter of skipping over to the FBI's system, using channels Orlando had set up long ago.
Once he was in, Quinn spent thirty minutes going over the list of potential missing persons that could be Taggert. He was even able to cross half of them off his list.
Before he went further, Quinn opened another window, and used it to access MapQuest for the U.S. He typed 'Campobello, Nevada' in the appropriate field, then hit Return. He was greeted with a map for Campobello, South Carolina. He tried again, but got the same results.
He switched from Mapquest to Google. For his next task, a simple search engine would be enough. He typed 'Campobello, Nevada' into the subject line, then clicked on Search.
Within seconds, he was presented with a list of over ten thousand hits, but none of them were for a Campobello, Nevada. The hits had keyed in on either the word 'Campobello' or the word 'Nevada' but not both. He scrolled through the first couple of pages. In Italy there was a city named Campobello di Mazara on the island of Pantelleria. Italy also produced a product line called Campobello Riserva Olive Oil & Balsamic Vinegar. Probably from the same region.
In Canada there was a Campobello Island, where Franklin Roosevelt had had a summer retreat. There was a Campobello's Pizzeria in St. Louis, and a Campobello Lodge at the Bar-N-Ranch in West Yellowstone. But no Campobello, Nevada.
Quinn rolled his shoulders back, stretching. He moved his head from side to side and was greeted with a loud pop as his upper vertebrae realigned.
Since Campobello didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, he decided to check if he'd received any e-mail yet. He brought the window forward and clicked the Refresh button.
There was one message. He clicked on the link to open it.
501587331861xc2
He went to a park nearby. The sun was shining, and the temperatures had risen a bit. But it was still cold, so there were few other people about.
Quinn pulled his phone out of his pocket. He used the code Orlando had given him to extract a phone number from the Mole's message, then punched the number into his phone. The other end rang once before someone picked up. There was no greeting, just silence broken by the faint sound of breathing.
'This is Quinn.'
'How do I . . . know?' The voice was flat, electronic, and seemed to pause unnaturally at odd moments. Quinn guessed that it was being run through some sort of digital filter to disguise the speaker's identity.
'You don't,' Quinn answered truthfully. 'How do I know you are who I think you are?'
'You don't.'
Quinn said, 'Have you figured out what was on the slide in the bracelet?' There was a long silence. 'Like I said before, how do . . . I know you are . . . really Quinn?' 'You don't, dammit. You're going to have to trust me.'
'Trust,' the voice said, 'is not something . . . I do.'
'You trust Orlando, and she trusted me enough to tell me how to get in touch with you.'
'Perhaps you got it out of. . . her through . . . other means.' 'Oh for God's sake,' Quinn said. 'Either you believe me or you don't.'
'Where is she?'
'Safe.'
'You've . . . seen her recently?'
'About an hour ago.'
More silence. 'There was word she . . . was dead.'
'There was word I was dead, too.'
'So you've heard.'
'Can we get on to why I called?'
There was movement on the other side of the phone. The Mole undoubtedly shifting position.
'The slide was . . . very damaged . . . it . . . is taking us some . . . time . . . maybe in a . . . few days . . . I'll e- mail you . . . when to call me.'
'Wait,' Quinn said, sensing the Mole was about to hang up. 'What about the inscription on the bracelet?'
