“Fair enough,” Rudy said. “So, measure that against the number of people in the professions that relate to these circumstances. Law enforcement, security, viral research. A few others we haven’t identified. That number becomes impossible.”
“Right,” I said. “It’s only possible if we go on the premise that this is not random chance.”
“Hold on, dammit,” growled Aunt Sallie. “Do you mean that they were deliberately sought or deliberately placed?”
“Either,” Rudy said. “Both.”
“That’s impossible,” she said. “The system is too good.”
“Yes,” Church agreed. “It is.” But from his tone it was clear that he meant that Auntie’s assessment was wrong.
She gave a stubborn shake of her head. “No one could hack all those records. Not unless they had MindReader. C’mon, Deacon; you’re not suggesting that Bug—”
“No,” I said. “Not Bug.”
Rudy and Circe exchanged a look. Rudy said, “The normal psych profiles used in this level of government work would red flag most of these people. Bug gave me the screener’s notes for Dr. Grey, Trevor Plympton, and that other guy. Scofield, the maintenance man from Fair Isle. None of the reports indicated the right kind of psychological vulnerability.”
“Then it’s bad screening,” snapped Auntie. “Who did the screening?”
“Three different companies.”
“Same screener working at different companies at different times?”
“No.”
“Do we have the psych profiles of the screeners?”
“We do,” said Mr. Church. He removed three profiles from his desk and handed them to Aunt Sallie. She opened the covers and scanned the contents. Then she did it again and her eyes were wide.
“No fucking way, Deacon.”
Church said nothing.
Aunt Sallie wheeled on me. “Listen, jackass, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull here, but —”
“Auntie,” said Church softly. “Please. I had this suspicion since the Starbucks incident. Very few people knew about that meeting.”
She slapped the files down on the desk. I gingerly reached past her and picked them up, opened them, saw what she had seen.
“Ouch,” I said.
“What?” asked Rudy, but I shook my head and held on to the files.
“Dr. O’Tree,” said Church, “threat assessment is your specialty. Given the facts, work out a scenario for how this is possible.”
She chewed her lip and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to do that,” she said after a thoughtful pause, “but I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“Well … I can, but it’s impossible.” Circe looked like someone had slapped her.
“We seem to be trading in impossible,” grumbled Aunt Sallie. “Speak your mind, girl.”
But Circe shook her head and it was clear that she was in great distress. Her eyes were filling with tears; she covered her hand with her mouth. “I … can’t.”
“Then I’ll say it for you,” I said, my voice more brutal than I’d intended. “There’s ten kinds of security on places like the London and double that for Fair Isle and Area 51. Everyone gets a background check that goes all the way to their DNA. The people who do the screening are as important or perhaps
“That’s my damn point,” snapped Aunt Sallie. “Every screener we use comes with ironclad bona fides. Every damn one.”
Tears rolled down Circe’s face.
“Yes,” said Mr. Church quietly. “And every damn one of them was vetted by Vox.”
Circe O’Tree burst into tears.
Chapter Sixty-nine
Headquarters of SecureOne
Manhattan
December 20, 2:18 A.M. EST
The American sat behind his desk and smoked a cigar. Beyond the big glass windows the city glimmered with a million jewels. Stars above and streetlights below. He loved the city. He loved its size and its arrogance, its muscle and its swagger. It was like looking in a mirror.
His phone rang. Toys.
“You somewhere safe?”
“Heading back to the castle,” said Toys.
“Okay, but keep your head down and your eyes open.”
“Why? Because of my call to Ledger?”
“Partly. But mostly ’cause I’m about to piss in the punch bowl here. It’s not going to do Sebastian or Mom any good. Not going to do the Kings any good, either. Not in the short term.”
He explained what he intended to do.
“God!” said Toys, but there was as much admiration in his voice as fear.
A light flashed on the phone unit on the American’s desk.
“Look, kiddo, I got to run. Keep that phone handy. I’ll be in touch.”
With that, the American pocketed the cell phone and heaved himself out of his chair. He lumbered over to a cabinet and removed a set of schematics. He placed them on his desk blotter, used a red pen to write a note, and then straightened. He cast a last look around the office, sighed again, and went into the bathroom, pushed back the curtain, and stepped into the shower. Then he pushed three tiles on the wall and waited as hidden hydraulics pulled the entire shower wall aside. The American stepped through, tapped another button, and let the wall close behind him. The DMS would find the elevator eventually, but by then he would be long gone.
FOUR MINUTES LATER Sgt. Gus Dietrich kicked open the heavy oak doors of the American’s office and surged inside with Liberty Team at his heels. The red pinpoints of their laser sights danced on the floor, the walls, and the big desk.
There was no one home.
Dietrich ordered his men to do a thorough search, and while they were at it he walked over to the big desk and looked at the schematic. And at the note the American had left.
He tapped his commlink.
“Bulldog to Deacon,” he called.
“Go for Deacon.”
“No one home. But the big guy left us something. You’ll freaking love this.”
Dietrich bent over so that his helmet cam projected a clean image of the blueprints of the USS
