A lot of things in this world were like this map of Antarctica, where all the edges were visible, but everything inside was hidden.
My office phone rang sharply, even though it was well after business hours. Although I did not want to answer it, I did anyway. “Hello. Law Office of Bryce Seagraves.”
“Hey, Bryce. It’s Glenn.”
“Man, where’ve you been?” I asked. “You were going to get right back to me.”
“Sorry about that. Something of a crisis at work. Cyberattacks. An everyday occurrence coming from every corner of the earth. Got us all working overtime.”
“Understood. Hey, are we still on for racquetball Saturday afternoon?”
Glenn replied, “Yeah, man. You know it. That’s not why I called, though. The research project you gave me. Well, I started.”
“Where are you calling me from?”
“BWI Airport. I’m waiting to pick up a colleague. It’s cool. I’m on a payphone. Airports are just about the only places that still have them.”
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Well, I thought that finding out information about this Benton Dynamics place would be hard, and I’d have to ignore your warning not to … well, you know.”
“Did you?”
“No,” Glenn answered. “But there’s more online than should be. Leaks are the way of the world right now.”
“What’d you find … without going into too many details?”
Glenn asked, “Are you familiar with that anti-secrecy website out of Iceland called Project Transparrior? Whistleblowers exposing corruption in government agencies, corporations, and big non-profits. Well, apparently they’ve branched out to secret research projects, and their first target was Benton Dynamics. Their R&D shouldn’t be on public display, but there’s this article about underwater drones, the kind that can go after nuclear submarines. You can check it out if you like.”
“NSA monitors that website and anyone who logs onto it, Glenn.”
“Of course, I know that. Remember where I work? Don’t worry about it, man. I covered my tracks. They can’t trace anything back to me. They won’t even know I’m in the United States.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Glenn was silent on the line.
I said, “I don’t have your computer skills, so there’s no way that I’m logging on to Project Transparrior.”
“Okay, but Benton Dynamics is into something big. The article is kind of vague, but if what it says is true, it could change the balance of power in submarine warfare.”
I wondered what Kostas and Dupree might have done with the stolen files. The two of them could have been the source of the leaks to this Project Transparrior website, but I had no idea why anyone inside Benton Dynamics would do that.
Glenn said, “I can tell you more.”
“No. Not now.”
“I’m on a payphone and you’re on a landline. They need a warrant to listen into us.”
I thought about Sheriff Tompkins in the interrogation room and how she said that she was swearing out warrants as we spoke. The FBI was noticeably missing from the scene right now, perhaps lurking in the darkness of cyberspace and building a case against anyone connected with the leaks.
I said, “No, wait until Saturday.”
“Okay, man. Your call. But I leave you with this. The secret research project at Benton Dynamics … it’s called the Remora Shadow.”
8
The road to Benton Dynamics intersected Ocean Highway five miles outside of Bridgeford. I nearly drove past it. No company sign pointed out the location of the largest private employer in the county, but my GPS system told me where to turn. A dense forest of oaks and pines formed a barrier between the main road and the corporate headquarters. Anyone cruising down Ocean Highway on their way to the beach would have passed these woods without even knowing Benton Dynamics was back there.
I shifted down to second gear as I took the turn, and then pressed the accelerator pedal of my Barracuda to the floor. The engine roared. Unlike most side roads in Chester County, the pavement was new and well maintained. Thundering down this backstreet at an irrational speed let me feel the tires grip the curves, but I decided to slow down and stay focused. I had a conference regarding Marisa Dupree’s case in twenty minutes.
Where the woods ended, a tall metal fence began. Security cameras were perched atop every third fencepost. Only the grassy campus and the angular modern buildings made the headquarters appear to be something other than a state penitentiary. The largest building was a sleek rectangle of black reflective windows into which no one could see. There were no people walking anywhere on the grounds. My engine idled at a low growl as I rolled to a stop at the gatehouse.
A uniformed guard leaned out of his booth, held up his hand, and looked over my 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. His expression was perplexed, as if I were a time-traveler who had strapped a saddle onto a Triceratops and charged up to his gate. He asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I was told to mention the legal department. I have an appointment.”
“Your name?”
“Bryce Seagraves.”
The guard studied a tablet and then poked the screen. “Yeah, we have you. Identification?”
“Business card okay?” I asked.
“Photo ID, sir.”
I tugged my driver’s license out of my wallet, which took some effort, and gave it to the
