What that meant was they had forty-eight hours to fly to the East Coast, find the safe-deposit box Stella believed contained evidence regarding Operation Argead, gather that evidence together, and fly back. I hoped it would be that easy, but I doubted very much it would be.
I was getting ready to text Flynn to see if she had free time later in the day to get together, when Cope knocked on the cabin door. When I opened it, he pushed past me, carrying his open laptop.
“You are not going to fucking believe this.” He set the laptop down on the table.
“What?”
“Look for yourself.”
“China has granted US whistleblower Xander Harris permanent residency rights,” began the intelligence bulletin.
“Who the fuck is Xander Harris?”
“Keep reading.”
The report mapped out Harris’ timeline beginning when his father was deployed to the Gulf War. Xander, given name William, was eight at the time. His father was deployed again to Afghanistan when Xander was sixteen.
Right out of college, paid for with his father’s GI Bill, Xander secured a job working for the US government as an IT and cybersecurity tech.
I looked up at Cope. “Has Decker seen this?”
He pulled out his phone while I continued reading.
Two years after Harris was hired, his father committed suicide outside of a VA hospital, after reportedly being denied care for Gulf War Syndrome and PTSD.
Three months later, he left his job with the government and went to work for Enigma Computers, based in Hawaii.
“That name sounds familiar. Why?”
Cope shrugged. “Decker is on his way here now. He should land in about an hour. And to answer your earlier question, he’s read the bulletin.”
“Is that why he’s on his way?”
“Affirmative.”
I continued reading. Nine years ago, Xander Harris relocated from Hawaii to Hong Kong.
I sat back in the chair. “Holy fucking shit.”
“What?”
I pointed to the paragraph of the bulletin that referred to the timing of Xander’s relocation from Hawaii to Hong Kong. “Cope, do you think…”
“I know what you’re going to say, and I’m as hopeful as you are.”
“But?”
“Cautiously hopeful.”
“There’s still a matter of how this relates to what Stella’s aunt may have uncovered.”
“If that amounts to anything.”
“Have we always been this negative?” I asked.
“Maybe not nine years ago. I don’t know. Maybe we’re just realistic.”
“Hey, where’s Ali?” It dawned on me that Cope had been here close to thirty minutes.
“Lying down. She’s…uh…not feeling well.”
Obviously, there was something more to it I was missing, but right now, I had more important things to be concerned with.
I dove as deep as I could into William “Xander” Harris’ background, which was like diving into a quarter inch of water. “Fisk buried him,” I said, assuming Cope wasn’t finding any more than I was.
“China calls him a ‘US whistleblower,’ but I can’t find anything whatsoever about what he blew on.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck once Deck gets here.”
A few minutes later, we heard him before we saw him. “Goddamn motherfucking sonuvabitch. I grew up on a ranch; you’d think I’d know to be on the lookout for horse shit.”
I went out on the porch where he was scraping his boot on the step.
“Hey, Irish.”
“Hey, Deck.”
He stormed past me, threw his laptop on the table more than set it, and pulled a chair out.
“We got anybody close enough to China to get in and kill this little motherfucker?”
I looked at Cope, who was looking at me.
“Yes, Rile, I am serious.”
Only then did we realize he was talking on his cell, although I didn’t see it, nor did I see any kind of earpiece. Then again, this was Decker we were talking about. Maybe he had something implanted in his brain that allowed him to simply make a call by thinking it—or some other shit only he’d dream up.
Decker sat down, took a deep breath, and rested his hands on the edge of the table. “Something tells me this is our mole.”
I nodded, and so did Cope.
“The question is, how do we tie him to Kerr?”
“Our thoughts as well.”
“I gotta tell you, fellas, I’m thinking about reading Doc Butler in on this.”
“You don’t think he already knows?”
Deck’s eyes met mine. “You mean via Burns?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck no,” he spat, shaking his head.
Burns was Doc’s father; was it really so hard to think he’d discuss Operation Argead with his son? Evidently so.
“As far as reading Doc in, would anyone object?” Cope asked.
“Anyone whose opinion I give two shits about? Nope,” answered Decker.
When he stood and walked over to the window, seemingly on another call, I wondered again about the brain-implant thing. How the hell had he done it otherwise?
“Doc, Decker here. How soon can you and your team get to Colorado?”
There were a few seconds of silence. “Yeah, I know you have a fleet of planes now, asshole. Just answer the question. How soon?”
The next thing I heard was him asking Rile the same thing. “Yes, this supersedes my directive to kill the little bastard.”
Decker returned to the table and sat down. “How’s Ali feeling?” he asked.
“Still pretty rough.”
“It’ll pass,” said Decker.
“Do you want to elaborate as to what you’re talking about?”
Decker ignored me, and Cope looked at me as if I were an idiot.
“What?”
“She’s pregnant, asshole,” Decker said before Cope could. “Now, can we get back to business?” He looked between the two of us, and I nodded.
“The way I see it, we may have two investigations to conduct. First is to figure out who the hell this Harris guy is, what and how much he’s given to China, and who else he’s connected to. At the same time, we need to determine whether this weasel has anything to do with Argead or if the two are unrelated. Then we meet in the middle.”
“Copy that,” both
