be protected in similar fashion, and that very deeply worried her.
The e-mail arrived at the precise tick of eight o’clock. Ash had fallen off into a doze that not even total exhaustion would sustain for too long. Megan was in the kitchen dumping a soggy coffee filter into the waste bin with one hand and scooping fresh grinds into the maker’s basket with another.
One of the ops — Lehane — thrust his head into the entry.
“Ms. Breen,” he said. “Something’s jumped into your queue. We think it could be—”
Megan didn’t hear the rest as she ran past him into the living room.
The subject line of the e-mail read:
Aria di Bravura: A Song of Love and Sacrifice
Megan dropped into a chair, started to reach for the computer mouse, and then realized she’d carried the heaping plastic coffee spoon from the kitchen.
“Will somebody take this damned thing from me?” She passed it off to one of the men without turning her eyes from the display. “Thanks.”
The op stood with his hand out and glanced downward with mild surprise.
She had let go of the coffee spoon before he’d managed to reach for it, spilling a small heap of dark roast on top of his shoe.
Roger Gordian watched the e-mail open on the screen of the notebook computer he’d set up in his guest suite at Thomas Sheffield’s place.
The image that filled most of the display was of a large upraised hand of fire, its glowing orange fingers spread wide. Gradually materializing across its open palm in black text was this message:
The conditions of Julia’s release are simple. We demand no ransom, no portion of the father’s wealth. Only a promise made to all the ears of the world — and has not reaching them been his lifelong goal?
At nine o’clock tonight aboard the Sedco oil platform, Roger Gordian is to renounce his dream of freedom through information, declare UpLink International and its subsidiaries utterly and permanently dissolved, and require that its stockholders forsake their shares by legal agreement without any form of compensation, including financial reimbursement from insurers.
All UpLink’s corporate operations will then cease. All personnel must be evacuated from its facilities worldwide. All its projects must be abandoned, its communications networks dismantled.
Full implementation of these terms is to occur within a time frame not exceeding 48 hours after the announcement or Julia Gordian will be executed.
The black text remained in place for thirty seconds and then coalesced into a rotating sphere that rapidly underwent another smooth transformation against the fiery palm, changing colors, reshaping itself into the UpLink logo: an Earth globe surrounded by intersecting satellite bandwidth lines.
Another half minute passed. The hand clenched into a fist, morphed into an red-orange fireball, and brightened. Then it suddenly plunged to the bottom of the screen like a falling comet, leaving behind an empty white void.
Gordian turned from the screen and looked over at Pete Nimec in the chair beside him.
“What’s this about?” Gordian said. His face was ashen. “Say I complied with the declaration to pull up stakes, how could anyone think I’d be able to go about convincing our investors to do the same thing? It’s inconceivable. You’re talking about fortunes. There are thousands of our employees
Nimec took a breath.
“Nobody expects you to meet them,” he said. “The whole thing’s outrageous. It’s meant to put you through your paces.”
Gordian was shaking his head. “But if that’s the case—”
Gordian fell silent. Nimec waited. They exchanged glances.
“If that’s the case, Pete… and this is all about
Nimec hesitated, dismissing every hollow word of encouragement that came to mind. Gord deserved better from him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know.”
His name was Fred Gilbert, and he was vocally irate about someone ringing his telephone off the hook at seven o’clock in the morning. According to what he’d already told Glenn three or four times during his lengthy rebuke, the fact that it was a business call only worsened his unhappiness.
“This is an outrageous imposition,” he said. “Or don’t we agree a man has a right to choose his own schedule?”
“Of course, sir,” Glenn said at his end of the line. “And I apologize for having disrupted your routine—”
“My
“Yes, sir. Your sleep—”
“Of which I require eight full hours,” Gilbert said. “You took my contact information off the club’s home page, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Glenn said. That much of his story, at least, had been true. “Mr. Gilbert, I’ve tried to explain—”
“If the times I’m available weren’t posted on the site, you might have some excuse. But they’re quite clear for anyone to read.”
“Understood, Mr. Gilbert. Again, though, I did mention—”
“I know. I have listened. You are here in California on overnight business, flying out to Baltimore at ten o’clock, and need to leave for the airport in an hour,” Gilbert said. “It is still no justification for discourtesy. Rules cannot be ignored simply because they may be inconvenient. Whether you are in town for a day, a month, or a decade, respect and discipline must be observed.” A pause. “Canines no less than humans learn by example, and I suggest you foster these qualities in
Glenn sat across the kitchen table from Ricci looking wearily frustrated. Having gone the entire night without shutting his eyes except to blink the crust from them, it was hard for him to commiserate with Gilbert. In the long hours since their arrival at Ricci’s apartment, the two men had worked steadily to upload the digital photos of forensic evidence and notes from the Parkville clinic to a desktop computer, sort through what they’d learned, and decide how to move forward with it. Both had centered on the items that first caught Ricci’s attention at the clinic — a numbered and labeled vial containing strands of black fur, and a cross-indexed handwritten entry on Moore’s notepad that read:
Showing Glenn the notes, Ricci had pointed to the phrase “attack dog,” gotten an oddly distant expression on his face, and shaken his head.
