“Is there a bio?”
Tank double-clicked on the photograph and read the condensed biography aloud. “ ‘Harold Stark is senior vice president of special projects and technical infrastructure and a ONE fellow at ONE Technologies. Before joining ONE, he was an associate professor of computer science at the University of Texas at Austin. He received a PhD in computer science from Stanford University, where his research focused on large-scale, energy-efficient data collection networks.”
“Is that it?”
“About Stark?” Tank typed Stark’s name into the search bar. “Are twenty-five thousand hits enough?”
Among the links to Stark were articles titled “How We’re Making the Web Faster,” “The Ability to Store Unlimited Amounts of Data,” “Open Networking Summit.” And then something that really caught her eye: “ ‘Hal Stark,’ ” she said aloud. “ ‘The Genius Behind Ian Prince.’ ”
“Your husband had himself a heck of an informant,” said Tank. “Stark was Prince’s right-hand man, like Nathan Myrhvold was to Bill Gates.”
“Nathan who?”
“Never mind. Just think of it like getting Judas to snitch on his boss back in the day.” He opened Stark’s Wikipedia page and read aloud. “ ‘As ONE’s twenty-first employee and its first VP engineering, Stark has shaped much of ONE’s infrastructure. For the past four years he has worked closely with Ian Prince to map out the company’s foray into supercomputing, and he was instrumental in the company’s acquisition of Merriweather Systems.”
“There’s that company again,” said Mary. “What do they do?”
“John Merriweather created really fast computers. Supercomputers. The most powerful in the world.”
“We’re still just guessing that Joe was looking into ONE.”
“You really believe that?”
At the bottom of the first page was a link to Stark’s ONE X page, a compendium of pictures and events that Stark found interesting. Halfway down was a photograph of Stark standing in front of a red sports car. A caption read, “Me and my million-dollar baby.”
“Stark drove that car to the meet with my husband.”
“A LaFerrari? How do you know?”
“You could see it in the photograph of the crime scene on the front page of your paper.”
“Satisfied now?”
Mary nodded. “But why did they have to meet so far out of town? Why didn’t Stark just e-mail him whatever he was giving him?”
Tank smiled ruefully. “All tech corporations spy on their own execs. As director of special projects, Stark would know about all the products being developed-what worked, what didn’t, what was going to be the next big thing. Ian Prince is legendary for his paranoia. I heard that he makes employees go through a metal detector and empty their pockets each time they exit the building. Whatever evidence of wrongdoing Stark was giving your husband, he couldn’t e-mail it to him. He had to deliver it in person. Joe needed hard evidence. That’s the key.”
“But we’ll never-” Mary bit her tongue. The key. Joe had used those words in his message to her, hadn’t he? She was no longer sure of exactly what he’d said, only that the word brought to mind something she’d seen much too recently, something that reminded her of Hal Stark’s “million-dollar baby.” “Bring up the picture of the car again.”
Tank double-clicked on the photo, and there was Stark standing in front of his new sports car, staring right back at them with his best shit-eating grin.
“What is it…something about the car?” asked Tank.
“Not the car. The horse.”
“There’s no horse in the picture.”
“On the hood. The Ferrari insignia.” Mary zoomed in on the black stallion rampant on a yellow field. “I’ve seen it before.”
“So has everyone.”
“I mean, I’ve seen it at my house.” Mary stood. “Stay here. I have to go get something.”
73
Peter Briggs parked his BMW in the shadows of a willow tree a hundred yards past the Grants’ house. Surveying the street, he slipped a pistol from his holster and affixed a noise suppressor. According to the Mole, Mary Grant and her younger daughter remained in the home while the older girl was out with a boyfriend. Briggs’s plan was to enter, gain access to the bedrooms, and execute both targets, leaving the weapon behind to create the appearance of a murder-suicide. Distraught widow takes her daughter’s life before taking her own. It happened every day. The older girl’s absence would only add to the mystery.
Briggs chambered a round, then thumbed the safety on. He did not like disobeying Ian, but he had little choice. Men like Ian were divorced from the everyday nuts and bolts of a problem. They had forgotten that it takes a mower and a man pushing it to cut the grass. They only saw the result: an immaculately manicured lawn. It came down to a question of fundamental beliefs. Ian believed that technology could solve all his problems. Briggs knew better. Some things a man had to do with his own two hands.
Briggs left the car and disappeared into the shadows. He advanced at a jog, keeping close to the homes. It had been a while since he’d been in the field, and the adrenaline was pumping. Once it had been for his country. Tonight it was for his company, but his allegiance was no less fierce. Maybe all that rot that Ian spilled about the source of a man’s loyalties wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe countries were obsolete.
–
Two minutes.
Mary let go of the fence, landing awkwardly. She limped to the sliding door, let herself in, and collapsed on the first chair she saw. Her phone sat on the table, a decoy left behind on the chance their pursuers were tracking its location. A check of the screen showed that Jess had not called.
“Two minutes,” Tank had said. “Get in, find what you have to find, and come back.”
With an effort, she made it to Joe’s study. She sat at his desk, retrieved his gadget box, and upended it, sending the flash drives clattering everywhere. In the dark she spotted the phony pack of bubblegum, the heart-shaped pendant, and the car key. Not any car key, she knew now, but the key to a LaFerrari owned by Mr. Harold J. Stark, senior vice president special products of ONE Technologies. Or a replica thereof.
She turned on the reading lamp. The key was fat and black, with the Ferrari insignia printed beneath a translucent orb in its center. She pressed her thumb against the stallion and out popped the flash drive.
Joe’s plan came to her as if it were her own. She saw Harold Stark entering his office, inserting the flash drive into his computer, downloading the evidence Joe had asked him to procure. She saw him again at the end of the day, dumping the key into the plastic tray along with the rest of his personal effects and passing through the security checkpoint, no one the wiser.
A noise interrupted her thoughts. The sound of one of her wooden chairs scooting an inch. Her eyes went to the desk lamp.
The light…
–
The kitchen door was open an inch.
Briggs stepped inside. His pistol was drawn, held low, finger brushing the trigger guard. Inadvertently he knocked one of the chairs. It squeaked like hell, and hurriedly he lifted it off the ground. He froze, listening, thinking that it had been too long since he’d been operational. He waited until he was satisfied that the house was still and everyone asleep, then set the chair down. He crossed the kitchen and went through the foyer into the garage, wanting to confirm that the car was there. He retraced his steps, noting that a television was on in the family room, muted, no one watching.
Antennas bristling, Briggs raised his pistol and climbed the stairs. The doors to the girls’ rooms were closed, as was the door to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He stopped by the first door to the right. According to the Mole, it belonged to the younger girl. He steeled himself. It would be fast. He didn’t want things getting out of hand.