Mary pried the phone from his hand. “Jessie?” she said. “It’s Mom. Where are you?”
A man answered. “Mrs. Grant? This is Linus Jankowski. I’m returning your message. Calm down, okay? Everything’s just fine.”
“Linus? Is she with you? Can I talk to her?”
“No, ma’am. She isn’t. I thought she might have called to tell you.”
“Where is she? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, Mrs. Grant. At least, she was when she left. I told her to call you.”
“What do you mean she left? Where is she?”
“Right about now, I imagine, she should be landing in Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s going to DEF CON.”
74
Ian set down his cup of tea, eyes watering from the strain of staring at so many screens for so long a time. His job was done. In the morning Mary Grant would discover the vastly altered landscape of her living situation. She was prideful and obdurate, to a fault. But she was not stupid. She would choose the carrot, not the stick.
Yawning, Ian crossed the office and sat on the corner of a credenza. You’d be proud, Father, he said silently, eyes on the black satchel. I’m not a bloody savage. You didn’t raise me to do harm. I’m a diplomat like you. Or at least as you had us all believe. I know better, don’t I? That’s why you left your satchel behind. You wanted me to know.
Ian kneeled and with care unfastened the satchel’s brass locks. He opened the case as a scholar might open an ancient text. Inside were files. Day-to-day circulars from the Prague consulate, circa 1988. Upcoming holidays. Office hours. A strictly worded communiqué stating that only the head of station and his assistant were to use the newly installed telefax machine. There was also a checkbook. The balance stood at £750. A study of the register showed regular checks written to one Off-Track Betting. The amounts came to £400 in the register alone. Further investigations had showed the sum total of all Peter Prince’s wagers to be significantly higher: £137,000 over a fifteen-year period, to be exact. Nearly $250,000. Chump change today, but to a diplomat earning £38,000 a year, a tidy sum indeed.
Ian dropped the checkbook. There was one last item inside the case. He picked it up and laid it in his palm. Exhibit A: one Walther PPK nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Government issue. Serial number 9987C.
Peter Prince wasn’t a second-rate diplomat or a lousy gambler. He had not simply walked out on his family after squandering their savings, leaving them destitute. Rumors of his suicide were just that. It was all cover. Part of a carefully woven tapestry to obscure the facts of his true position. Ian’s father was a spy. He’d died on duty for Her Majesty’s government. Ian was certain of it.
Tomorrow he would finally gain the means to learn if he was correct.
He smiled in anticipation, replacing the pistol and closing the satchel.
That was when he heard the voice.
“Briggs?” he said. “That you?” Ian looked around, sure that no one else was in the office.
Briggs’s voice was emanating from a screen inside the tower. Ian retook his position inside the curtain of websites. He scanned the tower top to bottom, side to side. Briggs spoke again and he pinpointed the source.
It was a screen displaying the surveillance feed courtesy of the Grants’ desktop.
Ian stood straighter, his fatigue banished to a later time. He was not surprised, only disappointed. For now he paid close attention and watched until there was no longer need.
75
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Mary entered the kitchen to find Carrie Kramer pressing a bag of ice to Grace’s leg and Tank hovering nearby like a concerned uncle.
“Just a bruise, Mom,” said Carrie. “We’re all going to be fine.”
Tank broke away and walked to her, using his bulk to provide them with a moment’s privacy. “What took so long?”
Mary stepped closer. “They tried again,” she whispered. “I had to knock him out.”
“To kill you? He’s there now?”
Mary swallowed and her throat ached. “I’ll tell you everything in a sec.” She continued past him and sat down next to her daughter. “What is it, mouse?”
“My leg hurts,” said Grace. “I tried not to let it bother me. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Mary gave her daughter a hug. “If something bothers you, tell me right away. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Now let me take a look.”
Grace lifted the ice bag off her leg. “It got bigger.”
Somehow Mary managed a smile. “You know what I think? I think it’s just a big bad bruise from falling on the trampoline.” She was lying. She’d never seen a bruise like that from a simple tumble. She prayed it was a reaction to the new medicine Grace was taking.
Grace poked at her leg. “It isn’t coming back, is it, Momma?”
“Doctor Rogers said you’re doing just fine. But tell you what-we should probably go to the hospital to have them check it out.”
“Now?”
“I think that’s best.”
“Can they give me something to make it stop hurting? Carrie gave me an Advil, but it’s not doing anything.”
“I’m sure they can. Now can you wait here with Carrie for a few minutes while I talk to Tank?”
Grace replaced the ice bag. “Did you find Jessie?”
“She went on a little trip, but she’s just fine.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you in a second.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Not yet.”
Grace considered this with genuine concern. “Then how do you know she’s fine?”
Mary laughed off the question as if it were part of some larger, amusing misunderstanding, then led Tank into the dining room. Once inside, her smile dimmed and she collapsed onto a chair.
“What happened?” asked Tank, taking the chair opposite her. “You look like hell.”
“Jessie’s in Las Vegas. She went with her friend Garrett to compete in some kind of hacking game. Apparently someone’s there who might help her figure out who hacked into my phone originally.”
“Slow down. Catch your breath.”
Mary cradled her head in her hands until her breathing returned to normal. She felt the color coming back into her cheeks. Even better, her forearm stopped throbbing from the collision of bowl and bone.
It took her ten minutes to relate all that had transpired inside her home-finding the Ferrari key, hearing the intruder enter and the shots being fired upstairs, hiding beneath Joe’s desk while the intruder sat inches away telling an associate that no evidence had been located on Stark’s body, and finally hearing the call she’d thought was from Jessie but was from Linus Jankowski and her rash decision to attack the man.
“It was Keefe,” she said. “He’s the one who betrayed Joe. He told them that Stark was the informant. The South African said that Keefe didn’t know how Joe’s informant was bringing out the evidence and that Joe was on to Edward Mason. You were right. They won’t stop until we’re all dead.”
Tank sighed. “I hate it when that happens.”
Mary stood, feeling stronger, if only because she knew what was required of her. “I may be able to reach her. Linus gave me Garrett’s number.”