But then the investigation went sideways. One witness recanted his affidavit, claiming that he had been coerced into making a false statement. Another fell ill and could not be interviewed. Requests for information from ONE went unanswered. Subpoenas were challenged. It was a classic case of stonewalling. But instead of pressing harder, which was the FBI’s normal modus operandi, the Bureau backed off. A memo from Fergus Keefe to Joe and Randy Bell requested that they terminate the investigation. Both men objected, but to no avail. A week later John Merriweather perished in a plane crash and the case was officially closed. The sale to ONE Technologies was approved shortly thereafter.
There was more to it than that, as Harold Stark had made sure that Joe would find out. With a mixture of anger and disbelief, Mary read through a series of e-mails from Ian Prince to Edward Mason requesting that the FBI’s deputy director “tamp down” the Merriweather investigation. Lobbying on Ian’s behalf was the director of the NSA, who called ONE’s acquisition of Merriweather and the forthcoming Titan supercomputer “paramount to ensuring the continued supremacy of United States intelligence- and data-gathering efforts around the world.” Mason responded that so far the investigation had not turned up sufficient evidence to indicate criminal wrongdoing, and he would do his utmost to bring the case to a quick and favorable conclusion.
At this Mary offered a disgusted expletive. When did a sitting deputy director of the FBI offer any kind of comment to the CEO of a company it was investigating? she asked Tank. Let alone promise that he would aid in shutting the investigation down?
A moment later they discovered the reason. They found the smoking gun: an e-mail from Ian Prince to Edward Mason confirming the transfer of $10 million to a numbered account in Liechtenstein of which Mason was the sole beneficiary.
“Ten million,” said Tank. “That buys a lot of margaritas.”
“Ian Prince must have wanted Merriweather pretty badly.”
“I’m beginning to guess why.”
“Titan?”
He nodded grimly.
Setting the tablet on her lap, Mary opened the Titan folder. Not e-mails and documents this time, but complex computer engineering schematics. Diagrams showing the layout and manufacture of Titan’s internal components, many with significant sections highlighted in yellow and words like bypass, backdoor, override. To a layman the plans were as incomprehensible as they were impressive. Aware of this, Hal Stark had provided a one-page explanation for the common man.
“It’s the mother lode,” said Tank after they’d finished reading. “He’s got it all. Hook, line, and sinker.”
“Do people in the government know he’s modified their computers?”
“No chance. I don’t think they’d appreciate Ian Prince looking over their shoulders.”
Mary laid her head back and sighed.
“Look at this,” said Tank after a minute. “From Mason to Prince. It’s about Joe.”
Mary snapped to attention. In the message Mason warned Prince that a secret task force had been established by Dylan Walsh, the chief of the FBI’s Cyber Investigations Division, to look into ONE’s hacking of the FBI’s servers for six months during the company’s takeover of Merriweather Systems. The task force was named Semaphore.
“Joe was investigating ONE all the time,” said Tank. “He knew exactly what Prince was up to.”
“You got your story.”
“Story? I’ve got a book,” said Tank. “But I’ll start with a story. How’s this for a lead: ‘Last December, Edward Mason, deputy director of the FBI, received a ten-million-dollar payment from Ian Prince, founder and chief executive officer of ONE Technologies, to a numbered account at the National Bank of Liechtenstein in exchange for halting the FBI’s investigation into charges against the company of extortion and shareholder intimidation relating to its takeover of Merriweather Systems’?”
“Sounds good.”
“Front page. Above the fold.”
Mary was looking back at the Merriweather folder. “There’s something we missed.”
“What is it?”
“Something a lot worse than extortion.” Mary moved the cursor onto the icon for a document inside the Merriweather folder titled “Crash.”
The document ran to one page and was a screenshot of computer code. At the top, a single line of clarification: “Malware used against John Merriweather’s on-board navigation system (serial number XXX77899). Installed 12/15 by Ian Prince.”
Mary looked up. “You said that John Merriweather flew his plane into the side of a mountain. Pilot error.”
“Apparently not.”
“Your story just got a lot better.” She checked her watch and stood, shocked at the time. “I have to go. My flight leaves at seven-fifty-five.”
“Hold on,” said Tank. “You still have five minutes. Let’s take a look at Orca.”
And five minutes was all they needed to learn about Ian Prince’s plans to construct the largest supertanker ever built. Not even a supertanker, really, but an island, by the look of the elevations provided. An island with homes for a few thousand people, factories, offices, an airstrip, a beach, its own nuclear power plant, and, every bit as impressive, rising directly in its center, a mountain. An island or a ship or something entirely new.
“Why did Stark name the file Orca?” Mary asked.
“Because he’s a bit of a joker. Orca’s the name of the shark fisherman’s boat in Jaws,” said Tank. “The movie. Don’t you remember what Roy Scheider says when he and Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss are way out in the middle of the ocean and he first sees the shark?”
“No,” said Mary. “I don’t.”
“ ‘You’re going to need a bigger boat.’ ” Tank put down the tablet. “Ian Prince built himself the biggest boat ever.”
“What kind of shark is he afraid of?”
Tank shrugged and pulled himself off the couch. “Time for you to skedaddle.”
“I can’t drive that thing. Even if I could, I couldn’t. The police will be looking everywhere for it.”
“Take my truck. It’s out in the shed. Keys are in the ignition.”
“And you?”
“I’ll find a way back into town.”
Mary stood and walked with him to the door. “We did good,” she said.
“Your husband did good. But our work won’t be done till we get that story to the paper.”
“Isn’t there a way we can send over all the files?”
“No connection out here. No cell service. No wireless. Like I said-”
“ ‘Off the grid.’ ”
“Yep.”
Mary kissed Tank on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I told you, I’m in this game for myself. Now go get your daughter.”
Mary stepped outside and crossed the yard to a ramshackle shed. The truck was an old Ford, even more beat-up than the Jeep, with manual transmission and springs pushing through the worn-out seats. The engine turned over on the first try. She stopped in front of the cabin. “Write your story.”
“Our story,” said Tank.
Mary put the truck into drive and headed down the dirt road. A wind had picked up and filled the cabin with the scent of thistle and loam. In the rearview mirror she saw Tank waving. She thought he was calling to her. She wasn’t sure, but it sounded as if he was saying something about a buggy whip.