unstable, and that all actions taken were the only ones left.
All of which was true.
But none of which could be proved.
Without the flash drives.
As the night wore on, he began to regret Blair’s suggestion that they label Billy Trout as an anarchist hacker and cyber-terrorist. That was useful in the heat of the crisis, but if this thing was truly over, then the truth about Trout would come out and he’d become the hero opposing the big, bad villain in the White House.
“Shit,” he muttered. He decided that it was Scott Blair’s problem to fix.
His intercom buzzed. “Mr. President, the secretary of state is here.”
The president rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Okay. Send him in.”
He listened to that aide, and others, and still others; hearing what they said, interacting, pretending to give his full attention, while all the time waiting for General Zetter’s call. Waiting to be told that the drives had been obtained.
Waiting for a lifeline.
Then he got a call from Scott Blair.
“Mr. President,” said Blair, “the FBI have located Dr. Volker…”
CHAPTER THIRTY
GOOD-NITES MOTOR COURT
FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
The two FBI agents who parked in front of the motel were named Smith and Jones. Actual names, and the pairing was done by random chance rather than due to some supervisory sense of humor. Adam Smith and Miriam Jones were both of average height, average build, early thirties, with good hair and off-the-rack suits. They carried the same model handgun, wore identical wires behind their ears, and worked out at the same gym.
And they liked each other.
Smith privately thought that Jones was a closet liberal who was probably using the job as a way to leverage herself into the much higher-paying world of corporate security. Jones thought that Smith was a semiliterate mouth-breathing Hawk who yearned for the chance to shoot someone.
They were both entirely correct about the other.
Neither ever expressed their opinions to anyone, and certainly not to their partners. On the job they were clinically precise, appropriately efficient, and entirely humorless.
Smith nodded to one of the units whose door opened to the parking lot. A Toyota Rav4 was parked outside.
“Credit card trace says Volker booked that room,” he said.
Jones consulted her iPhone. “Tags match.”
As one they looked from Volker’s car to the one parked next to it, a Crown Victoria nearly identical to theirs. There were no other cars in that part of the lot. Sodium vapor lamps painted the falling downpour a chemical orange. Winds blew the rain across the lot in serpentine waves.
They got out of their car and Jones placed a hand on the hood of Volker’s Toyota.
“Cold,” she said. Neither of them wore hats or used umbrellas, and they were immediately soaked. Neither of them cared.
Smith felt the hood of the Crown Vic. “Warm.”
“Federal tags,” said Jones.
Smith cocked an eyebrow. “CIA?”
“They weren’t scheduled for this pickup,” said Jones, frowning his disapproval. “Not that I heard.”
The agents unbuttoned their jackets to facilitate reaching their guns, crossed to the motel unit’s door, and knocked. It was opened almost at once by a man dressed in a business suit very much like the one Smith wore. He had an ID wallet open to show them his credentials.
“Saunders,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jones.
“Volker’s one of ours.”
“We know that,” said Smith. “But we were assigned to pick him up. The Agency doesn’t have jurisdiction here.”
Saunders was a tired-looking man in his fifties. Probably a former field agent relegated to scut work on the downslope of his career track. “Moot now,” he said, and he stepped back to open the door.
Smith and Jones gave him hard looks as they entered the motel room of the man who had created Lucifer 113.
They stopped just inside the door.
There were two other men in the room. One was Saunders’s partner, a
All of which was true.
But none of which could be proved.
Without the flash drives.
As the night wore on, he began to regret Blair’s suggestion that they label Billy Trout as an anarchist hacker and cyber-terrorist. That was useful in the heat of the crisis, but if this thing was truly over, then the truth about Trout would come out and he’d become the hero opposing the big, bad villain in the White House.
“Shit,” he muttered. He decided that it was Scott Blair’s problem to fix.
His intercom buzzed. “Mr. President, the secretary of state is here.”
The president rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Okay. Send him in.”
He listened to that aide, and others, and still others; hearing what they said, interacting, pretending to give his full attention, while all the time waiting for General Zetter’s call. Waiting to be told that the drives had been obtained.
Waiting for a lifeline.
Then he got a call from Scott Blair.
“Mr. President,” said Blair, “the FBI have located Dr. Volker…”
CHAPTER THIRTY
GOOD-NITES MOTOR COURT
FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
The two FBI agents who parked in front of the motel were named Smith and Jones. Actual names, and the pairing was done by random chance rather than due to some supervisory sense of humor. Adam Smith and Miriam Jones were both of average height, average build, early thirties, with good hair and off-the-rack suits. They carried the same model handgun, wore identical wires behind their ears, and worked out at the same gym.
And they liked each other.
Smith privately thought that Jones was a closet liberal who was probably using the job as a way to leverage herself into the much higher-paying world of corporate security. Jones thought that Smith was a semiliterate mouth-breathing Hawk who yearned for the chance to shoot someone.
They were both entirely correct about the other.
Neither ever expressed their opinions to anyone, and certainly not to their partners. On the job they were clinically precise, appropriately efficient, and entirely humorless.
Smith nodded to one of the units whose door opened to the parking lot. A Toyota Rav4 was parked outside.
“Credit card trace says Volker booked that room,” he said.
Jones consulted her iPhone. “Tags match.”
As one they looked from Volker’s car to the one parked next to it, a Crown Victoria nearly identical to theirs. There were no other cars in that part of the lot. Sodium vapor lamps painted the falling downpour a chemical orange. Winds blew the rain across the lot in serpentine waves.
They got out of their car and Jones placed a hand on the hood of Volker’s Toyota.
“Cold,” she said. Neither of them wore hats or used umbrellas, and they were immediately soaked. Neither of them cared.
Smith felt the hood of the Crown Vic. “Warm.”
“Federal tags,” said Jones.
Smith cocked an eyebrow. “CIA?”
“They weren’t scheduled for this pickup,” said Jones, frowning his disapproval. “Not that I heard.”
The agents unbuttoned their jackets to facilitate reaching their guns, crossed to the motel unit’s door, and knocked. It was opened almost at once by a man dressed in a business suit very much like the one Smith wore. He had an ID wallet open to show them his credentials.
“Saunders,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jones.
“Volker’s one of ours.”
“We know that,” said Smith. “But we were assigned to pick him up. The Agency doesn’t have jurisdiction here.”
Saunders was a tired-looking man in his fifties. Probably a former field agent relegated to scut work on the downslope of his career track. “Moot now,” he said, and he stepped back to open the door.
Smith and Jones gave him hard looks as they entered the motel room of the man who had created Lucifer 113.
They stopped just inside the door.
There were two other men in the room. One was Saunders’s partner, a
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