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“Could the jamming have come from the cell service itself?”
“We don’t think so. This appears to be aggressive outside interference directed at the cell towers most likely to carry calls and data into and out of those six-block areas.”
He typed on the keyboard again. The waterfall of data again covered the tabletop for a moment before it filtered down to thin entwined streams.
“Here’s the second commonality,” Malcomb said. “Once the jamming begins, satellite phones are used.”
I sat forward. “Really? How many?”
“At least two, maybe three.”
I felt a ripple of excitement. “You have the phone numbers?”
“We do, but they’re worthless,” he said. “They belong to SIM cards that anyone can buy loaded with minutes on the satellite. The sat phones themselves are neutral nodes. It’s the disposable cards that talk to the satellites, and that’s what keeps the users anonymous for the time being.”
“Time being?”
Malcomb held up one slightly tremoring hand. “I’m not promising anything, but I asked several of my smartest people to design a new kind of search, one that might at least give you a direction to move in.”
“How would that work?”
“We’ll look for electronic signatures that we did not pick up the first time through, something that might indicate the manufacturer of the satellite phone chips being used and perhaps their points of purchase. And the signature of the jammer.”
I thought both angles were something of a long shot but nodded. My focus turned elsewhere.
Satellite phones and jammed cell towers. So this is a conspiracy of some kind. We are facing more than a lone wolf.
“What time is your flight?” Farr, the company’s counsel, asked.
“Eight?” I said, looking at my watch. It was a quarter to five.
Malcomb said, “There’s been endless construction slowing traffic going out to Logan, but you should make it in time. Where are you off to now?”
“Charleston, South Carolina,” I said. “Can I get your bright minds to sift for anything tied to Thomas Tull in those areas?”
Malcomb frowned. “The writer?”
I nodded. “The crime writer.”
CHAPTER 44
BREE LEFT PHILLIP HENRY LUSTER’Soffice feeling as if she’d taken a crash course in the business of fashion and the hidden life of Frances Duchaine, the stuff that never made the news stories or official biographies of the icon.
Perhaps more important, Luster had called two friends in investment banking to suss out Duchaine’s current balance sheet. Barry, the first of them, had no clue, but he asked the designer to dinner, which Luster accepted for later in the month.
“For a moneyman, he’s a hunk,” Luster had told Bree.
The second investment banker, Sammy, was a different tale altogether. When asked about Duchaine, he had gone conspiratorial. He whispered that he had to close his door, then returned and asked, “What are you hearing? Is she going down? Chapter Eleven? We have a big position in Crescent Partners, Ari Bernstein’s hedge fund, and he’s got her leveraged out thewazoo. If Duchaine’s going under, I could really use a heads-up here, Phillip.”
“And here I came to you for the same reason, Sammy,” Luster replied. “And you’re doing business with a snake like Ari Bernstein? Since when?”
“Since he started crowing about his ten percent annual return.”
“Tell me, what would Frances crashing and burning do to Bernstein’s fund and his vaunted annual return?”
“We’d be hurt, but Bernstein would take a biblical hit. Maybe enough to take him out. So is Duchaine going down?”
“How much debt do you think she’s carrying?”
