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“Yeah. Maybe he just used a C-prompt command. If he did, there should still be some information on the hard drive.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“If he used a government wipe, then there’s nothing left.”
“A government wipe . . .”
“It’s just what it sounds like. If there’s anything you don’t want the government to see, you use a government wipe. It’s in Norton Utilities—”
He held up a hand. “Details aren’t necessary. How long will it take you to find out which type of erasure he used?”
“Not long.”
He waited patiently while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data. There was nothing. The drive was as pristine as the day it came off the assembly line.
“Nothing,” she said in disgust.
Ronsard put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “That is what I expected, really.”
“Then why get the computer?”
“Because I want to know Mr. Temple. If he were careless enough to leave data on the computer, then perhaps I shouldn’t deal with him. As it is—” Ronsard hesitated and gave a thin smile. “I’ve learned that he is almost as careful as I.”
“Almost.”
“I’m not going to him,” Ronsard said gently. “He is coming to me.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Your name is Niema Jamieson,” Medina said, handing over a passport, driver’s license, and social security card.
She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief. “Niema?” she questioned.
“Your name is so unusual you’d probably slip up if you had to answer to anything else. It’s always best to stay close to your real name.”
“Is that so, Mr. Darrell Tucker?” she murmured.
He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit. “I’ve used so many names, I ran out of similars.”
She opened the passport. Her photo was there, as well as several pages of stamps. According to her passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema Jamieson was certainly well-traveled.
The driver’s license looked just as authentic. She was a resident of New Hampshire, evidently. Niema Price Jamieson.
“My middle name
is Price?” she asked in disbelief.
“That’s your maiden name. Your family is old friends with the ambassador’s wife’s family.”
“So I’m married?”
“Widowed.” He gave her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover line so close to her own life. “Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago. The ambassador’s wife—her name is Eleanor, by the way—persuaded you to join them in Paris for a vacation.”
She was silent. Of course so many of the details paralleled her own life; that way the story was easy to remember.
“And if Ronsard does invite me to his home and does a background check on me, he’ll find . . . what?”
