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But the dark web has other places as well, such as information brokers with the skill sets to get what one needs, and fast.
He yawns, stretches his back, feels a splash of guilt over the lie he had told Amy before.
All right, not a full lie, but a half-lie, because at this moment Deniseisslumbering peacefully at Uncle John’s place in south Staten Island. Yet Tom had told Amy that’s where he is, too.
Instead he is here in his office, with the connections, hardware, and software to do what needs to be done.
A soft rap on the side of his open office door makes him nearly leap from his chair.
“Hey, Tom—sorry to scare you like that,” says a concerned-looking blond woman wearing tan slacks and a blue sweater. “But what the hell are you doing here so early?”
He wipes at his crusty eyes. “Got a project that needs me, and now.”
Stephanie Harris, an exile from the AP who works the night shift, nods and says, “Good luck. And I hope you’ve got something good. I just ran into Dylan, and he’s in one pissy mood.”
“That’s his usual mood.”
Stephanie smiles, steps back from the door. “But this morning it’s more usual than ever. Seems a group of investors have called an unscheduled meeting with him, and if it doesn’t go a certain way…well, I’ll finally have time to write that series of cozy mysteries about tai chi instructors. Hope you got something similar in your back pocket. Take care.”
Tom nods, stretches his back again, goes back to the computer screen, checks the time.
Nearly six hours havepassed since his last call with Amy.
Where could she be?
Chapter87
AFTER SPENDINGjust over six hours in the rear cockpit of an RAF Typhoon, I’m walking on the tarmac of McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, about sixteen miles south of Trenton. I’m focused on one thing, and one thing only.
Where the hell is the nearest bathroom?
Under my left arm is a pilot’s helmet; in my right hand I’m carrying a Costcutter plastic shopping bag holding my civvies, shoes, and a heavy lump in the bottom—the 9mm Beretta. My flight gear feels like a four-layer fat suit: thermal underwear, a woolen “bunny suit,” and an immersion suit (to protect my sorry ass if we had ejected over the North Atlantic), all wrapped in a flying suit and G-pants. Various straps and hoses dangle from my person, and I’m wearing borrowed heavy black boots that hurt my feet something awful.
Maverick fromTop GunI ain’t.
Striding toward me like he was born wearing military clothes is Jeremy. As he gets closer, he calls out, “All right, I contacted an asset in Princeton who’s agreed to lend us a car and two cell phones. He’s en route.”
God, do I need to find a bathroom. There are no bathroom facilities in fighter jets, especially for female pilots, and I wasn’t about to wear an adult diaper. And the past six hours over the North Atlantic were long ones indeed.
I say, “You MI6 boys…girls in every port, assets in every city. Glamorous way of doing things.”
“Not quite,” he says. “I told Captain Bloom back at RAF Northolt that MI6 would reimburse the RAF for the refueling costs over the ocean.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Of course it was a lie,” Jeremy says. “Meaning I’ll have to pay for it someday…probably by selling my little cottage if MI6 doesn’t come up with the funds. And as a hidey-hole, the poor place is now useless.”
We walk to a wide-open hangar and I see lines of Air Force aircraft parked on the aprons: KC-10 refuelers, huge C-17 transport aircraft, and smaller, four-engine C-130s. Some Air Force personnel in work fatigues look at us with curiosity as we duck into the hangar and find a desk near the entrance. I dump my plastic bag and flying helmet, hold out my hand.
“Let’s see what my local intelligence agency has found out,” I say.
Jeremy digs through his flying suit and says, “My guy was Flight Lieutenant Gibbs. Chatted my ear off. How about you?”
“Mine was Jenny Horton, pissed to be missing her son’s fifth birthday party. And you’re still mispronouncinglieutenant.”
I use the desk phone to make the call.
It’s picked up on the first ring.
