minimize the possibility of it being seen by passersby and searched the building’s wall. It took her only a few seconds to find the loose brick, at which point she switched off the light and continued her task in complete darkness. Her fingers felt along the tiny gaps between the top and bottom of the brick. Fingernails would have been useful right now, ones that weren’t chipped and ragged. Instead she had to use the tips of her fingers to grip the few millimeters of brick that she could reach, press hard until her fingertips were in pain, and pull the brick out.
She let it fall to the ground, quickly secreted the jewelry box in the hole, and picked up the brick to put it back in place and hide the box. Inside the box was a slip of paper containing the number of her new pay-as-you-go cell phone. It was her lifeline to Will Cochrane.
But it was only of use if Will could covertly enter the States and if she could somehow illegally access the Project Ferryman files.
Even for professionals of Ellie and Will’s caliber, right now both tasks seemed near impossible.
NINE
A t ten thirty the following morning, Marsha Gage entered a large rectangular hall in the FBI HQ. The room was typically used by temporary task forces and contained many desks and chairs, whiteboards, phones and computers, sophisticated imagery of parts of the United States pinned to walls, and spot ceiling bulbs that sent pillars of blue light to the floor and made the hall look like it was filled with electrified prison bars. No one else was in here because no other FBI officer had yet been assigned to Marsha. Right now, she alone was the task force. But Bo Haupman had given her the room in case that changed.
She unrolled a large map of the world and stuck it on a wall. Directly beneath the map was a large desk. Marsha decided it would be hers and started unpacking items from her bag—stationery, five cell phones, a directory containing the names and contact numbers of her key contacts in every European intelligence and security agency, and a holstered handgun; all symmetrically laid out in front of a computer terminal and landline telephone.
“Is the room okay?”
Marsha barely glanced at Haupman as he walked up to her carrying two mugs of coffee. “It’ll do just fine.”
The director placed one of the mugs on Marsha’s desk and stared at her new map. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“It is if you think that way.”
Haupman laughed. “Right now, I can’t see an alternative to thinking that way.”
Marsha took a sip of her coffee, her expression focused as she looked at Europe on the map. “My starting point is to cut the haystack into manageable segments. Norway, Sweden, and their surrounding countries are the first segment. I’ve already spoken to my contacts in the Politiets Sikkerhetstjeneste and Säkerhetspolisen”—Norway’s Police Security Service and Sweden’s Security Police—“and they’re hitting the ground running. Not just covering their own turfs, but also getting the word out fast to their counterparts in other European agencies, plus law enforcement, hotel security, transportation security, you name it. All of them know Cochrane’s traveling under a passport in the name of Robert Tombs, but they also know it’s highly unlikely he’ll use that ID.”
“Sounds like they’re being cooperative.”
Marsha shrugged. “Ever since we all got pulled off the Cobalt case, they’re as desperate to get back into a full-blown manhunt as I am.”
“They realize the risks involved?”
Marsha nodded. “Everyone in Europe I’ve spoken to so far has asked the same question: What do we do if we close in on Cochrane but he won’t go down without a fight?”
“What did you say?”
“Kill him.”
Haupman’s smile vanished. As ever, this was the Marsha he knew. A great colleague, and as honest as they come, but also a woman who’d not hesitate to put a bullet in your brain if you’d done some
She let it fall to the ground, quickly secreted the jewelry box in the hole, and picked up the brick to put it back in place and hide the box. Inside the box was a slip of paper containing the number of her new pay-as-you-go cell phone. It was her lifeline to Will Cochrane.
But it was only of use if Will could covertly enter the States and if she could somehow illegally access the Project Ferryman files.
Even for professionals of Ellie and Will’s caliber, right now both tasks seemed near impossible.
NINE
A t ten thirty the following morning, Marsha Gage entered a large rectangular hall in the FBI HQ. The room was typically used by temporary task forces and contained many desks and chairs, whiteboards, phones and computers, sophisticated imagery of parts of the United States pinned to walls, and spot ceiling bulbs that sent pillars of blue light to the floor and made the hall look like it was filled with electrified prison bars. No one else was in here because no other FBI officer had yet been assigned to Marsha. Right now, she alone was the task force. But Bo Haupman had given her the room in case that changed.
She unrolled a large map of the world and stuck it on a wall. Directly beneath the map was a large desk. Marsha decided it would be hers and started unpacking items from her bag—stationery, five cell phones, a directory containing the names and contact numbers of her key contacts in every European intelligence and security agency, and a holstered handgun; all symmetrically laid out in front of a computer terminal and landline telephone.
“Is the room okay?”
Marsha barely glanced at Haupman as he walked up to her carrying two mugs of coffee. “It’ll do just fine.”
The director placed one of the mugs on Marsha’s desk and stared at her new map. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“It is if you think that way.”
Haupman laughed. “Right now, I can’t see an alternative to thinking that way.”
Marsha took a sip of her coffee, her expression focused as she looked at Europe on the map. “My starting point is to cut the haystack into manageable segments. Norway, Sweden, and their surrounding countries are the first segment. I’ve already spoken to my contacts in the Politiets Sikkerhetstjeneste and Säkerhetspolisen”—Norway’s Police Security Service and Sweden’s Security Police—“and they’re hitting the ground running. Not just covering their own turfs, but also getting the word out fast to their counterparts in other European agencies, plus law enforcement, hotel security, transportation security, you name it. All of them know Cochrane’s traveling under a passport in the name of Robert Tombs, but they also know it’s highly unlikely he’ll use that ID.”
“Sounds like they’re being cooperative.”
Marsha shrugged. “Ever since we all got pulled off the Cobalt case, they’re as desperate to get back into a full-blown manhunt as I am.”
“They realize the risks involved?”
Marsha nodded. “Everyone in Europe I’ve spoken to so far has asked the same question: What do we do if we close in on Cochrane but he won’t go down without a fight?”
“What did you say?”
“Kill him.”
Haupman’s smile vanished. As ever, this was the Marsha he knew. A great colleague, and as honest as they come, but also a woman who’d not hesitate to put a bullet in your brain if you’d done some
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