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  When the laptop completed booting, an odd login screen appeared. Cyrus was familiar with all the normal desktop operating systems. This computer was running something unusual. The computer was a normal looking MacBook Air, but the login screen was customized. Before logging in, the old man glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. But before he entered a keystroke, he passed his thumb quickly over the camera lens built into the bezel at the top of the laptop’s screen. After he did this, the login screen changed color. The old man entered his lengthy login credentials.

  All of this added to Cyrus’s already growing concern. The old man had some sort of hardcore security on the machine. People don’t go to that sort of trouble unless they have something worth protecting.

  The little voice was practically screaming.

  Cyrus was about to call out to the old man, when he saw him reach over and pick up the coffee. Before he could act, the old man was taking a long drink from the to-go cup.

  Shit!

  The time to act had passed. Cyrus settled back in his chair. This was going to play out. There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t used to such indecision. He was sure he was witnessing some sort of covert operation. The problem was that he didn’t know who was on what side. But he was sitting in the heart of Washington. Surely that meant the authorities were behind what he was witnessing. His interference would destroy what was obviously a delicate operation. But as logical as the argument seemed, with every passing moment his doubts grew stronger. Something about all of this seemed increasingly wrong.

  The old man went through normal routines on his laptop, while Cyrus watched surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. The old man opened his email client and started a new message. He entered the recipient’s name and the subject. He took another sip of his coffee and began the body of the message.

  From a distance, Cyrus could just make out some of what was on the screen. What he really wanted to see was the recipient’s name. He didn’t expect it to be useful information, but at this point, he was looking for any clue to help him sort out who was who in this little drama. Giving up any pretense of subtlety, Cyrus squinted his eyes and leaned across his table. He could just make out the name of the addressee, Hamilton Wayneright. The name was familiar.

  Wracking his brain, Cyrus recognized the name, but he just couldn’t place it. So much for his eidetic memory. He was coming up short this time. No problem. He had Google. A few keystrokes on his own laptop brought up the web browser, and he did a search.

  Shit!

  Hamilton Wayneright was the President’s Chief of Staff!

  There was a loud bang, and Cyrus’s eyes darted up from the screen. The old man was standing in front of his table, his chair toppled over behind him. He was stooping forward and clutching his left shoulder, struggling to stay upright. He struggled fiercely against the pain—oddly making an effort to reach for his computer—but his body failed him before he could do anything. The brittle old man toppled to the floor with a crash of scattering chairs.

  Screams came from around the shop.

  Cyrus was already on his feet. He called out, directing a nearby man in a suit to dial 911, even as he dropped to his knees at the old man’s side. He checked for a pulse. It was erratic but still strong. Cyrus looked up to see at least two people were already on their phones. He could already hear them chattering excitedly with emergency operators.

  Rolling the old man onto his back, Cyrus loosed his tie and made sure his airway was clear. The old man was unconscious. He was clutching at his left shoulder when he went down. Symptoms of a heart attack. Cyrus’s glance darted to the coffee cup on the table.

  Maybe not a heart attack…

  The rise and fall of the man’s chest meant he was still breathing. For the moment, there was little Cyrus could do. The screech of tires drew his attention to the shop’s front windows. With some effort, he could see the street through the crowd of gathered onlookers. An ambulance had just pulled to the curb. But a quick glance at the two people who had called 911 told him they were still relaying the situation.

  The timing was wrong.

  The gathered crowd parted as the EMTs made their way through the front door, pulling a wheeled gurney. Cyrus did a double-take when his eyes fell upon the two EMTs. It was the second technician—

  Take away his hat and uniform…it was the same suspicious barista from a few minutes earlier!

  The pair of EMTs finally cleared the crowd and pushed aside the nearby tables. Cyrus made way. As the two men bent over the old man, Cyrus pulled out his cell phone and quietly snapped of a series of photos of each of the rescue squad members before casually slipping the phone back into his pocket. Getting caught snapping the photos would only complicate the situation, possibly endangering innocent bystanders.

  The EMTs immediately set about strapping the old man to the gurney. No examination or triage was performed. That made sense. There was no need. They already knew exactly what was wrong with the old man.

  There wasn’t much Cyrus could do to stop them from taking him, not without risking collateral damage. So he went with plan B. He stepped around the busy EMTs and grabbed the old man’s laptop. Closing the lid, he returned to his table. He slid his computer into his bag along with the old man’s computer. Without wasting a moment, he headed for the front door.

  Just before reaching the door, Cyrus passed one of the many tables abandoned as everyone flocked to the drama on the other side of the room. This table, however, held a smartphone virtually identical to his own.

  Perfect!

  He grabbed the phone as he passed, moving out the door without missing a step.

  As soon as he hit the street, he noticed a third EMT sitting in the idling ambulance. It was a three-man team working like a well oiled machine. That meant there wouldn’t be much time to recover the old man, once the ambulance pulled away. These people would disappear. He knew first hand; he’d once had similar training.

  Tapping a few buttons on the screen of the stolen phone, Cyrus put the ringer on silent. He also made sure to disable the vibration alert. Even that could give him away. Last, he made note of the cellphone’s number. As he rounded the back of the ambulance, he found the back doors wide open.

  Perfect!

  He stepped up and slid the cell phone into the narrow gap behind the cabinets used to store medical supplies. Without pause, he continued across the street.

  Cyrus never looked back—he needed to keep moving. It was crucial to avoid any action that might draw attention from the operative behind the wheel of the rescue squad. He needed to get off the street. There was a good chance the EMTs would be looking for the old man’s laptop. Once they finished securing the old man, they would find it missing.

  Cyrus rounded the street corner and went down half a block before ducking into a Radio Shack. Once inside, he stepped behind one of the window displays. Like every other Radio Shack he’d ever visited, the store was deserted. The kid behind the counter couldn’t be bothered to check on him. It was just what he needed. He set his bag down and pulled out his own phone.

  Calling 911 in a situation like this was pointless. He would never convince the operator he had witnessed an elaborate abduction. He needed someone who would act fast. Someone with the authority to cut through the red tape. He still had contacts at the Coalition, but that was a door he’d vowed never to reopen. Plus, it was a slippery slope. There would be repercussions. Ideally he needed the FBI. But that would take even longer—

  No, that’s it!

  Cyrus dialed the number from memory.

  This would require a delicate but decisive approach. He knew there was a chance he could get the FBI involved, but only if he played his cards right. It took only two rings before the line was answered.

  “Agent Shaw,” the voice on the other end answered.

  “Agent Shaw, this is Cyrus Cooper. We met yesterday. I’m working on the story about—”

  “Yes, Mister Cooper. I remember you.
What can I do for you?”

  “Umm… Look, there’s no delicate way to put this, so I’m just going to be blunt. Please hear me out. I just witnessed the abduction of an old man from a coffee shop on 7th and H Street, here in DC.”

  There was a long silence from the other end of the line.

  “Agent Shaw? Are you there?”

  “Ah, yes… I’m here. I’m just trying to decide if I heard you correctly.”

  “You heard me fine. We really don’t have time to waste, you need to get someone on this.”

  “Okay,” she said somewhat patiently. “You think you witnessed an abduction. Have you called 911? Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m calling you because the 911 operator will just jerk me around. We’re talking about a three-man team. They spiked the old man’s coffee. A few minutes after drinking it, he collapsed in a crowded Starbucks. Sixty seconds after the man hit the floor, an ambulance arrived to wheel him away. Two men dressed as paramedics walked in, strapped him to a gurney, and then they were gone. Just like that. Right in front of everyone.”

  The silence on the other end of the line stretched on again. Finally Agent Shaw spoke. “Look, Mister Cooper, I’m sure there is a very logical explanation for everything you’ve seen. In times of stress, the mind plays tricks on us. The ambulance couldn’t possibly arrive as quickly as you claim. You just lost track of time. It’s actually very common in stressful situations.”

  “Look, Shaw! We don’t have time for this. I know exactly what I saw. I know the timeframe involved. When was the last time you saw an EMT crew walk into a place, toss someone on a stretcher and head for the door? No triage, no examination? This was an abduction. It was a three-man crew. Look into it. The ambulance was real. The inside of it was fully stocked. One must’ve been reported stolen.”

  “Mister Cooper—”

  “Don’t talk—listen!” Cyrus didn’t have time to be patient. “You think I’m crazy. Fair enough. I’d think the same thing in your place. But we don’t have time for you to be skeptical. Worry about that later. Now is the time for you to do your job. A man has been taken, right here on American soil.”

  “My job,” she said through clenched teeth, “Is to wipe the noses of whiny reporters and answer stupid questions all day!”

  “That’s your job today,” Cyrus countered. A cool calmness had entered his tone. “But if you get on this and make the save, you can bet your ass it’s a one-way ticket out of that dead-end position. You’re field qualified, are you not?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Then get off your ass. This is your chance to get in the field!”

  She was quiet for a moment. He was sure she was considering the possibilities. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that I believe you. I don’t have the resources to go after these guys any more than you do. It would take me almost as long to convince my bosses to move on this as it would take you to convince the 911 operator.”

  “By resources, you mean manpower?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then you already have everything you need. How many agents are moldering on press detail right now, just like you? How many of them are field-rated and just itching for a chance to do something with it?”

  She was silent again.

  “Shaw, this has to be done now. Time’s wasting. If they’re the pros I think they are, they’ll just disappear. I’m going to text you photos of the perps, the tags from the ambulance, and a photo of the man who was taken. But your best bet is to put a track on this cell phone number...” he gave her the phone number of the stolen mobile phone from memory.

  “Wait,” Shaw said in confusion. “You have the cell number of one of the perps?”

  “Of course not. I planted a stolen mobile phone in the back of the ambulance, before it left. It was the only tracking device I could improvise on short notice. But you have to hurry. They’re likely to dump the ambulance before too long. Once they do, you won’t be able to track them.”

  Cyrus intentionally failed to mention that he had taken possession of the old man’s laptop.

  “Alright, Mister Cooper,” Shaw finally relented. “I sincerely hope I’m not going to regret this. But either way, you and I are going to have a serious talk when this is over.”

  Chapter 21

  Berton Springs, Colorado

  Thursday, 1:12 am

  The house was dark except for the chandelier over the dining room table. Cyrus and Reese sat across from each other. Several file folders were scattered about the table. They had locked up the vault and retreated to the dining room shortly before midnight, both exhausted from the frantic pace of the last twenty-four hours. They’d made great progress piecing together a more complete understanding of Meridian’s history, and they hoped to sort out some of the remaining details before calling it a night.

  “The report I read didn’t cover it,” Reese said. She wiped the sleep from the corner of her eyes and took a sip from a wine glass. They had exhausted the remainder of the meager six pack of beer, purchased along with the provisions earlier that afternoon. As luck would have it, Reese discovered an extensive selection of wine tucked in a cubby beneath the staircase in the basement. “So you’re saying the FBI was responsible for recovering Walter after the kidnapping?”

  Cyrus nodded. “Agent Shaw came through. She rallied a contingent of agents from her press detail and tracked the signal of the phone I planted in the ambulance. They arrived just as the grab-team was switching vehicles. If she’d arrived five minutes later, who knows how things might’ve turned out.”

  Reese shook her head. It was an amazing turn of events. A shocking confluence of the right people being in the right places at the right times. For Cyrus to think so quickly in such a situation—for him to make contact with an FBI agent he’d met only the day before? And for him to convince the agent to go out on a limb and try to recover Walter like that? Who was this man? It was no wonder Walter sought Cyrus out after it was all over. They seemed destined to be friends. Cyrus had such a practical intelligence, he was not unlike Walter himself.

  She wondered if Cyrus actually understood the contributions he’d already made to Meridian. He didn’t seem to comprehend why Walter wanted him on the project. In light of the last twenty-four hours, Reese found the logic pragmatic and obvious. Neither she nor her team were prepared to deal with the practical realities of Meridian in the real world. Most of their work, to date, dealt with theoretical practicality. In theory, they were going to change the world. In theory, they would improve the quality of life for the whole of mankind. But Walter was right, they were academics. They weren’t equipped to face those who would try to take Meridian from them or corrupt it for their own benefit. The team was in far greater danger than she had ever thought possible. They’d been blinded by idealistic shortsightedness. It was that naïvety which now threatened their very lives.

  They could probably go to the FBI or even the State Department for help. But, as Cyrus’s discussion with Sanjay had proven, those options were not as simple as they first appeared. At this point she agreed, they were better off putting their safety in Cyrus’s hands. For reasons she didn’t understand, he clearly had experience in these…situations.

  Walter had spoken of Cyrus often. Reese frequently felt he was stretching the bounds of some unspoken confidence with some of what he shared. On several occasions he’d mentioned a desire to introduce the two of them. She suspected Walter hoped to play matchmaker. It was flattering because she knew he considered Cyrus the son he never had. There was a clear sense of paternal pride. Although she was interested in meeting the man he held in such high regard, she’d always discouraged Walter’s suggestions. But since Cyrus had come into her life less than twenty-four hours prior, there’d been an undeniable attraction.

  Walter had been right again.

  She tried to get her mind back to the task at hand. This line of thinking wasn’t productive. Intriguing, but not productive. “What happened to Agent Shaw
? How did the FBI react to her going off on her own like that?”

  Cyrus chuckled and started sorting through the stacks of manila folders. “There’s a report somewhere detailing that.” He stopped looking and opted to summarize it from memory. “Her immediate supervisor was outraged and wanted her censured. But since it turned out that Walter was a VIP in the eyes of the Defense Department and he rubbed elbows with some bigwigs in Washington, the Director of the FBI intervened. Shaw received a commendation for taking extraordinary initiative in the face of uncertain circumstances, or some such jargon. They found it exceptional that she’d improvised a field team and organized an entire operation on the fly. They didn’t just promote her out of the press department, they promoted her entire field team to a new detail under her command.”

  “And she had you to thank for it.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “She made her own decisions. She put that team together, and she lead them. Based on the report I read, she was very aware of the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in her department. She was overdue for that promotion. She just needed an opportunity to prove herself.”

  Cyrus took a drink from his wine glass. “After I gave Agent Shaw a way to track the ambulance, I took Meade’s laptop and headed back to my hotel. I figured it’d be only a matter of time before someone came to collect it. There was no doubt in my mind that the machine contained valuable information. I’m pretty sure Meade was making an effort to secure it when he collapsed in the cafe.

  “It was weird though. No one ever came to collect the computer—I kept it in the hotel vault until I was finished in DC. I took it with me when I flew back to Chicago. Still, I figured it was just a matter of time until someone came to collect it. Even after several weeks, there was still no contact.

  “Finally I pulled the laptop from my safe and booted it up. Or, I should say that I tried to boot it. That’s when I realized why no one cared about the machine. It had been erased. There must’ve been some sort of remote wipe protocol built in. The machine had purged all of its information at some point, likely shortly after Meade was taken. That sort of security says a lot about the people controlling it. A man only bothers with that level of security because he’s toting some seriously sensitive information.”