Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Joe studied it dumbfounded. “Maybe the storm caused a temporary shift in the current,” he said. “Or maybe the wind changed as the storm passed.”

“Not this much.”

Joe looked at the map again. He exhaled. “Okay. I’ll bite. What do you think happened?”

“I have no idea,” Kurt said, standing up. “Why don’t we go ask Mr. Billionaire himself? He’s got some dog and pony show going on at the Smithsonian.”

“Uhmmm . . .”

Kurt glanced at the clock and grabbed his keys. “Come on, we can catch him if we hurry.”

Joe was hesitating. He stood up with all the speed of a tree sloth. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Kurt was beaming, almost manic. He thought it sounded like a great idea. Especially the part about it being in public.

“It’s fine,” he said, heading for the door. “In fact, my doctor recommended it. It’s all part of my recovery.”

With that, he stepped through the door, hitting the light switch on the way out. He didn’t turn around to see if Joe was following. He didn’t have to, he could hear Joe running to catch up with him in the hall.

The steps of the original Smithsonian offered a grand backdrop for anyone wishing to make a big announcement. Built of red sandstone from Maryland, the “Castle,” as the original building was nicknamed, had a romantic and sturdy quality to it. It looked like a fort from the Civil War era, or even the type of building that might have stood in the “rockets’ red glare.”

But the Smithsonian name was also renowned for its mission to teach and for its celebration of the modern technology. For a man like Brian Westgate—an Internet billionaire descended from an old-money family—there was probably no more perfect spot to showcase himself or his company.

A crowd had begun to assemble under the bright blue sky, and Westgate found his nerves getting the best of him. He sat inside the building, ensconced in an office just down the hall from the main entrance. As he waited his turn to go on, two handlers primped and checked him over.

He was an easy subject to work on. Fifty-one years old, fit and trim, without the slightest hint of excess in his face, he had wavy hair, high cheekbones, and a tiny cleft in his chin. He looked more like a news anchor than the computer geek he was made out to be.

His sandy blond hair was never unruly, though a young woman named Kara made sure it was coiffed just right. “Important not to look too young or too old,” she whispered.

At the same time, another handler adjusted the American flag pin on his lapel and made sure the creases in his navy blue suit were sharp enough to slice bread.

As they fussed over him, David Forrester, the CEO of Westgate’s company, sat across from him.

“Feel like I’m running for office,” Westgate grumbled. He waved the handlers off. He’d had enough of them.

“Maybe you should,” Forrester said.

“Be kind of hard to sell Phalanx to other governments if I was the head of our own,” Westgate replied.

“Good point,” Forrester said. “We’ve already got requests from five European countries, along with Brazil and Japan. Everyone wants their data secured, and nothing comes close to Phalanx in terms of ensuring that.”

“Maybe you should go out and give the speech.”

“Do I look like the face of this company?”

Forrester was a lawyer who’d spent two decades with an investment banking firm and several years working for one of the Federal Reserve banks. He was short and squat, like an old athlete gone to seed, but with great strength hidden beneath the slowly growing layer of fat. He had a jowly face, thinning hair, and wore rimless glasses, behind which were sharp eyes that did not miss a trick. Thin, almost colorless lips gave him a stern, menacing look. The disciplinarian you did not mess with.

“You’re giving away a million computers to America’s schools,” Forrester pointed out. “And you just signed a contract with the federal government to protect American data from foreign sources. These are all good things. This is your chance to brag to a grateful nation. To tell all Americans that their data is secure.”

“It feels wrong,” Westgate moaned.

“Because of the sinking?”

Westgate nodded. “It’s too soon.”

“It’s been months,” Forrester said. “That’s an eternity in our twenty-four-hour news cycle. Besides, the stock is up fifteen percent since the accident. Sympathy buying.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Westgate blurted out. “You’re talking about my wife and kids. My daughter and my son.”