The door was unlocked, and he eased inside. No one would be out this far, they’d already done a sweep earlier. According to the notes he had, this area was checked only twice a day. He adjusted the earwig. He’d have plenty of time to move, since he could hear them coming now.
He reset his watch, started the timer.
Forty-eight hours and counting.
Tuesday
6 p.m.–Midnight
57
QUEEN TO D8 CHECK
Washington, D.C.
Driving through the city without power was eerie. Police were out in force, helping people try to get home. Savich navigated through the intersections carefully in Sherlock’s stalwart Volvo. Mike rode up front; Nicholas was in back with a laptop in his lap, monitoring the situation in Richmond.
“We’ve arrested the attack. I have a note here from Adam Pearce. He’s working on the threat assessment with Juno. I—”
Savich looked in the rearview. “What is it, Nicholas? You have something?”
“The risk assessment is bothering me. As you know, Dominion Virginia Power recently had one. They put in new firewalls, new safeguards, so an attack like this shouldn’t be able to happen. Yet it did, and it quickly became worst-case. You know Juno is very respected in the cyber-world. I don’t understand how they could have screwed up this badly.”
“You said yourself Gunther Ansell’s coding was world-class,” Mike said.
“I did, Mike, and it was. But to exploit a flaw and get the code in to begin with, you must get into a back door, whether one you create, or one left for emergency access—should something like this ever happen. We mentioned it and now I’m wondering if Juno’s programmers left a back door for their assessment and Andy Tate was smart enough to use it.”
He went quiet again.
It took Savich a few more minutes to navigate the overrun streets to George Washington University Hospital. No Metro, no trains, so the lines at the bus stops were hundreds deep, people standing in the street because the sidewalks were full. A nightmare security risk.
With the electricity off, the hospital looked strangely deserted. Savich parked and put his FBI placard on the dash. As they walked to the front doors, Mike suddenly stopped, turned, whispered to Nicholas, “We’re being watched.”
“Well, yes,” Nicholas said. “I make two cameras on the second and third floors, and a car two rows over in the handicap spot.”
“No trust from our CIA compadres,” Savich said. “It never fails to amaze me.”
“Maybe they’re afraid someone might be coming after Vanessa,” Mike said.
“That’s the more optimistic view,” Savich said.
Vanessa’s uncle, Carlton Grace, waited for them in the lobby. Mike saw the look of Vanessa in his face, the long nose, square jaw, family traits. Where Vanessa was beautiful, though, Grace was homely. Comfortable, sort of wrinkled. A guy you wouldn’t give a second look to walking by on the street. He disappeared.
The perfect look for a spy. Had Vanessa’s father looked the same way?
He introduced himself, shook hands with all three of them. “Thank you for coming. Please don’t ask any questions until we’re inside. The room is clean so we can speak freely.”
Nicholas said, “Why do you have so many eyes on us?”
Grace smiled. “I wasn’t spying on you, Agent Drummond. It’s Matthew Spenser, the man who tried to murder Vanessa. If he found out she’s alive, he could try to finish the job. I have no intention of letting that happen. There is more, of course. Come with me.”
Savich thought that was good to hear, but he didn’t know whether or not to believe him.
Grace led them through oddly lit halls. The generators were running fine; the power didn’t flicker.
They turned a corner and there was Craig Swanson lounging against a wall, arms crossed. His face was bruised and his nose was bridged with white tape. When he saw Nicholas he straightened like a shot.
Nicholas grinned at him like a bandit. So to add insult to injury, you got a real dressing down, didn’t you, mate?