Rotem sized him up, sucked on the cigarette. “Government lost its star witness. No witness, no prosecution. The other Romeros are in the wind.”

Larson cringed. “Lost the witness… to spoilage?” The service’s euphemism for killed witnesses.

“AWOL.”

“This is Hope Stevens we’re talking about?” So she never had testified-the rumors were true.

The look that came back from Rotem was paralyzing. Rotem knew the connection. He nodded.

Is that why he picked me for the job? Larson wondered. Rotem wanted as much added motivation in his men as he could find.

Some kind of critter scampered through the undergrowth. A rat, Larson thought, though he didn’t get a look at the thing.

“Markowitz could be bent,” Larson said. “This could be some kind of ruse.”

“One hell of a ruse. My gut says Romeros. Yours?”

Larson’s silence signaled his assent.

“We’ll bring in forensics,” Rotem said. “But I guarantee you that cut’ll end up matching Benny’s.”

Larson wondered, with the master list gone, with Hope AWOL from WITSEC, how he would find her before the Romeros did. No matter what Rotem assigned him, that was the task at hand. With Donny’s parole on the line, the Romeros wouldn’t want a witness as potentially damaging as Hope changing her mind and stepping forward. In fact it didn’t seem out of the question that they’d gone after the list specifically to find Hope and prevent her from testifying.

Larson spat again, trying to rid himself of that horrid aftertaste. The rat or squirrel-whatever the fuck it was-rattled the underbrush as it ran off into the night.

Rotem flew him back commercial. Larson should have seen that coming. The rush had been getting him there, not flying him home. Coach, of course, so he ate his knees and felt his lower back for the entire flight.

A layover in Chicago, of course, because TWA had sold to American and thus the demise of nonstops to St. Louis. Progress.

Weather delay, of course, because this was Chicago ’s O’Hare. Larson wasn’t sure he’d ever had a perfect connection here.

Tired, of course, because he’d been up all night. He’d managed to doze for an hour or so on the plane; it held off the headache but did nothing for the gloom, the underwater-like efforts of movement, and the persistent buzz of panic in his gut.

He couldn’t get past Hope being a likely target. The Romeros wouldn’t know that she’d fled WITSEC-but unless she’d done everything perfectly, that would only make her easier to find.

By the time the second delay in boarding for the homeward leg was announced, Larson had already spoken twice with Rotem and finally connected with Trill Hampton. He needed to lead Hampton down the garden path in order to disguise his own intentions to locate Hope Stevens and somehow get her to safety. And, he needed to do so without violating the secrecy Rotem required of him.

“The trail’s ice-cold,” he told his next in command. He’d caught him up on Markowitz’s disappearance and the murder of the man’s assistant, but not the professor’s role in the creation of Laena. Rotem had been adamant about the need for secrecy. The future of WITSEC itself depended on their team’s ability to contain Laena, and the news of its compromise. And yet Larson felt his guys worked better when they understood the stakes. It took a special mindset to work fugitive apprehension. Your guys deserved to know what to expect on the other side of the door. And Larson felt like giving them the benefit of the doubt. But to keep his word with Rotem, he’d have to lead Hampton into discovering Markowitz’s role for himself. Hampton and Stubblefield didn’t have the rank within the service to have heard of Uncle Leo.

Larson said, “I’m told a couple of our guys canvassed Markowitz’s associates this morning. They were pretty tight-lipped. Claimed he traveled so much he was hard to keep track of, and that no one knew he’d gone missing.”

“A guy his age, traveling a lot?” Hampton, who was not yet forty, related everything to age. Larson had long since decided it was some kind of phobia with Hampton. He was terrified of growing old and saw anyone over fifty as long gone. He’d focused so much on age that he’d missed the hint Larson had dropped.

Larson again. “Markowitz was, or is-we don’t know yet which-doing a lot of consulting work as well as speaking engagements. Must have been raking it in.”

“And no one knew his schedule?”

Larson sank the hook. “Our guys didn’t get anything out of the canvass.” His point here was that FATF, not the FBI, had done the canvassing. That should have sounded alarms for Hampton.

“His last known?” Hampton had missed again.

“A little slippery. His assistant might have helped there. We’re left to fill in the gaps, and his most recent schedule is among them. We’ve confirmed Palo Alto, Raleigh-Durham, and our own Wash U. Airline records show he’d been commuting between these three and back to Princeton regularly for the past couple months. That’s where you and Stubby will start. Phone-canvassing the three universities. Face-to-face follow-ups, if needed.”

“This guy qualifies as a fugitive? From what, an old folks’ home?”

Closer, Larson thought.

“We’re gonna need his full financials, his medical records, and a psychiatric.” Hampton ’s voice bordered on complaint. “Does a guy that old have a love life?”

Larson carefully considered what he said next. He wanted Hampton making the connection that no other law enforcement was involved, that Leopold Markowitz had put the witness protection list at risk. He owed his guys that much. He looked for another way around it.

Okay. “The assistant’s wound was nearly identical to Benny’s.”

The pause on the other end of the call said enough. “Did you say our guys did the canvassing?” Bingo. “Why are we investigating this, anyway?” Hampton asked. “Where the hell’s the Bureau in this?”

Larson nodded on his end of the call. “They’re not in this, which should tell you a lot. That, and the fact that it may be the Romeros behind the disappearance, right at a time Donny’s coming up for parole review.”

“Why the fuck would the Romeros care about some old computer geek?” Hampton asked. “What is it you’re not telling me, Rolo?”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

“They’ve got you gagged on this.”

Relief swept through him. He thought this was probably how “people close to the investigation” leaked things to the media. You didn’t have to say things to say things. You could let them speak for themselves. He was somewhat new to this.

“Who else did this geezer consult for besides these three universities? Do I smell federal government?”

“Hell of a nose you’ve got, Hamp.”

“Romeros,” Hampton said. “Organized Crime Unit?”

“Colder. Think Benny.”

“Justice?”

“Scalding hot.”

“WITSEC.” The inflection was gone. Hampton had made it a statement. “Wait! Was he involved with the reorg of the master list?”

Pure poetry. Larson knew Hampton would see the full scope of it now. They were not pursuing some old man who was missing his college lectures but-if Hampton was able to take it one step further-the man behind the Laena list, the lives of more than two thousand protected witnesses and their five thousand dependents. What came with that was a level of personal risk unlike anything associated with their typical day job: chasing down escaped convicts and wanted felons.

“Our primary is Markowitz. He’s believed to need access to a supercomputer for whatever reasons. They want us interviewing the people running the computers at these places in hopes of intercepting him.”

“Supercomputers? You go for that?” Hampton asked.

“It has merit.”