He squinted. “What is that, Commerce Department?”

“Have you heard of it or not?”

He thought some more before finally saying, “No. Why? Who are they?”

“I don’t even know if they exist.” Davis keyed her password into her laptop and then launched her Internet browser. She entered “usa.gov” on the URL line, then navigated to an A-to-Z index of government departments and agencies. She entered the term “Bureau of Technology Control” in the search box—clicked “Search.”

It returned about a quarter million results. Davis scanned down the list of hits with headings like “U.S. Bureau of Industry and Security” and “Bureau of Labor Statistics.”

Falwell was looking over her shoulder. “Try it enclosed in quotation marks.”

She enclosed the search term and searched again. Now it returned zero results.

Falwell shrugged. “Why are we looking for them?”

“That Grady guy mentioned it to me. That was supposedly the federal agency that kidnapped him.”

Falwell let a smile escape. “Right. If it’s a top-secret agency, I’m guessing they wouldn’t be listed in the directory.”

“Look, I don’t believe his story, Thomas, but I did want to see if they were a real organization.”

“Let me get this APB out.” He opened up his own laptop. “So what do we do if we don’t have him by next week?”

“You mean, do we meet him at Columbia University? I want to see the DNA results first.”

“You’re actually thinking of going?”

“We might be, yeah.”

“What about the depositions next week?”

“Reschedule them.”

“Denise, you’re not meeting this guy alone.”

“No, of course not. We’ll use a team. It’s a university library, so there’ll be security cameras. We’ll see him coming.” She paused. “There’s something here that’s gnawing at me, though. Something about Cotton—how he could disappear for so long without a trace. And with so many faceless followers—none of whom made mistakes.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just—”

“We arrested three of his people with him.”

“And none of them seemed very bright. They all had felony drug rap sheets.”

Falwell laughed ruefully. “You’re starting to worry me.”

“It’s just strange, that’s all.”

Just then Davis’s desk phone rang. She glanced at the LCD readout—and then did a double take. She sat up straight. “Thomas.”

“What?”

She held her hand above the receiver. “It’s D.C.”

“FBI headquarters?” He checked his watch.

She picked it up on the start of the third ring. “Denise Davis.”

“Agent Davis, please hold for Deputy Director Royce.”

She blanched. “Yes. I’ll hold.” Davis covered the receiver and glared at Falwell. “It’s the deputy director.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Of the FBI?”

“No, of Grease, the musical—who do you think?” Davis was on hold for about ten seconds before a man’s voice came on the line. “Denise Davis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were contacted by a man claiming to be Jon Grady tonight. Is that correct?”

Davis frowned at Falwell—who frowned back, probably because he had no idea what was going on. “Yes, sir. We had a positive match on fingerprints. We’re running a DNA test on a hair sample.”

“Do you have any information on his present whereabouts?”

“Not at the moment, sir. We’re putting out an APB.”

“Don’t do that just yet. Did he say why he was contacting you?”

Davis paused for a moment, then looked over at Falwell again. Then she said, “Deputy Director, I must apologize, sir, but I absolutely must respond to something. Can I phone you at your office in under a minute? I sincerely apologize, sir.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “Call me back as soon as possible, Agent Davis.”

“Thank you, sir. Very sorry.” She hung up.

Falwell squinted at her. “Are you nuts?”

Davis stood up and started rifling through the shelves for a bureau directory. “Thomas, I don’t even want to hear it. Would you look for a directory over there?”

He started navigating through the intranet directory on his laptop. “I’m confused, Denise.”

“It’s past midnight in D.C. Why are they even in the office?” She glanced up at him. “Not the Web directory. I want something printed. Preferably a few years old.”

“You’re really losing it.”

“Ah!” She pulled a small binder off a shelf and started flipping through it.

“It’d be in the front probably. Near the bureau seal . . .”

She heard a ding as an email landed in her inbox. Davis glanced up. It was from Jeffrey Royce, deputy director of the FBI—and it was over their internal system. It was cc’d to the Chicago Special Agent in Charge, with the subject line “Priority One Special Assignment.”

“Damn.” She found the FBI headquarters’ main number and pounded it into her desk phone. “I am such an idiot . . .”

Falwell leaned down to look at her laptop screen. “Hey, you got some spam from the deputy director. Should I delete it?”

“Ha. Ha.” She waited for the FBI operator to pick up. “Yes, this is Special Agent Denise Davis returning a call from Deputy Director Jeffrey Royce.” A pause. “I believe he’s still in the office.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

Falwell leaned back in his chair and spread his hands.

In a moment another man answered.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll hold.”

And a few seconds later the deputy director picked up. “Agent Davis.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies. I just needed . . . never mind. You were saying, sir?”

“Mr. Grady asked you to meet him in New York—next week at Columbia University—is that correct?”

Davis felt the shock go through her. “I . . . How do you know that, sir?”

“We have a highly sensitive surveillance operation under way, Agent Davis. You’ll still need to be in Chicago preparing for the Cotton trial, but we’re going to put you temporarily under the direction of a special task force—and we want you to meet Mr. Grady as he requested. Your supervisors have been notified, and any scheduling conflicts will be resolved through our office. You’ll report to a safe house in New York—you’re not to contact the New York field office or discuss this with anyone except your supervisor. Is that clear?”

Davis looked to Falwell uncertainly, then nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“The email I just sent has instructions about where to meet your plane next week and the supervising agent for this operation. Can I count on your discretion and cooperation, Agent Davis?”

“Yes, sir. But . . .”

“What is it?”

“I just . . . What’s going on, sir? Is it Jon Grady? What’s his connection to Cotton?”

“I can tell you that he isn’t Jon Grady—but the rest is well above your pay grade. The only reason you’re involved is because he contacted you. But you should know he’s dangerous, and that you need to listen closely to your task force leader when you reach New York. Can I count on you, Agent Davis?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Yes, of course you can count on me.”

CHAPTER 16

Panopticon

Graham Hedrick sat in his office chair gazing out at Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbor. Junks and container ships plied the glittering water below. His jaw clenched as he listened to the report on Grady’s escape.

“Grady didn’t do this alone, Mr. Director. He was helped.” The head of Jon Grady’s security detail, a Morrison named Beta-Upsilon, stood nervously before Hedrick’s desk. The elder Morrison stood nearby looking even angrier than Hedrick felt.

“We had no reason to expect he’d have a personal utility fog.”

Morrison barked, “Did you scan him before transport?”