Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (38 page)

Chapter Forty-six

Ty Hunter looked in
the mirror, then at Isabella and laughed. The wardrobe available at NATO HQ on a moment's notice had been limited and, emerging from the ladies' and gentlemen's cloakrooms almost simultaneously, they found themselves dressed identically, in blue sneakers, white socks, pressed khakis, web belts with brass buckles and navy blue, short-sleeved madras shirts that constituted the post's unofficial summer civilian dress.

“Fancy a G&T?” inquired Ty.

“I think I'd rather a Pimm's,” replied Isabella.

“Next joke,” said Oliver. “You wasted a lot of precious time in those showers.”

“Three minutes,” Ty said, “tops.”

“I took no more than two,” Isabella countered.

“Easy, Ollie,” Ty said. “If we're going to play these roles, we have to look the part. I don't know about Isabella, but that shower is in
my
rider.”

Oliver shook his head. “I beg your pardon. For a moment I forgot. It's not what you do that matters, but how you look doing it.”

“You've got it,” Ty said. “When this is all over, if we're still alive, you should come back to L.A. with me. I'm pretty sure Netty would take you on.”

Amused but not distracted by Ty's suggestion, Oliver pressed, “On the way over here, you said you had an idea.”

“It's a long shot,” Ty said, “but Isabella's right. There might be a way I could get through to President White without going through George Kenneth.”

“And what would that be?”

“What time is it there?”

“Washington's six hours behind us, so it must be almost eight-thirty in the morning.”

“A lot's happened while they were sleeping,” Ty mused. “Do you have a number for the White House?”

“I have Kenneth's direct number and his mobile, but not a number for the switchboard.”

“Never mind, it shouldn't be that difficult to find,” Ty said, already maneuvering the touch pad of the new BlackBerry Oliver had given him. When he had found it, he tapped in the number and waited. As the recording played, he looked up and repeated it out loud. “‘If you know your party's extension, you may enter it now. Otherwise please remain on the line.' If I knew it,” he said with a wry smile, “would I—Oh, hello, yes, good afternoon, or good morning rather. This is Ty Hunter. I wonder if you could connect me with Daphne White.”

“Did you say your name was Ty Hunter?”

“Yes.”

“Does Miss White know you?”

“She does. I recently visited the family at Camp David.”

“I'm afraid Miss White is unavailable at the moment,” replied the White House operator.

“Most teenagers are unavailable at this hour once school's let out for the summer,” Ty said. “It is very important I speak with her.”

“You said you were a guest at Camp David. Let me see if we have a number for you, then. Yes, here it is. You're John Tyler Hunter, is that right?”

‘Yes.”

“And is your number still the same?”

“Actually, it's not,” Ty said. “That phone was damaged. What's my new number?” he asked, gesturing to Oliver, then fumbling until his friend had written it out for him.

The operator said, “Could you tell me, please, what your old number was?”

“Of course, but it doesn't work any longer.”

“I'm sure you understand that we have to confirm that you really are Ty Hunter. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Of course,” Ty said, drawing a breath as he gave her his old, unpublished number.

“I'll leave word for Miss White with the Ushers' Office,” the operator said. “Can she reach you at your new number?”

“Yes,” Ty replied, “she can. And please tell her that it's urgent.”

“I already have. And, Mr. Hunter, my husband and I both loved
The Boy Who Understood Women.
”

“Thank you,” Ty said as he hung up.

“Nothing beats a try but a failure,” Oliver said.

“It's too soon to call it that,” Ty told him. “While we wait for a teenager to wake up, we should do something useful.”

“The boys who know what to look for are looking for it,” Oliver said, “and so far the geeks are in chains. I feel helpless, and I don't like feeling helpless.”

“Where's your on-site geek?” Ty asked.

“Bingo? He's just down the hall. Why?”

“I'd like to borrow him for a while.”

“Are you going to let me in on your plan?” asked Oliver.

“Or me?” added Isabella.

“You and I,” Ty told her, “are going to a pay our dear friend Philip a visit.”

“Do you think that's wise?”

“More than that, it's necessary. The clue we need, if there is one, is most likely in Ian's office.”

Isabella frowned. “What's Bingo's role?” she asked.

“Bloodhound,” Ty said.

At which moment Oliver's mobile rang. He listened with concern, said only “Thank you” to the caller, then, after he had disconnected, said, “Frost's been spotted.”

“Goody,” Ty said, “where?”

“By the western edge of the harbor,” Oliver said. “He's keeping an eye on one of the barges.”

“Where are your men?” Isabella asked.

“Searching it,” Oliver told her.

“That sounds promising.”

Oliver's phone rang again. This conversation was even briefer than the first. The instant it concluded, he said, “Frost's moved on.”

“Have they lost him?”

“No, he's checking out another barge—at least that's what they think.” He paused. “Three warheads, three vessels,” Oliver said. “It makes sense in a way.”

“Or does it?” Ty countered.

“We'll miss Philip if we go to the office,” Isabella said.

“So much the better,” Ty said.

Oliver said, “We're missing something. I don't know what it is, but I can't shake this feeling that it's important.”

“Or maybe we're taking too much on board,” Ty said. “It's not like Philip to expose himself.”

“Isabella?” Oliver asked.

“The Philip I know would gloat in private,” she replied.

“Exactly,” Ty agreed.

“You two and Bingo go to the office,” Oliver said, “find out what you can there. I'll shadow Frost.”

“We'll need a protocol,” Ty said.

“Keep the GPS on your BlackBerrys on,” Oliver said. “We'll text each other every fifteen minutes.
GHU
will mean no change.
D,
for ‘delta,' will mean change, to be elaborated by e-mail or voice.”

“What does
GHU
stand for?” Isabella asked.

“‘God help us,'” Oliver said. “I'll chase up Bingo for you, then we're off.”

“Right,” Ty said. “Let's cover ground before it covers us!”

They were still in their navy car a few minutes away from Ian's office when Ty's phone rang. “White House operator,” said a male voice. “Is this Mr. Ty Hunter?”

Ty held up a finger to silence Isabella and Bingo, who were chatting about computer-aided design software. “This is he,” Ty said.

“I have Miss Daphne White calling for you. Please hold.”

Ty heard a quick beep, after which the operator said, “Miss White,” and Daphne's high, adolescent voice came immediately on the line. “Hi, Ty,” she said. “This is a surprise. I mean, when the ushers told me you'd called, I was like, ‘Get out of here, I can't believe it!' How are you? Are you well?”

“I'm fine,” Ty said. “I hope you are.”

“I'm good,” Daphne said. “Are you coming to Washington? I hope that's why you're calling.”

“One day,” Ty said. “I'm not exactly sure when.”

Daphne paused. “That's too bad,” she said finally.

“Look, Daphne. I hate to bother you with this, but it is very important that I talk to your father and that
no one
on his staff knows I'm talking to him.”

“Why?” Daphne asked, her tone abruptly suspicious.

“I can't tell you that,” Ty said. “I wish I could.”

“That sounds strange.”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“Of course I can. He's my father. Anyway, he's off campus at the moment, giving a speech at a breakfast somewhere.”

“In D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“When he comes back, would you ask him to phone me on this number?”

“I have a question I want to ask you first, though, okay?”

“Sure,” Ty told her.

“I mean, like, is this very important because he's the President, or is it more a personal thing?”

“The former,” Ty said. “It's not personal at all.”

“Okay, then,” Daphne said, “why not?”

“Remember,” Ty said, “only
he
should know about this, and he should not get anyone else involved until we've spoken.”

“I heard you the first time,” Daphne said. “Where are you anyway? Those sirens in the background sound foreign.”

“Gibraltar,” Ty said.

“That's awesome,” Daphne said. “I've never been there.”

In the courtyard outside the front entrance to Ian Santal's office, in the shade of an umbrella raised above an empty café table, Ty huddled with Bingo and Isabella. “What would you like to do that you haven't been able to?” he asked Bingo.

“The simplest thing, as I explained to Oliver, would be to jigger the accounts.”

“To which Washington has responded that you could bring down the world's financial system in the process?”

“They're politicians,” Bingo said with unmasked exasperation. “Which is another way of saying that they're natural-born critics. Most of them can barely navigate Windows or OS X. They have no idea how elegantly what I want to do can be done. At the same time you hoover the funds, you make it look like a simple computer error. All that your victim, if he's legitimate, would have to do in that case would be to spot the error and ask for it to be corrected.
Pas de problème!
Now, if he's not legitimate and it's going to raise a lot of eyebrows when he asks for his missing tens of billions that he can't account for having had in the first place, then damn straight it's going to cause his ulcer to bleed.”

“I'll do my best,” Ty said, and followed Isabella into the discreet entrance.

In Ian's outer office, both secretaries welcomed the impromptu trio. The more slender and severe of the two, whose desk was just outside Ian's door, said, “Mr. Frost had to step out for a moment, but before he did, he especially asked that I make you comfortable.”

“That's very kind,” Isabella said, glancing warily at Ty.

“Did he say how long he would be?” Ty asked.

“I'm afraid he didn't, but he's not long usually. Gibraltar's a small place. He did ask me to ring him on his mobile when you arrived. Or, if you'd like, you could ring him.”

Isabella smiled. “Let's wait a few minutes,” she suggested. “It would be much nicer to surprise him.”

“I wouldn't want to get crossways with him,” the secretary said. “He seemed to be expecting you. Are you sure you'll be able to surprise him?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Isabella said, her inflection suddenly proprietary. “Let's give it that long, if you don't mind.”

The secretary nodded reluctantly, then, reaching beneath the central drawer of her desk, pressed a remote that unlocked the first of two heavy, sequenced doors that led to Ian's private lair. Only once it had closed behind them was the second door released.

“Another of your godfather's vaults,” Ty remarked. “It reminds me of his quarters on
Surpass.
”

“Same man, same concerns, same standards,” Isabella said.

“Shall we have a look around?” Ty asked.

“Are you asking my permission?”

“I was taught to.”

She laughed. “Well, of course you have it. It would help to know what we're looking for.”

“We'll only know that when we find it,” he said.

Bingo was already at the laptop that rested on a console table behind Ian's desk. “Straight out of the box, this is funny,” he said. “Funny as in peculiar. It's warm, so presumably Frost was just using it, but it doesn't seem to be password-protected. Don't you find that odd for a man with a lock fetish?”

“Is it Ian's or Philip's?” Isabella asked.

“Who's to say, really?” Bingo told her. “No icons. No programs. Not even an ISP number. It's been wiped.”

“The whole room's been wiped, it looks like,” Ty said.

Isabella swiveled to take in the room from every angle. “I'm not sure,” she concluded. “Philip is manically tidy. That could be what gives it this feeling of . . . What am I trying to say? This feeling of having been vacated.

“If the computer is Ian's, why would Philip wipe it clean when he's meant to be getting Ian's affairs in order?” Isabella continued. “If it's his, why would he
want
to lose
all
the information that was on it? Even if he did want to get rid of something, why wouldn't he expunge only that and nothing else? I presume that's possible.”

“It would depend on what it was,” Bingo said. “If it were a document or file, he could manage that. But if it involved something he'd done on some network or where he'd been on the Internet, there would be traces of it elsewhere, on servers and routers to which he would have no access.”

“All the more reason not to wipe it, then,” Isabella said.

“Not really. Think about it. He'd be betting against anyone's finding a needle in a haystack, as well as depriving whoever might be looking of a vital clue to its location.”

Bingo removed a flash drive from the pocket of his fisherman's vest and inserted it into the laptop's USB.