“You liked being undercover,” Naomi says, nodding to herself. “Blowing that very discreet whistle.”

He grins. “It’s way more fun than being an accountant.”

At a certain angle, in a certain light, he really does bear the smallest possible resemblance to Brad Pitt, if Brad Pitt was a certified public accountant with a receding hairline and forgettable eyes.

“All my life people tended not to notice me, and I pretended not to be bothered by not being noticed. Milton Milquetoast, the man who blends into the background. Now I get to use that personal camouflage to my advantage. Playing to my strength, you might say.”

“I do say,” Naomi says, impressed. “Bravo, sir! Well told! Now that your special talent has been sorted—the details of which will not leave this room, rest assured—please report on your visit to QuantaGate.”

According to Milton, the employees of the small research and development firm are in a deep state of shock and disbelief, stunned by the sudden death of their legendary founder. Not that anyone on the staff pretends actually to have known Professor Keener other than in passing. According to office chatter, Keener was formally polite but remained very much aloof, spending most of his time in his personal lab. More than one QG employee described him as “impossible to know.”

“It’s as if they all labored in the shadows of his genius, attempting to develop functional equivalents of his theoretical constructs. Which I gather has something to do with a new form of communication between high-speed computers,” Milton adds.

“Functional equivalents? Theoretical constructs?” Naomi asks, probing. “Did they use those terms, exactly?”

He nods. “More than once. Understand, as an auditor I was not permitted access to the secure labs and workshops. My movements were restricted to the general office area and the cafeteria. The support staff.”

“Who restricted your movements?”

“Security.”

“Wackenhut or Gama Guards?” Naomi asks, naming two of the biggest private security providers.

“Gama Guards,” Milton says. “Your basic corporate rent-a-cops, in uniform. Cordial but firm—mere accountants are not allowed into the labs. That requires another level of clearance, plus fingerprint and iris recognition. There’s not that many lab employees—less than thirty, according to the payroll—so presumably they all know each other. No way I could have gotten back there unobserved.”

“Understood. Jack, do you have any contacts with Gama Guards?”

“One or two. Cops who went private.”

“Be nice to check out the lab, or at the very least chat with someone who works in the secure area.”

“I’ll make some calls,” Jack says, making a note of it.

“Okay,” Naomi says. “This is all good. We’re making progress of a sort.” She turns to our guest. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the dessert course, Mr. Bean. That will follow my brief summation, and it is our habit to enjoy the final course in silence, understood?”

He licks his lips and nods. “Perfectly,” he says, posture attentive.

“First, let me state the obvious,” says Naomi, forming a steeple with her elegant fingers. “Two missing persons are the object of our collective concern, three if you count the mother, whose identity and location remain unknown to us. Our primary focus will be upon finding and recovering Joey, the so-called ‘keyboard kid,’ but it is beginning to look as if we’ll have to find Randall Shane first, before we can develop a productive line of inquiry on the child. As to possible motives for Professor Keener’s murder, indications are that he was suspected of espionage. That the mother of the missing boy might be a Chinese national could be crucial. Bear in mind that the Chinese government, working with various Chinese universities not unlike our own MIT, has launched hundreds of cyber attacks in the U.S., including one that triggered a blackout in a major Florida power grid. These assaults are intended to steal our military and industrial secrets, probe our defenses and evaluate how to shut us down if we ever became involved in an active, forces-on-the-ground war with China. Therefore a great deal of emphasis has recently been put on developing new ways to communicate—methods that cannot be compromised or hacked—and we know that Professor Keener has been involved in developing just such a system. That much is public knowledge, and mentioned prominently in the prospectus for QuantaGate.

“Which brings us to the question of who. Who ordered Professor Keener’s execution? Keener may have been killed by someone on our side—it could even be that Randall Shane is guilty—or at the behest of a foreign power, to ensure his silence. Or it may have been personal, or somehow tong related, or both. We are not yet able to rule out any of these possibilities, but I’m confident we’ll do so over the next few days.”

Jack then does the unthinkable. Something remarkable, in fact. Rather vehemently, he interrupts Naomi in the middle of her summation to argue a point. “No way did Shane do it.”

Naomi gives him a cool look. “We won’t argue the point at this time,” she says. “Unlike you, I’m keeping an open mind on the subject.”

Jack opens his mouth to reply, thinks better of it and makes a sign that boss lady should continue.

“Okay,” she says. “As to who seized the suspect—and he does remain a suspect, however much we all may want him to be proved innocent—possible candidates include Central Intelligence Agency, National Security Agency and Defense Intelligence Agency, all of which have assumed extraordinary powers under the Patriot Act. It’s rare that a U.S. citizen be detained under the Patriot Act, but it does happen—and quite possibly more frequently than we know, since the secret court orders are sealed.

“We should bear in mind that there are sixteen named U.S. intelligence agencies, and an unknown number that operate beyond public scrutiny. Plus agencies from any number of foreign governments. Any might be culpable. Or none. A grim reminder that we are in murky, dangerous waters. To my regret, I cannot guarantee the personal safety of anyone associated with our enterprise. Given the obvious danger, if any of you want to resign from this particular case, you have only to ask. No opprobrium attached.”

I break the resultant silence—and the tension—by cracking wise. “Opprobrium?” I say. “Is that a fancy perfume?”

Boss lady ignores me. “Are we all in agreement? We do our best to locate and recover the missing child. If in agreement, please say so. Jack?”

“Yes, agreed.”

“Dane?”

“Against my better judgment, yes.”

“Teddy?”

“Way yes.”

“Mr. Bean?”

“Honored to be included. Yes.”

Saving me for last. “Alice?”

“Where you go, I go. Hell, yes.”

“Good. Settled. And now for the dessert course.”

In communal silence we savor Beasley’s homemade vanilla ice cream with ginger sauce. Hot and cold, sweet and tangy, all in one bite. Imagine the best ice cream you ever had as a child, on an occasion when taste was exalted and joy was pure. Say your tenth birthday.

This is way, way better.

Chapter Sixteen

Baked Alaska

Three steps from the dining room, with the pleasant buzz of ginger still humming in his mouth, Jack Delancey reaches for the cell phone vibrating in his right trouser pocket. An incoming call from Glenn Tolliver, of the Massachusetts State Police. Funny, he was just thinking that the perfect finish to the meal might be a leisurely stroll along Comm Ave while puffing on a short La Gloria. Maybe if Piggy is in town, the better option would be Cigar Masters, with a nice port or cognac.