“Sorry, boss. We tweaked the receiver to high-gain but the birds are still deaf.”

The phrase “birds are still deaf” pronounced without recourse to the letter r. Gatling grins like a sympathetic older sibling, slaps them both on the back. “Not to worry, boys. You’ve established that the building has state-of-the-art shielding, just as I suspected. So now we know.”

“That sucks,” says B2. “But look here, boss, what we got on viz. Intruders.”

Introodahs.

“Damn,” says Gatling, watching the LCD as a black SUV circles the block, dropping off operatives, picking them up. “When was this?”

“Within the hour. Plus we picked up a scrambled broadcast from a white van parked on the same block. Some kind of walkie-talkie bullshit on an FBI frequency.”

Gatling’s expression darkens as he turns serious, and none-too-pleased. “For future reference, I need to know this in real time. Pull the bird pronto. Get it out of there.”

“Boss, there’s no way that—”

“Now.”

At the tone of his voice, brooking no argument, the twins seem to shrink into their swivel chairs. “You got it,” says Bart softly, working the joystick. “Bird Two disengaging target area.”

“Vector eleven degrees until clear of Logan airspace,” says Bert, flipping though the checklist. “Maintain seven hundred feet.”

“Vector eleven, maintaining seven hundred.”

“Cleared target area. Going to auto.”

“Standby for next waypoint.”

“Standing by.”

The brothers push back from their consoles, letting the Mini fly itself to the next waypoint. Obvious, from their tense postures, that they’re awaiting further instruction, expecting to be reprimanded.

Gatling takes a deep breath, calming himself. “I thought I had made it clear at the beginning of the operation, but let me explain again. It is absolutely essential that any and all surveillance of this particular target go undetected. No one can know we’re there. No one can suspect. And now that you’ve detected an FBI operation in progress—congrats on that, by the way, job well done—our invisibility is even more critical. If I can spot a Mini a thousand yards away, coming in for a landing, then a Bureau agent might do so as well, even if the odds are against it. For the time being we will stand down. All recon flights suspended. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they say in tandem.

Without another word—how could these morons have failed to understand?—Gatling exits the Bunker and trudges back to his office, all lightness gone from his step. Talk about a mood crash. He’d anticipated the FBI or some other Homeland agency would investigate the mysterious death of Professor Keener—that was a given, from the moment it happened—but running a full-scale surveillance on the private investigator Naomi Nantz? That made him extremely uneasy. What did they hope to find? His great disdain for bureaucrats—that’s why they call it the Bureau—doesn’t blind him to the fact that if enough monkeys type on enough keyboards, eventually a plausible story will emerge.

It’s essential that whatever scenario the Bureau comes up with, that it not include Gatling Security Group in any meaningful way. Which means that finding a solution for the Kidder problem is all the more crucial.

On the way into his office Gatling briskly instructs his secretary to hold all calls. He locks the door, reclines on his ten-thousand-dollar leather couch and for the next hour or so thinks seriously about murder.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Enemies in High Places

As I organize my notes for this narrative, it becomes clear that this was the day when the case finally began to break wide open. Day Four. The day we went up to the roof deck for iced tea while Teddy examined Shane’s laptop, and Jack Delancey smoked his smelly but interesting cigar, and Naomi and I stared out at the river, wondering aloud why the FBI had us under surveillance.

“Shane’s old boss visits him in the hospital, chats with Dane, next thing we’re being followed,” I say, making my point. “Can’t be a coincidence.”

“She was never Shane’s boss,” Naomi says, taking a sip of her tea. “They were colleagues. Friends. In Dane’s opinion she’s sincerely concerned for his well-being.”

“Still, she’s a big mucky-muck. Director of Counterterrorism.”

“Assistant director. There’s only one director of the FBI. The subordinates are designated as deputy director, associate deputy director and, down the line, a number of assistant directors. AD Monica Bevins reports to the associate deputy director, who reports directly to the director.”

I stare at her. “So you know the whole organizational chart? You do. You have it in your head, from the big boss at the top to the part-time custodian at the bottom.”

She shrugs, admitting as much.

Typical.

I say, “My point is, whatever her title, she has the power to make things happen, and what happens when she gets here to visit her sick friend? She puts us under surveillance. Why? Are we suspects in the murder or the kidnapping?”

“No. But we’re representing the only suspect. Maybe we know things.”

“So they know about the missing laptop?”

“Possibly. Although, if so, I’d have suspected a widespread search of the area, or even a search of these premises, based on the fact that this was Shane’s last stop before he was abducted. And yet none of that happened.”

“It still could.”

“Possibly.”

“But you have another theory.”

Again with the shrug. “There’s also the possibility that we’re in the middle of a turf war,” she says.

Jack, releasing a perfect O of white smoke, chimes in. “That fits…?. That’s what I’m thinking, now that I’ve had time to, you know, actually think about it. Monica knows we were hit by some other agency. Maybe she knows who it is, maybe she doesn’t. But she wants to find out. So she puts eyes on us.”

“You know the woman,” Naomi says. “You worked for her, albeit briefly. In your estimation is that how she’d react?”

He shrugs. “All bureaucrats want more information. She has the authority to order surveillance, therefore she did.”

Naomi leans back, fingertips brushing the glass of tea. “So in your opinion the FBI has two objectives. One, to keep an eye on us. Two, to see who else is keeping an eye on us.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Hey, did you see that?”

Pointing skyward with his cigar, eyes squinting, a puzzled look on his face.

“What?”

“Like an eagle, circling.”

“An eagle?” I say. “You mean over the harbor?”

“The harbor’s too far away—my eyes aren’t that good. No, straight overhead. Whatever it was, it had a big wingspan.”

We all study the sky. Other than a TV news chopper in the vicinity of Bunker Hill, and a plane climbing out of Logan, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of birds at the moment.

“Maybe it was an osprey.”

“I know what an osprey looks like. We’ve got tons of ospreys in Gloucester. No, this was much bigger.”

“And you’re convinced it was an eagle.”

“Hell, no. Just that it was bigger than an ordinary bird.”

Naomi looks thoughtful. But then, that’s her default expression. Sensing that she has an idea or opinion, we wait for it.

“Let’s go back inside,” Naomi suggests, picking up her glass. As we enter the stairwell she says, “So tell me, Jack, is the FBI in the habit of employing surveillance drones, do you know?”

Back in the command center, Teddy looks like he’s given birth. Okay, I’m exaggerating just a teensy bit, but he does look quite pleased with himself.

“Kathleen Mancero,” he announces before we’ve had a chance to settle. “Born Kathleen O’Hara. Divorced but kept her married name. Driver’s license has her current residence as Olathe, Kansas.”