Point of Contact

She put the call on speakerphone, opened her desk drawer and removed the package, then opened another drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She carefully cut the twine binding it and slid a thin fingernail underneath each perfectly placed piece of Scotch tape, lifting them in such a manner to not harm the contents inside. She then gently lifted the heavy box lid.

Her eyes widened.

The voice on the speakerphone asked, “Are you surprised?”

“Completely.” Masood lifted the item out of the box.

Jane Austen’s Persuasion. She opened the first pages. Published 1907, illustrated by Brock.

“I love it, Uncle. Thank you.” She read the attached note. Something to read tonight after your first day back at work.

“It’s my favorite Austen novel. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll start it on my lunch break, in the next few minutes.”

“How does it feel to be back at work?”

“Don’t you mean to ask, ‘How is the pacemaker working?’”

He laughed. “Something like that. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Uncle. No problems, really.”

An alarm blared on her monitor.

“Uncle, I’m sorry, I have to go.” Without waiting, she hung up the phone.

The screen that Masood monitored featured a live video feed from the Japanese geostationary satellite Himawari 8. Though owned and operated by the Japanese Meteorological Agency, the Himawari 8 fed images to the BMKG, the regional agency managing the Tropical Cyclone Warning Center. She was in charge of deep convection analysis, one of several optical and sensor operations provided by the sixteen-channel multispectral imager on board the solar-powered satellite.

She knew every monitor on her floor was alarming as well. Tropical Storm Ema was strengthening into Typhoon Ema — and charging north. Impossible. It had never happened before.

And it was heading straight for Singapore.

56

SINGAPORE

Jack left Lian on the third floor, more determined than ever to find the missing QC file — and the person who tried to get him killed last night. He stabbed the elevator button, his mind racing. He needed Paul to work his forensic magic, maybe find a trace of when the file had been deleted — that would determine when it had been copied and downloaded to a hard drive. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get access to computer logs and find out which computer was used — unless those were deleted, too.

The elevator doors slid open and Jack stepped in, hitting the first-floor button, still trying to work the angles. If he knew which computer was used and at what time, he could figure out who was using it, but how, if the security-camera footage and computer logs had all been erased for the last twenty-four hours?

Whoever had covered Jack’s tracks were really covering their own. But why? The only thing that made sense was that if Jack was hauled into the police department they might start retracing his steps, and that would lead the police on a search for the culprits and the crime they had committed.

Jack pocketed the phone and got back to his main problem: How to find that file?

If Paul was right and the data had been saved, the easiest way to do that would be with a USB drive.

His Dalfan security brief indicated that the only people allowed to download data from the machines were Dalfan employees with Dalfan USB drives, each registered to just one individual. If Lian really wasn’t responsible for the file disappearing, he might be able to convince her to pull every Dalfan USB and check for the file — or at least the trace of it, assuming that by now it had been transferred to somewhere else. If they could find the USB that had been used to copy it, they’d have their culprit. It was a long shot, but the only one he could think of.

The elevator door slid open and Jack headed for his office, nodding at the security receptionist at her desk, frantically typing away at her desktop. He waved his flash card and passed through the security door.

Jack saw that half of the workstations and offices were empty in the main work area. He bumped into several people who were gathering up their belongings and leaving. He supposed it was lunchtime.

Jack waved his security card over the reader to the last door, but he could already see through the glass walls that Paul wasn’t in his office. He entered it anyway. He looked around. Didn’t see Paul’s coat or his laptop bag. He turned around. Yong wasn’t in his office, either, nor was Yong’s junior spy, Bai.

Jack headed back through the first floor, now largely empty. He approached the security receptionist, who was pulling on her raincoat. Her computer was already shut down.

“Did I miss the memo?” Jack asked.

“You haven’t heard? Typhoon Ema is on the way here. We’ve been told to go home and prepare.”

“When will it get here?”

“Tomorrow. The news says it probably won’t reach here, but the weather will get worse for sure.” She grabbed her purse.

“I’m looking for Mr. Brown, my associate. Have you seen him?”