Some high-profile hacks in recent history came to mind. Political games. Elections.
“How does it work?”
“Random sequencing—a dozen codes, for example, that change randomly, and your average hacker keeps stumbling around trying to break a code that has already changed.”
“Average?” she commented.
“Aye, well, then there are a few who are good enough, and lucky, and they're able to figure out the sequence.”
“No longer random,” she replied.
“Exactly.”
“And you just happen to be very good.”
He grinned.
“Were you able to get in?” she asked.
“Aye, that's how I found out Haddon was a shell company. Then all hell broke loose.”
“Except that Haddon doesn't exist,” she reminded him what he'd told her.
“Exactly. Then this nasty little fucker—sorry—was all over me.” At the look she gave him, he translated.
“Think of the guard at the prison gate. A tracker that whoever built the firewall set up on the Haddon site, if anyone without proper authorization tried to gain access. I finally shook him. I don't think he was able to identify me, but I shut everything down. That's when I decided that Luna and I needed to disappear for a while.”
Down the rabbit hole with the rest of them.
“There's something else,” he added. “Anne called. Your publisher has been trying to contact you.”
Not a surprise with everything that had happened.
“They keep leaving messages.”
She thought about her cell phone, in hundreds of pieces, but that really wasn't the issue. She could get another cell phone. She could call. But she knew what the conversation would be. Nina would want her back in New York. She couldn't do that. Not yet.
Three people were dead. She had to know why.
Her gaze was drawn to one of the computer screens. A Sky News live feed was being broadcast. There had been an incident at the airport in Paris. Arrests had been made, searches were underway in two districts for those who might be involved. Then the broadcast segued into a segment from the previous evening.
“Authorities still have no leads in the brutal murder of a Benedictine monk who had just concluded evening services at the Abbey Church at Mont St. Michel. Church authorities have issued no statements at this time, but there is concern that this may be a repeat of the brutal attack by insurgents on a priest in London several months ago. The abbey will remain closed until local authorities have completed their investigation.”
Paris was a city on edge and under siege, and James was out there somewhere.
“That whole scene at the abbey must have been pretty intense,” Innis said, glancing over at her.
Intense—there was a word. There were other words—horrible, terrifying—and then no words that could describe finding Brother Thomas lying in a pool of his own blood, their escape from the abbey church, the train trip from St. Malo...
She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill in the room that found its way into the pit of her stomach.
What was keeping them? What information was James hoping to find?
“You said that Anthony has a cell phone?”
Daenerys nodded. “He would call if anything happened.”
He would call. Cate had called, and she didn't receive her message until it was too late.
