Chapter 10 - The Office Behind the Admiral
The prepaid phone stopped transmitting before security reached headquarters.
But its last signal narrowed to one floor.
Executive communications.
McAllister’s staff.
Kane’s area.
Too obvious.
Maybe intentionally.
Investigators searched under warrant and command authority.
No phone.
Then they checked access.
Three people entered after gala began.
Night communications technician.
Duty officer.
Captain Douglas Kane.
Kane had returned to headquarters briefly at 7:12 p.m.
Before going to gala.
Reason:
Retrieve briefing folder for McAllister.
He signed log.
Could have left phone.
Still not proof.
Then Jonah asked to hear the Atlas audio again.
Pierce played it.
Static.
American voice.
ATLAS, PACKAGE MOVING NORTH.
Then another:
USE STERLING AUTHENTICATION.
Jonah closed his eyes.
“Play Kane’s briefing from today.”
Pierce did.
Kane speaking about retirement security.
Different cadence.
Then Jonah:
“Not him.”
“What?”
“I was wrong.”
We stared.
“The voice is similar.”
He shook his head.
“But Atlas dragged the last word.”
North.
Longer vowel.
Kane clipped his words.
Memory unreliable.
Yet Jonah was certain enough to retreat from accusation.
Good.
Then Richard, brought into review under counsel, heard audio.
His face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
“Play it again.”
They did.
He looked at McAllister.
“That isn’t Kane.”
“Who?”
Richard swallowed.
“Malcolm.”
Vale.
But Vale’s public voice was slower now.
Five years earlier recordings?
They pulled.
Still.
Not exact.
Then Richard said:
“No. Not Vale either.”
“Then why react?”
“It’s a phrase.”
“What phrase?”
Atlas transmission:
Package moving north. Window remains seven.
Richard said Vale used “window remains seven” constantly in planning.
But anyone in his office could adopt it.
Then I remembered something.
Not voice.
Breathing.
Atlas paused before transmitting.
A faint click.
Twice.
I had heard that sound in briefings.
Someone clicking a metal pen.
Ridiculous.
Many people do.
Then McAllister clicked his own pen unconsciously.
I looked.
No.
Different.
Richard suddenly said:
“Cross.”
“He’s in custody.”
“No. Five years ago.”
He opened an old photograph.
Black Harbor planning table.
Cross.
Kane.
Vale.
Richard.
Another man at edge.
Lieutenant Commander Aaron Pike.
Vale’s aide.
He died three years ago in a climbing accident.
No.
Then a woman.
Commander Beth Lawson.
Signals cryptography.
Retired to private sector.
Not at gala.
McAllister frowned.
“What are we missing?”
I looked at retirement guest list.
Someone from mission planning who had attended beach.
Cross.
Vale.
Kane.
Richard.
McAllister.
One more:
Captain Owen Mercer.
Now director of Pacific Communications Security.
At gala.
He left after security lockdown? Logs showed he remained until released after interview.
I barely remembered him.
Five years ago, Mercer managed authentication systems.
He could clone Richard’s token.
Where was he now?
Security called.
His hotel room empty.
Phone off.
Car still at gala.
Then Chloe called me from the hotel lobby.
Her voice shook.
“Harper.”
“What?”
“There’s a man in Dad’s suite.”
“What man?”
“I came to get my purse.”
“Chloe, leave.”
“He says his name is Captain Mercer.”
My blood turned cold.
“Get out now.”
Then I heard a male voice through her phone.
“Harper Sterling.”
Calm.
American.
May you like
Then the soft click of a metal pen.
Twice.
