The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1)(9)

Once upon a time, places like these that contained books and knowledge were stored in heavily fortified monasteries in Europe, to protect them from the barbarians.

Now the barbarians are no longer at the gates. Thanks to the wonders of this century, the barbarians could reach across half the globe and give you a deadly tap on the shoulder with a digital finger. Viruses, malware, phishing…

I go back to the screen, using the program called BORAX.

There’s my target van, sharpened up, clean, and looking fine.

ABLE CAREPT CLEANERS, ALEXANDRIA.

With a local phone number painted below.

The van looks legit.

Stolen?

Probably.

I’ll look into that later.

With the sharpened photo of the van in my digital grasp, I send it along to another complicated tracking program that uses algorithms, predictive software, traffic analysis programs, and other cool stuff to watch vehicle traffic on the nation’s roads, from highways to dirt paths, as long as there is a surveillance camera in the area. This one is called CYCLOPS. I imagine some bored bureaucrat somewhere in Crystal City, whose job it is, all day long, to assign code names to various programs.

Do I know the intricacies of the CYCLOPS program?

No.

Just like the sweet kids wandering around out in the safe confines of this library don’t know how their handheld devices work.

Just a tool.

That’s all.

I go back to the screen.

The spinning little doohickey, spinning away.

Look away once more.

Ah, damn it!

Out in the general area of the library is Sue Judson, an assistant librarian who’s taken a shine to Denise, helping her find books about whatever obsession my daughter is exploring that month: astronomy, genealogy, the history of Victorian fashion…my smart, tough, and sweet little girl.

Now Sue is looking this way, and I turn, hoping I’m not spotted.

She’s lovely, about my age, desperately trying to have a child with her handsome husband, Luke, an E-6 in the Army and stationed in my building, and any other day, I’d love to talk to her.

But not now.

Not today.

I go back to the screen.

The doohickey is still spinning, spinning…stops.

A map of Fairfax County pops up, every street, avenue, and highway lit up in pink. Little symbols of steering wheels are blinking at me.

I click one.

There’s the van, heading north on I-95.

I click on the next one.

Two miles farther north on I-95.

And with this magic hunting system, I track the van as it goes up the highway…then to an exit…and then to a state road, and then another state road. The van moves along in a specific direction, no doubt about it, and I try very, very hard not to think of Tom and Denise, wrapped up and terrified, bouncing in the back of that stolen van, which has left Fairfax County and is going into Fauquier County.

Then there’s no more blinking steering wheels.

Damn!

The van containing my life and loves is gone.





CHAPTER 10



I TAKE a deep breath, trying not to panic, trying not to lose faith.

I check the last viewing of the van, passing by a private home that has a camera overlooking its driveway gate. Then…

It’s gone.

Somewhere in this area, the van has disappeared. But where?

“Hey, Lucianne, how goes it?”

Sue Judson is coming this way, having just greeted someone named Lucianne. I scrunch up my shoulders, desperately trying to avoid Sue’s notice.

I examine the map again.

A rural area near the small town of Atoka.

I don’t know anything about it.

I do a bit more research.

Not much to know.

There are single-family homes, a lot of farms, and— A private airport.

Morgan Airport.

More digging and dumping through the miracle of the Internet.

It belongs to a medical device company with its main offices in Alexandria. It has a five-thousand-foot paved runway. Nice. No manned control tower, no real facilities except for those who have a reason to land or take off there.

And no Internet-linked surveillance cameras at the two small buildings.

Damn, damn, damn.

CYCLOPS is now down for the count.

What now?

What other resources are out there for an Army intelligence officer on the run?

If there was a security camera overhead right now, it would see me tapping away furiously at the keyboard, like the cliché scenes from movies and TV shows about dedicated hackers who can solve a knotty plot problem in five minutes by slapping a keyboard around and getting someone’s third-grade report card.

The thing about clichés, of course, is that they’re always based on something real.

Tapping away, I find something called GILLNET, which lists all sorts of external visual and audio devices away from highways or roads that can be accessed by a curious Uncle Sam and his minions, and after I plug in the GPS coordinates for Morgan Airport, I get a— A hit.

I get a hit.

And then I get a hand on my shoulder.

“Amy, what a surprise!”





CHAPTER 11



PELAYO ABBOUD is standing outside the thick metal door when his trusted lieutenant, Casper Khourery, arrives holding an ice-cold sixteen-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola, a white straw sticking out of the top. Pelayo nods in gratitude and gestures to the door, and Casper—a bulky man in his early thirties with perfect white teeth, light-brown skin, close-cropped curly black hair, and a carefully trimmed mustache—unlocks the door, stepping back. Casper is wearing a fine gray suit, a Savile Row knockoff, with a crisp white shirt, blue necktie, and red kerchief sticking out of the jacket pocket, which Pelayo thinks is a bit too much, but he’s a gracious boss and will allow Casper that one fashion statement.