Northtown was a faithful copy of Norman Rockwell’s small-town America. The road had compressed down to two lanes here, with angled parking spots on both sides, most of which were empty of any vehicles. Wrought-iron benches that no one had time to sit in anymore poked through the snow every block or so. One shopfront featured a marquee advertising the latest Bond film, with the new guy.

Clusters of early morning commuters trudged down the sidewalks towards a bus station in front of an old drugstore, with their hard-hats and safety vests in hand. Probably on their way to scoop up the Disappeared. Bundled up against the cold as they were, Caitlin noticed that most of them were white, with a sprinkling of African-Americans and Hispanics thrown in. No sign of the many Indians she knew to be resident here. KC was dividing itself into camps, or ghettos.

After they’d turned onto Burlington, Colvin accelerated southbound. ‘Got more twists and turns than a pretzel factory out here,’ he said. ‘At least you don’t have to go out to the international airport. In this weather, we’d be looking at an hour-long drive.’

Caitlin nodded, still lost in her thoughts. A pair of F-16s with wing tanks howled into the air on the other side of the railway tracks, en route to patrol the southern approaches to Kansas City.

She was certain that Pieraro’s death had no connection to Ozal and through him to Baumer, so in that sense she had no dog in this fight. But she’d agreed to take on the job in Texas because there was at least a prima facie case linking Ozal – however indirectly – to Blackstone. And for Caitlin, that was motivation enough to maintain a watching brief on the matter of Miguel Pieraro. It was a loose thread, worth pulling.

After the long series of twisting streets and hairpin bends through a part of Northtown that Colvin called Harlem, they arrived at Charles B. Wheeler Downtown Airport. Such as it was. The main terminal building dated back to the 1930s and resembled a cross between a Quonset hut and a postmodern eco-home. A trio of C-130s sat on the flight line near the brown-brick building of the former TWA headquarters. Someone had told her on the ride into Harrah’s that Howard Hughes’s ghost haunted the place. As far as Caitlin was concerned, this whole country was haunted. The sooner she got on the plane and got this done, the better.

The flight was a regular military shuttle, but there were no other passengers. Still, she didn’t like to keep people waiting. When Colvin pulled into the drop-off zone, the Echelon agent turned down his offer to wait with her, but did so in as polite and friendly a manner as possible.