‘Of course, Ty,’ said the always cooperative, always security-conscious Colonel Katherine Murdoch.

‘Oh, so we are friends . . . Kate?’ he said, teasing her gently. ‘That’s how it works? I show you my nasties . . .’ – he held up the secured briefcase with the dossiers inside – ‘and you suddenly want to be friends again with old Tyrone McCutcheon?’

Caitlin smiled, conceding his point. ‘Perhaps just friendly colleagues,’ she volleyed back.

She then looked away so he could enter the PIN to deactivate two of the three security systems within the room. The pressure pad and the infra-red sensors. The proximity alarm, which sat on his desk looking like a stainless steel egg, he deactivated with an RFID tag on his key ring. She caught Musso’s concerned expression as they stood there with their backs turned. He was obviously thinking ahead, assuming she would want to gain entry to this office without the permission of its occupant. With McCutcheon standing a couple of feet away, Caitlin could hardly reassure Seattle’s main man in Texas that it wasn’t going to be a problem, so she let it slide.

‘All righty, we’re good to go,’ McCutcheon announced. ‘Secret trapdoor to the piranha pool has been closed. Laser-beam chainsaws deactivated. Hoo and aah!’

She had a momentary vision of Bret saying the same thing the last morning they had spent together.

This office was nearly as large as Blackstone’s, but with none of the triumphalist personal touches. A single framed photograph of an older woman who bore an unmistakable family resemblance to McCutcheon sat on his desk next to a signed baseball. A large Ansell Adams print of winter in Yellowstone Park hung from one wall in front of a nest of lounge chairs. Otherwise nothing. Not even a view. Ty McCutcheon’s office had no windows. It was cut off from the outside world. Caitlin felt . . . not so much the thrill of vindication. Rather, the cold comfort of a wager with herself that had just paid off. There may well have been other treasure troves in which she could dig for the secrets of Jackson Blackstone, but she’d almost certainly find buried treasure right here.

She took in every detail of the space as she followed the two men over to the lounge area, which reminded her of a display setting in a furniture store. As if it was meant to be admired rather than used. Unlike his boss’s desk, which looked like it might’ve come off one of Lord Nelson’s warships, McCutcheon worked on a glass-top table, to which there was nothing beyond the thick sandwich of opaque green glass and two Z-form metal trusses serving as legs. No networking cables ran to the laptop, not even a power cord. The computer was a stand-alone system, save for the ugly steel chain that secured it to one of the table legs.