“I’m convinced,” she said. “But I also prefer we don’t alienate him. He has legal authority over the investigation and—as you’ve implied—can withhold anything he wants from us. We, on the other hand, have no license to meddle. If we plan to get somewhere we need his voluntary permission. Or maybe cooperation’s a better word. And I think the best way to obtain it would be to exert pressure on Erickson through behind-the-scenes channels.”

“Those channels have names attached to them?”

Megan nodded. She drew in a breath.

“Until now I’ve kept any knowledge about the e-mail within our organization to give us elbow room, but that changes tomorrow,” she said. “Since it’s safe to assume Erickson’s department would have put the FBI on alert for possible involvement, I can’t see a reason not to contact our old friend Bob Lang at Quantico in the meantime and ask him off the record to make a request of the local field office. That would be the San Francisco division. It won’t be long before the case winds up under its bailiwick anyway. And at that point they can share evidence with whomever they wish.”

Thibodeau was nodding as he mulled her words over.

“Sounds reasonable enough to me,” he said. “Beats going to war with Erickson.”

Ricci ignored him, continuing to look at Megan as if it were just the two of them in the room.

“Lang’s your old friend, not mine,” he said. “You want to visit wonderland with him, it’s your choice.”

A taut silence between them again. Megan’s eyes became narrow.

“What are you suggesting?” she said.

Ricci sat a moment, then slowly shrugged and rose from his chair.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re the boss, you make the calls. I just want to get back to work.”

When the phone rang in Derek Glenn’s office, he was at his window admiring the new 120-foot-tall naval ship-yard cranes that soared prominently in his view of the waterfront. They had appeared there about a month earlier, and he hoped it was a permanent spot. Keeping a vigilant and appreciative eye on the cranes had come to occupy a large part of his day, and Glenn supposed that if he ever looked out to discover them farther up or down the harbor—or, worse, altogether gone—it might be a sign he’d have to find something else about the commercial harbor that might be of interest, which had been tough before their arrival. Or something other than standing by the window to keep him occupied. Either way, it would be a development worthy of consideration at UpLink’s San Diego overflow warehouse.

His lookout interrupted, Glenn went over and lifted the receiver.

“Yup, I’m here.”

“Glenn. It’s Tom Ricci.”