Blake decided to have his men in Phoenix confirm that Reese was at work at Plixon Pharmaceuticals and not at a police station or the Bureau’s Field Office. If Reese had been arrested or compromised, then the time frame needed to be moved up.

And if Reese was trying to reach Ibrahim, there was a loose end there that needed to be snipped off.

He excused Ibrahim, contacted his people in Arizona, and then called Mannie into the room.

“I want you and your men to clear out the office,” he told him. “All the physical files. All the printouts. Everything.”

“I understand. And the QKD research?”

“Put it on the thumb drives. And prepare the building like we discussed earlier.”

“You want to burn it.”

“Yes. To the ground.”

With things moving in the direction they were, Blake realized it would probably be best to allow Ibrahim to take the blame for the Tranadyl posthumously.

Yes, he would make certain that the Syrian would be in the building when it turned to ash, but Mannie didn’t need to know that. It would be better this way. Blake wanted no hesitation on the part of his associate.

In the building, yes. But alive or dead when the fire began?

Blake decided to wait and see.

He located his seven-inch KA-BAR 1217 fixed-blade knife in the office drawer. It would do the trick when the time came, if he needed it to. It was specifically designed for the very purpose he had in mind.

++++

Timothy found the camera.

It was near the television, and he couldn’t figure out how his father might have planted it there—unless it was the guy who’d come in to fix the cable that one time . . .

In either case, it was the last straw.

The bugs. The visit by the Feds. His dad watching him.

Everything was spinning out of control.

He destroyed the camera, found two X-ACTO knives—one for each hand—and headed to the bathroom.

++++

Tessa located Timothy Sabian’s house and made her way through the falling snow toward it, quickening her steps as she did.

++++

Ralph and I were traveling north to leave the city when we received word from the team that was staking out Sabian’s house.

Ralph put the call on speakerphone.

“There’s someone walking up to his front door,” the agent told us.

“Who?” I said.

“I don’t know. A girl.”

“A girl?” Ralph asked. “Not a woman? Not Julianne?”

“Looks to be an adolescent. She has a maroon backpack—you know, those book bags kids these days carry and—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “A teenage girl with a maroon backpack?”

“Yeah. Why?”

A quiver in my heart. “What’s she wearing?”

“Torn blue jeans. I don’t know. A raincoat.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

That was enough for me.

“Get up there. Find out who she is.”

“It’ll blow our cover.”