She typed it in, pushed Return, and in a few seconds the computer scanned, filtered, sorted, and presented nine purchases in the past five months of Wilson die sets—neck size and bullet seater—in the .338 Lapua Magnum size, plus specific neck-sizer bushings for the first die, three at .366, two at .367, and one more at .368. From this they got nine names, which they ran against several data fields already in place, being the membership in the North American Long Range Shooting Association, which was the governing body of most of the matches, as well as entry in long-range shooting schools all across the west, part of the training craze in all the esoteric gun skills of Special Forces operators that currently gripped the shooting world. Of the nine customers, eight were in one or the other, the ninth being a wealthy South Carolina gun collector who was on the Board of Trustees of the NRA.

“Too bad it ain’t him,” said Bob, a little sourly. “The newspapers would go crazy.”

“He’s not the type?”

“I met him once. Rich guy, big in the NRA. He owns a batch of auto dealerships, and Subaru millionaires don’t turn into jihadi terrorists.”

“Good point,” she said.

Eighteen hours in, and they had nothing.

“How much time left?”

“Six hours.”

“We’re not getting anywhere.”

“Maybe we’ve proved there’s nowhere to get. Maybe we’ve excluded a possible avenue of investigation. That’s worth something.”

“I suppose,” he said, yawning, checking his watch. “Let’s take a break.”

“Sure.”

They exited security and went back to their own floor. As it was night and rather late, the Counterterrorism Division was pretty much empty except for the operations sector, which always burned lights day or night. But they passed it, went to the lounge, meaning only to sit on sofas and mosey off into a private anywhere that had no Accuracy International mail orders in it.

“Mr. Gold!” said Bob, seeing the portly Israeli at the table, going through paperwork.

“Yes, hello.”

“You’re still here?”

“I thought I might be of some assistance.”

“I wish you could be.”

“You have had no luck?”

Chandler narrated their adventures, rearranging it efficiently so it seemed less random.

“Seems to be very thorough,” said Gold.

“I thought we might have something on the neck-sizer bushings. But, no. All of them checked out. And that would be the one thing anyone running a .338 Lapua Mag program would definitely need to have.”

“Yes, I see,” said Gold.

“Any suggestions?” said Chandler. “We’ve got some time left before the FISA mandate runs out.”

“Nothing of a practical measure. However, there remains a possibility.”

“Yes?”

“Your subconscious has figured it out. It is trying to get you to pay attention. But your brain is clotted with meaningless things.”