Nobody spoke. Morse did something with her control and the class picture shrank into a window about half the total size of the screen. Then she did something else and a second window opened underneath it.

It showed a collection of photos, all of the same man.

Natasha recognized him at once, his image provoking a powerful mixed-sensory reaction in her. She saw a murky brown aura in front of the display that tasted like a soggy wool coat sleeve on a day smelling of cold winter rain. Other colors, tastes and smells barraged her, none good.

“That man...we think he has my daughters,” Musil said flatly. “Jani and Raysa. They’re fourteen and ten. We think he’s taken them.”

Natasha turned to him. “Oh, no,” she said.

He just sat there looking drained.

She briefly raised her eyes back to her class picture. In the top row, last on the right, was a boy of seventeen or so. He had short, light brown hair. A plain face, his eyes neither large nor small. The nose was thin, the chin narrow and slightly undershot. He was the oldest-looking kid in the group, and the tallest. Nothing else stood out about his appearance...except for the cruel twist in his smile as he looked into the camera.

Natasha stared at his face. She could clearly see he was the same person as the man in the pictures at the bottom. Younger, but recognizably the same person.

“It’s Grigor,” she said. “Grigor Malkira.”

“Tell us about him,” Morse said. “Everything you can.”

She nodded.

“I was young when we first met,” she said. “Really young. My father left Russia, and Grigor and I wound up in the same orphanage. That’s where a lot of us where warehoused. It was years before they sent me to the secret city where they trained the Pinnacle kids. Okean Ninety-Five. I met him again there.”

“The photographs on the bottom...they’re supposed to be someone named Stephen Gelfland,” Musil said, speaking slowly, as if some massive gravity was pressing down on his words. “He was hired to work aboard a ship. The CS Stalwart.”

“The cable ship?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think Grigor killed him last November. Before it sailed. I think he stole his identity and took his place on the crew.”

“And replaced him in all those photos at the bottom.”

“With deepfakes, yes. On every passport and driver’s license photo accessible online. Every electronic archive.” Musil looked at her. “Ki Marton, one of our analysts, ran the images through our own facial-recognition database. The Pinnacle file came up. But when he tried to open the file it was locked. By Director Michaels.”

Natasha gave a nod. “The prof did it for me. To help me. So I could stay in America. It was part of the deal.”

“With Russia,” Harris said.