“Because she’s exactly what we need. An expert in predictive analytics.”

He shook his head. “I won’t bring in a member of the geek squad. Even if I was convinced she could keep a secret. I’m not going to nursemaid her.”

“She won’t need that.”

He looked at her. Then he said, “So what do you know that I don’t?”

“There are deep files,” she said. “Natasha Mori is special.”

He nodded. “Keep going.”

“She was born in Russia. They had a human breeding program. Advanced genetics. They called it Pinnacle, and Natasha was trained to be a spy and an assassin. Alex Michaels helped bring her to America as part of a confidential deal.”

Carmody sat motionless, astonished, staring at her over another biscuit.

“Whoa,” he said.

Kali looked at him for a long moment.

“It goes deeper,” she said.

6

Various Locales
April 16, 2024

New York

It was nine o’clock sharp Tuesday morning when Musil entered the office of Leo Harris, the director of Net Force Investigations, also known as the Cyberdogs—every single branch of every last intelligence, law-enforcement, and military organization on God’s green earth apparently needing a tough-sounding handle or else.

Musil found Harris at his desk, fully done up in an expensive-looking tuxedo. Black satin peak lapel, black satin pocket trim, black satin buttons, black satin inner lining. A white bib shirt with a pointed collar under the jacket. Completing the ensemble—and adding some whimsical flair, Musil thought—was a blue bow tie with a yellow-and-green paisley pattern that on second glance revealed itself not to be paisley at all but turtles.

Little turtles with little yellow shells, green heads and legs, and round green flat-bottomed feet.

Musil took the seat opposite him, smiling, a file folder in his hand. However curious it was to see his boss in formal evening attire here at the Terminal—this early in the day, no less—he did look impressively crisp, clean and dapper. It was a positive sign. Harris’s famously colorful, if questionable, dress had been heavily drabbed down since he’d returned from injury leave, leading some to grow concerned about his physical and mental well-being.

A positive sign, indeed.

“Good morning, sir!” Musil said from across the desk. “You look fantastic! Is there a happy occasion?”

Harris pushed the question aside with one of his own. “That a hard copy of the Stalwart’s crew list?”

Musil nodded. “It was emailed to me late yesterday afternoon. From CloudCable’s human resources department.”

“Fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not that I’m shocked,” Harris snorted.