“But we don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

“Not yet. These emails are like listening to a sibling conversation. I used to have friends who were brothers. They’d have conversations using reference points that they knew and assumed I knew. But if I came half a minute late to the conversation, I’d have no idea they were talking about.”

“Where are these frequency reports coming from?”

“That’s what’s been driving me crazy. They don’t make any sense. Just locations and numbers in megahertz and the like.”

“But the emails have to have a return address.”

“Yeah: [email protected].”

“The Allard? That big old apartment building?”

“I’m guessing. And the numbers in those emails show all the wavelengths getting closer and closer to their so-called Prime Frequency.”

Hari leaned back and stared at the screen. “Do you get the feeling that whatever comes with synchronization will be good for them and bad for us?”

“I do,” he said, nodding. “Very much so.”

She sighed. “I still don’t see how I can help. Especially if, as you say, they’re being very sloppy with their bookkeeping. I can ferret out false entries and double entries, but there’s not a lot to be gleaned from no entries.”

Donny stepped over to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. He seemed to be checking to see if the door was closed. He returned to the bench and cleared his throat.

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice. “There’s something else I’d like you to look into besides where the cash is going.”

Now we’re getting to it, Hari thought. Here’s what he’s been hiding.

She kept her expression neutral. “Shoot.”

“The foundation was funding a hush-hush operation for months before the Net crash. And then, right before the crash, they shut it down.”

“You’re thinking they found what they were looking for—what they needed to cause the crash?”

“Maybe. But it’s a little more personal than that. Okay, a lot more. I think my brother was involved in their operation.”

“He’s a hacker too?”

“Taught me everything I know. The day after the foundation shut down their project, Russ was found floating in the Hudson. The coroner ruled it an accidental drowning. But I know he was murdered. And I know the Septimus Foundation was behind it.”

ERNST

“Was I exaggerating?” the agent said. “Was I?”

“Not in the least,” Ernst Drexler said, tapping the manuscript before him on his desk.

The agent—Ernst was having the damnedest time recalling his name—Kushner, was it? Yes, Richard Kushner, successful literary agent. He was dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and wore an even more expensive-looking toupee that almost passed for real, but you could always tell.

“It’s as unsettling as it is mindboggling,” said Saar Slootjes, the Lodge’s loremaster for the past ten years. Red haired and red bearded, he pursued a van Gogh look. His previous assignment had been at the Amsterdam lodge. His Dutch accent remained thick.

Ernst had summoned Kushner to his office with instructions to bring his client along. The client however was going to be delayed. Just as well. It gave them a chance to discuss the matter without him.