The sedan glided out of the parking lot in a luxurious cocoon. Gibson had never been in a car this nice, and it was easy to see the appeal. He might actually look forward to getting stuck in traffic.

“Well?” Gibson said.

“You were right.”

“Where is he?”

“On Friday afternoon your virus pinged from an IP address in western Pennsylvania. A little town called Somerset.”

“Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“One ping and it went dormant.”

“Dormant?” That wasn’t supposed to happen, and several theories as to why jumped to mind. “What was I right about?”

“It was a public library.”

Gibson thought it over; it made sense. Lot of bodies coming and going. It was smart and added another layer of anonymity that would be tricky to peel back. They would have to stake out the library in the hope that they could make an ID if WR8TH tried to access ACG’s servers again.

At Washington Circle, they took New Hampshire to Twenty-Second, then hung a left on P Street into Georgetown. Apartment buildings gave way to brick row houses and then to large private homes cloistered by soaring elms and oaks.

Duke Vaughn had described Georgetown as the land of deep pockets and sharp teeth. His father had attended four or five work-related events here a year, but never took his son with him. They aren’t those kinds of parties, Duke had explained. It’s hostile territory.

Even if they’re on your side? Gibson had asked his father.

Especially if they’re on your side, his father had answered with a wink.

“Does that mean I’m going?”

“I’d like to keep you on,” Abe said. “You’ve been invaluable thus far, and my guess is that your skill set may yet prove useful. Also, your relationship with Suzanne.”

“So is that a yes?”

“That all depends.”

“On?”

“Ms. Dauplaise asked to see you.”

Gibson nodded, watching Abe. He’d been summoned for an audience with the queen. At least that’s how it felt.

“I think you can help us, and I’ve told her exactly that. But Ms. Dauplaise prefers to make up her own mind.”

George pulled up to a wrought-iron gate. A black metal sign with gold letters read, “Colline.” A mass of brightly colored balloons bobbed from one of the spires, and a line of families waited to be checked through by a pair of security guards. The men all wore jackets, the women dresses. Even the children had dressed up, and all carried presents. If heaven were sponsored by Laura Ashley and Ralph Lauren, it would look something like this.

One of the security guards broke away from the line and approached the car.

“You’re going to have to find street parking . . .” The guard trailed off when he recognized the driver. “Oh, hello, Mr. Abe. Are you here for the party?”

“No, Tony. Here to see Ms. Dauplaise.”