“My point is this: Let’s just say for the sake of argument the guy or the kid that called is eighteen years old. Let’s say he was a foster kid living with some family, and now he’s out on his own. He gets a job of some kind, and at eighteen, he’s looking for some wheels. He applies for a credit card, and suddenly he finds out he can’t get one because someone stole his identity when he was younger and ruined his credit. How many foster kids are in the system, Ted? Thousands, that’s how many.

“What I want you to do is go to Child Placement, or whatever department handles foster children, and talk to them. If I’m right, and you know I’m always right, there has to be someone on the inside passing information to those cruds who are stealing those identities. Think about it, Ted! If they start stealing these kids’ identities when they’re young, they have a four-or five-year head start before the kid finds out. My God! What a perfect scam!

“Why aren’t you getting dressed, Ted? You need to get on this right away. Call Espinosa and hit the ground running. Find that kid who called in. Use Dawson if you need extra help. Silver Spring isn’t that big.”

Ted groaned. He knew there was no point in arguing, but he tried. “What are you going to be doing while I’m doing all that?”

“I’m going back to sleep. Good luck.”

By the time Ted was dressed, Maggie was snoring lightly. He let himself out of the house, his cell in his hand as he called Espinosa and Dawson. His watch told him it was 4:20 as he slammed his way out to the street just in time to see a Post truck roll by with the Sunday papers for the citizens’ early perusal.

Now that he was wide awake and freezing his balls off as he jogged his way to the paper, he had to admit that everything Maggie had just said made sense. He wished he had half her instincts.

Chapter 8

Charles found himself slipping into what he called a “neutral zone” as he waited for his bank of computers to boot up and the faxes that he expected to spew forth. Outside, he could hear a savage summer rain pound at the windows. When he was in the war room in the underground tunnels at Myra’s farmhouse back in McLean, he never knew what the weather was unless he ventured up to the main part of the house. Here, in their mountain fortress, the elements were front and center all day long every day of the year. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. Not that he had a choice.

His eyes felt like they were full of grit, and they probably were. He’d been in the war room for the past two days, venturing forth only to cook meals and listen to his chicks—that was how he thought of the Sisters, his chicks—berate him, ignore him. They were now making demands on him, impossible demands no human could keep up with. He was trying to placate everyone, especially Myra, but it didn’t seem to be working. Yoko was demanding immediate help for Harry Wong and accepting no excuses. Gradually, the Sisters were creeping to her side and voicing questions he didn’t have answers for. It was a sad state of affairs.