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Washington, DC

MAHONEY AND I WERE stewing outside the FBI director’s office and had been since our arrival two hours before. During our flight from Athens, there had been a firefight in Houston that left several agents dead, so the director had her hands full.

We were finally led into Marcia Hamilton’s office around three in the afternoon. A former special agent with the Bureau, Hamilton had gone on to become a crusading U.S. attorney in Chicago. Tall, athletic, and in her late forties, Hamilton came from behind her desk to greet us, the crisis of the moment showing in her face.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, shaking our hands. “These are the first agents to die on my watch, and we’re still in a standoff.”

“We understand,” Mahoney said.

I said, “How many, ma’am?”

“Seven.” She sighed. “They thought they were raiding a chop shop run by a gang operating across state lines. They got in there and found a massive fentanyl operation guarded by at least twenty well-armed men, and it got ugly fast. But bring me up to speed on what you found.”

Ned had her put on headphones and listen to the assassin’s final words to Professor Carver: Maestro knows what you’ve done. It’s over.

Hamilton was confused. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been in this job only six weeks. Maestro?”

We gave her a brief history of the vigilante group, our efforts to find M, the group’s leader, and our suspicions about Ryan Malcomb and Paladin, his company.

“And you think Malcomb orchestrated the murders of the three people on the advisory board’s list?”

“Not necessarily Malcomb, but Maestro, yes,” I said.

We explained that the circumstances of Malcomb’s death were suspicious and we were open about Bree and Sampson looking into it.

Mahoney said, “Alive or dead, with or without Malcomb, Maestro has to be our total focus now.”

Hamilton said, “I have a hard time believing that the NSA can’t track this group down.”

I said, “That’s the problem. To do that kind of massive data search, the NSA uses a contractor—Paladin, Malcomb’s company.”

Mahoney nodded. “If we request the search, we tip our hand.”

“That has to change.”

“Using Paladin. Yes, ma’am. I agree.”

“There’s no one else, no other company, that can do this kind of thing?”

“Not like Paladin,” I said. “They have proprietary algorithms.”

She thought again. “Okay, Mahoney. Where next?”

“First thing, we’re going to double the protection on everyone on that advisory board’s list,” Ned said. “And then we’re going to talk to the only person on the list linked to Ryan Malcomb.”

“Who’s that?”

“Theresa May Alcott, the soap-company billionaire.”

Hamilton visibly lost color. “Theresa May Alcott? I know her. From Cleveland. You can’t possibly think she’d be involved in this brutal vigilantism. She’s a huge philanthropist and a big donor to Winter.”

Mahoney said, “We know that, and I did not say she was involved in the murders. I just said she’s the only person on that advisory board we can link to the guy we suspect ran Maestro, Ryan Malcomb. Her nephew.”

“Who is dead.”

“Correct.”

Hamilton fell silent, then said, “You’ve put me in a difficult situation, gentlemen.”

“How so, ma’am?” I asked.

“I am the acting FBI director. I would like to be the actual FBI director for the next ten years, and you’re asking me to focus an investigation on one of the biggest supporters of the president-elect. A woman I have dealt with extensively on various civic boards over the years.”

Mahoney said, “Yes, ma’am. At the very least, we want to talk with her as soon as possible.”

“Well, I think she’d be in Jackson Hole this time of year. She loves to ski.”

“Permission to use the jet again to go there?”

She smiled sadly. “Permission denied, Mahoney. I’m about to use it to fly to Houston. You’ll have to go commercial.”