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THE NIGHT BEFORE THE inauguration, using the alias Katherine Blanco, Katrina White sailed through the U.S. Global Entry preclearance site for U.S. Customs. She left Vancouver on an Air Canada red-eye flight and landed at JFK International at ten minutes past five in the morning.

White had flown business class and slept a solid five hours, more than enough to prepare her to face the day ahead. She was first out of the plane and walked briskly, tugging a roller bag and wearing chic après-ski clothes that fit her cover as a bond trader returning from a four-day trip to Whistler.

She was now a brunette, not a blonde. And contact lenses had turned her eyes from a piercing blue to a soft brown.

As the Sparrow walked through the long halls, she got out a burner phone and sent a text to a memorized number: Your work at Vancouver was flawless.

She slowed to let a few other passengers pass by. The phone buzzed: I promised you were invisible.

White smiled and picked up her pace.

I don’t care how good his brother was with the algorithms, Malcomb’s more than a genius, White thought as she smiled and walked up to a U.S. Customs agent. He checked her U.S. passport and took her slip.

When he has his hands on the keyboard, when he’s surfing the flow, going anywhere he wants online, he’s like a god, all-knowing, able to work miracles—like stopping certain information from emerging from law enforcement and intelligence databases.

That thought gave the Sparrow utter confidence. She went outside and hailed a cab to take her to Penn Station. When she was in the taxi, the burner phone rang.

“Smooth as I promised?” Malcomb asked in a hoarse voice.

“Like I wasn’t there,” White said.

“Good. Above all, patience today. You have all the time in the world.”

“I know. How are you feeling?”

“Glad I have my own doctors.” He went into a coughing jag as her cab reached the train station. She paid in cash and entered the soaring reception area, barely noticing the stunning architecture of the Moynihan Train Hall. On the phone, his coughing subsided.

“M?” she said.

“Be careful now,” he said, gasping. “And do you remember what we talked about?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” the Sparrow said.

“That’s right,” Malcomb said, sounding relieved. “No need for heroics.”

“We’ll speak later.”

After a pause, he said, “Yes, we will.”

White hung up, went to an Amtrak ticket booth. The clerk inside looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. “Where to?”

“Baltimore,” White said.