Page 61 of The Secret of Secrets (Robert Langdon #6)

Night watchman Mark S. Dole reveled in his job at Random House Tower.

For two years now, he had been securing this building, feeling a sense of pride whenever he donned his blue jacket and security cap and took his place behind the lobby’s imposing security counter.

He was twenty-eight and had promised his wife he’d be promoted to the day shift by the time he was thirty.

One of the perks he loved most about working here was the free employee library—a basement storeroom brimming with everything from old classics to modern thrillers.

Since taking the job, Dole had read more than three dozen books, and tonight he was working his way through Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and feeling blessed to support his family with a job that did not rely on the weather.

Faukman was now outside the electronic door, frantically searching his pockets. Dole had seen this dance many times before. He forgot his key card. The night watchman pressed a button under his counter, and the door clicked open.

Faukman rushed into the lobby, looking somewhat crazed.

“Is everything okay, sir?” Dole asked.

“Fine, fine,” the editor assured him, although he seemed anything but fine. His wild hair and beleaguered expression looked more like he’d been riding the Coney Island roller coaster all night. “I lost my backpack. My key card was in it.”

“Sorry to hear that. I’ll make you a temporary card.” He pulled out a fresh plastic card and put it into the magnetizing machine.

Faukman waited, leaning heavily on the counter, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Mr. Faukman?” Dole said. “You sure you’re okay?”

Faukman opened his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Mark. Just…a long night.”

“Working on a tough manuscript?” Dole asked, handing him a fresh entry card.

The editor gave a wry nod and headed for the elevators. “This one’s been more complicated than expected.”

Having followed the signal from Faukman’s phone, operatives Auger and Chinburg had caught up with his stolen SUV just before he threw his phone out the window.

From there, they had discreetly tailed the SUV to the corner of Fifty-Sixth and Broadway, where it was now parked at a canted angle in front of Random House Tower.

The question was how to proceed.

They pulled over on the far side of Broadway, and Auger placed another secure call to Finch, who answered with a curt “Go.”

“Sir,” Auger said, “we lost audio on the editor, but we intercepted some startling intel. The PRH tech seems to have learned that one of the Americans in Prague is dead.”

Finch was silent for a beat. “Where did he get his information?” he asked, his tone revealing nothing.

Auger shared what they had overheard on the call between the tech and Faukman.

“It’s not your concern,” Finch said, shutting down the inquiry. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Auger said, having saved the worst for last. “The tech also claims to know who was responsible for the hack on their servers.”

Finch drew a sharp breath. “Give me Chinburg.”

Auger put the phone on speaker and held it up to his partner.

“Sir,” Chinburg said, “we believe the tech’s info is wrong. He has shared no specific details, so we have no idea if he’s even on the right track.”

“Have you spoken to your penetration team?” Finch demanded.

“Yes, sir. Just now. They assured me the hack was clean.” Chinburg hesitated. “They did mention, however, that because the operation was carried out under such tight time restraints, they were forced to prioritize speed and efficiency over redundant anonymity measures.”

“I’m sorry? They took shortcuts ?”

“No, sir, they performed the best possible operation feasible in the window provided them. They assure me confidence is high.”

“Confidence is high?” Finch snapped, his tone like ice. “In my experience, that phrase is used only by those whose confidence is lacking.” There was a full three-second pause on the line. “Find out what this tech knows…and contain it immediately. However you deem necessary.”

The call went dead.

Chinburg looked shaken. “Shit.”

Auger looked amused. “Confidence is high?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Auger glanced across the street into the lobby of the towering skyscraper. “If Finch wants intel, we’ll have to get inside.”

Ascertaining how much the tech knew should have been as simple as remotely activating the microphone on Faukman’s phone and listening to the conversation he was about to have with the tech.

Unfortunately, the editor had performed his first security-savvy move of the evening, and his phone was now resting on the bottom of the Hudson River beneath the George Washington Bridge.

Seeing no other option, Auger packed several items into the compartments of his black tactical jacket and backpack. The technology-assisted portion of the evening had just concluded, which meant it was time to get their hands dirty.