machine to calibrate their course, she nudged away the feeling that something was off. Hell, she was due for an easy one, Kelly reminded herself. And the less time wasted on a scumbag like Morris the better, as far as she was concerned. It made sense: a gang composed primarily of illegal immigrants targeted a loudmouth who was making their lives difficult. Still, she’d feel a lot better with a confession, or footage of them hauling an overweight senator into a van.
Randall Grant was clearly having a bad day, Jake thought as he took the man in. Honestly, he was having a hard time understanding what Syd saw in the guy. Tall and thin, slightly gawky-looking. Maybe under normal circumstances he had a sparkling personality.
But these were obviously not normal circumstances. He looked hollowed out, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes, the portrait of the tormented father. They sat across from each other in a nondescript café on the outskirts of Livermore. Initially Jake was glad they weren’t meeting in one of the coffee franchises that dominated the Bay Area, but after a sip of espresso he’d changed his mind. Say what you will about Starbucks, he thought. At least they were consistent.
“So why don’t you want to get the FBI involved?” Jake asked. Randall had spent the first ten minutes rambling on about his daughter, including too much information about his divorce and the dance classes she used to take. None of it had direct bearing on the case, but he seemed unable to help himself. Jake wondered whose brilliant idea it was to trust Randall with government secrets, if he spilled this much personal information over a cappuccino.
Randall shook his head violently. “Can’t do it. The people who took her said they had someone high up in the Bureau, that they’d know if I called in outside help. And the minute I did, they’d kill her.”
“And you believed them?” Jake asked, skeptical. It sounded like an idle threat. What better way to keep parents from calling the authorities than to sow distrust of them?
“Did you ever hear of Operation Snow White?” Randall asked.
Jake shook his head. “Nope. Some sort of poisoned apple scheme?”
Randall glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I was hoping Syd would be here.”
“I’m sure you were. Unfortunately, I’m the one who needs convincing before we agree to help you.” Jake raised an eyebrow.
Randall sank an inch lower in his chair. “Operation Snow White was initiated by the Church of Scientology back in the seventies. They wanted to purge any records that cast them or L. Ron Hubbard in a bad light. By the time it was discovered, they’d placed operatives in over a hundred government agencies in more than thirty countries. It was the single largest infiltration of the U.S. government in history. They denied it, but I have it on good authority that the FBI was one of those agencies.”
“So, what? Scientologists took your daughter?” Jake had to fight an urge to laugh, he had a sudden mental image of Tom Cruise and John Travolta carting off a struggling girl in a duffel bag.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying, such a thing isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”
“Background checks are a lot more intensive post 9/11,” Jake pointed out. “It’s a whole different ball game now.”
Randall shrugged. “Who says their guy wasn’t already inside? Anyway, I couldn’t risk it.”
“And what exactly do they want from you, in exchange for her life?”
Randall rubbed his eyes with one hand. His jaw was stubbled with at least a day’s worth of growth. “I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”
“You’re considering handing whatever it is over to the kidnappers. So I don’t see the harm in telling me what they’re looking for.”
“Does it really matter?” Randall met his eyes sharply. “Would knowing help you find her?”
Jake shrugged. “Hard to say. I just don’t like going into a case blind. I’m kind of puzzled that they didn’t just snatch you. If you’ve got what they need, why take your daughter instead?”
“Because it’s not like I have it in my head. They need me to requisition things, pinpoint certain…materials…then gain access to transport records. And they want it done over a period of time.”
“So whatever they’re after, they want a lot of it, is what you’re telling me.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“But you can’t say what.”
Randall shook his head. Jake tilted back in his chair and eyed him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something off about this. “Remind me which department you’re with?”
Randall smiled slightly. “Advanced Defense Capabilities. But Syd would have told you that.”
“Right, Advanced Defense. Any chance that has something to do with nuclear defense? Or are you folks still working on Star Wars?”
“Like I said, Mr. Riley…”
“Right, I know, you really can’t say. And you did your postgrad work in physics?” Randall didn’t answer, dropping his gaze to the table. Jake watched him closely. “What makes you so sure that Madison was abducted? Maybe she ran off with this Shane guy she was e-mailing.”
Randall pushed a photo across the table, keeping his eyes averted. Jake held it up for a better look. It was a close-up shot of Madison Grant, eyes wide and terrified, printed off a JPG onto regular computer paper. She was lying down against a nondescript gray background.
“When did this come in?” Jake looked up sharply.
“This morning. It was in my work account.” Dr. Grant buried his face in his hands and rubbed his cheeks hard. “No one outside the facility has that e-mail address. And I mean no one, any personal exchanges are strictly forbidden.”
“But they had it. And that got you even more spooked,” Jake said. “I need you to forward this to me.” He considered for a moment before continuing, “This isn’t proof of life, you know.”
“What?” Randall looked puzzled.
“Proof of life. Usually in a kidnapping, they have the victim hold up a newspaper so we know they’re still alive, or were on the day the photo was taken.”
“So you’re saying what, that Madison might already be dead?” The anger in Randall’s voice was overlaid by fatigue.
“Not necessarily. But we need to push for that on the next contact. How have they been getting in touch with you?”
“They sent me a phone.” He fumbled in his pocket and dug out a generic cell, the disposable kind available in any drugstore.
Jake flipped it and pulled off the back panel: no SIM card, which meant it would be nearly impossible to clone. Someone was being very careful. “Funny they didn’t just text you the photo,” Jake mused, handing the phone back. “And I’m guessing hitting the call return button doesn’t work.”
“The number is blocked. I even had one of the lab guys see if they could trace
