There, hovering cheerfully, was a solitary red balloon.
AGENT MILTON BUCK WAS having a bad day.
It was about to get worse.
The British were lying to him. He was sure of it. They claimed to have made no progress tracking down either Apollo or Althea, and to have heard nothing about Hunter Drexel’s fate. But from the tone of General Dorrien’s voice alone, Agent Buck knew the man was lying through his teeth. They’re closing the net. They’re going to make fools of us all!
Of course, two could play at the concealing-information game. The problem was that U.S. intelligence had made no progress of their own to withhold from MI6. Tracy Whitney’s trip to Geneva had been a bust, a total dead end. Group 99 were dancing on Henry Cranston’s grave and there was nothing the FBI or the CIA could do about it. Tracy’s failures reflected directly on Milton Buck. He loathed having to work with her, but Althea’s bizarre connection had left him no choice. He was sure Tracy was lying to him too—she must know who Althea was, or at least have her suspicions—but of course he had no way to prove it.
On top of which, Milton Buck had Greg Walton breathing down his neck day and night. Presumably because the president was breathing down Walton’s neck, but Agent Buck didn’t care about that. He cared about the fact that, once again, a chance for major career advancement was slipping through his fingers thanks to Tracy Whitney’s ineptitude. And to top it all off, his wife was on her period and bit his head off every time he walked through the door. Which explained why Milton Buck was still at his desk in his office, staring mindlessly at his computer screen, at eight o’clock at night.
Clicking open his documents folder, Milton’s screen suddenly went blank.
What the hell?
He tried a few other applications. One by one, they all shut down like dominoes.
He picked up the phone. “Jared. Get up here,” he barked at the systems manager. “My laptop just died.”
“Everybody’s has, Sir,” the technician replied. “It looks . . . it seems we’ve had a breach. Something . . . Oh shit.”
Milton Buck looked back at his own screen.
One by one, the blackness was being filled with red balloons.
Greg Walton picked up on the first ring.
“I know,” he told Buck. “The same thing’s happening at Langley as we speak. Our guys are on it. We’re tracing the attack.”
He hung up.
TEN MINUTES LATER HE called back.
“The hacker’s in London.”
“Are you sure?” Milton Buck asked.
“Positive. Tracy managed to trace her there.”
“Her?”
“Uh-huh. It’s Althea. Less than a minute after Tracy got a location, she messaged us directly, claiming responsibility.”
“But that’s impossible,” Buck ranted. “How the hell did she get in again? We rewrote the entire system after the last breach. Every firewall, every password, every line of code.”
“I know what we did, Milton,” Greg Walton snapped. “Evidently it wasn’t enough. This virus is a lot more powerful than the last one. Three-quarters of my files have been corrupted. And it gets worse.”
“Worse? How?” Milton Buck’s head was starting to throb.
“According to Tracy, the virus originated from 85 Albert Embankment, SW1.”
“Albert Embankment?” The throbbing got worse. “Isn’t that . . .”
“Uh-huh.” Greg Walton sighed heavily. “MI6 headquarters.”
CHAPTER 14
THERE’S NO WAY IT originated here. No way. To be frank, Miss Whitney, I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.”