27

Toronto, Canada

The doorbell chimes for the last time. Sarah goes to open the door for Major Kinkaid.

"Mrs. Wessler," he greets her with a slight nod.

"Mr. Kinkaid," she responds, gesturing for him to enter.

The agent is as impeccably dressed as the day before; wearing a charcoal suit, white shirt, and tie, all excellent quality and in remarkable condition for a man living in a hotel for several days. His polished Italian loafers click on the entryway's tile floor.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she invites, pointing to the dining room on the right. "It'll probably be easier with a larger table once everyone is here."

Kinkaid moves into the room where his footsteps clack less sharply on the hard maple wood floor. He places his briefcase on the table and begins to take off his long black cashmere overcoat.

"Baltac?" he inquires, folding his coat over the back of a chair.

Sarah counters with another question. "You came alone?"

Kinkaid explains reflexively. "Waterson and Vaughan should be arriving soon; they were leaving the airport when I left the hotel. The Moscow team will be there a bit after them. As for the Spanish crew, they've just taken off, but I have their complete report with me," he concludes, indicating his briefcase.

"Any news?"

"Yes, it should interest you, as well as... Baltac?" He raises an eyebrow to emphasize his surprise at not seeing the computer scientist alongside the widow.

"Jeremy is..."

Sarah hesitates, and for a moment, Kinkaid gets the uneasy feeling that Baltac is no longer there. But that wouldn't make any sense... He must know he's in danger; staying close to the authorities remains his best option for now. Plus, the operatives stationed across the street all night would have noticed Baltac leaving, and the major would have been immediately notified.

"He is..." Sarah begins again, blushing slightly.

"Taking a shower," interrupts Jeremy, bursting into the room from the staircase leading to the upper floor. "I was taking a shower."

In jeans, shirtless, he rubs his wet hair with a bath towel.

The agent stares at him dubiously, glances quickly towards the hallway heading to the guest bedroom—with its en suite—and then to the staircase leading to Sarah's room. His pursed lips form a small moue of astonishment. He holds back a comment and simply clicks his tongue.

"Long night," explains Jeremy.

The major turns to him completely, with a puzzled look.

Jeremy then seems to understand what's going through the agent's mind, raises his eyebrows with a smile, and continues.

"KryptBoy's file? I worked on it all night..."

"Oh, Kinkaid says..."

"And then... I just went upstairs to get an extra towel ... just to dry my hair..."

"Oh, OK ... well... Did you find anything?"

"Nothing more, no. But I've developed a small interface to decrypt the file as soon as we have the missing keys."

"If we ever find them..." trails off the major, not convinced. "Anyway... As I was telling Mrs. Wessler, I have the complete report from Spain," he resumes with assurance. "Finish getting ready; I'll wait for you."

Jeremy smiles and disappears down the hallway leading to his room.

The agent doesn't know the Frenchman has a flight to Europe at the end of the afternoon. If the flight had been in the morning, the major would indeed have had to do without Baltac's company.

"So, the report?"

All three of them are now seated around the large table, Sarah and Jay on one side, Kinkaid on the other. He doesn't need to open his briefcase; he memorized the details of the statement.

"The thorough examinations proved two things. On one hand, no puncture mark was detected. On the other hand, although there was no injection, we managed to isolate a few nanites from brain tissue samples."

"Nanites? This confirms your hypothesis about Phoenix's research," comments Jeremy.

"I've put experts on it to see what we can learn by studying these nanobots more closely. Maybe we can trace their manufacturing, find suppliers, and get to Phoenix."

"Maybe," Jeremy agrees thoughtfully, not very convinced. "And what was Mosquito forced to do? That could also guide us on Phoenix's actions."

"That's the problem. This time there were witnesses. Rodriguez was sitting at a café terrace when he died. He was the only customer. The owner didn't find him any different from other days. He placed his usual order, and after a few minutes, he started convulsing in his seat. She's the one who called emergency services."

They all remain silent for a moment. Then the major continues. "Apparently, Rodriguez was not coerced then, at least not physically anyway."

"A gratuitous murder?" risks Sarah. "After all, that monster is certainly capable of it."

The agent looks skeptical. "I doubt it. Nothing Phoenix does seem gratuitous. He's a cautious man; he leaves nothing to chance."

"A final test subject?" suggests Jeremy. "Confirmation for the results of his research?"

"Maybe, but why Rodriguez? Why go all the way to Spain? He didn't even bother to interrogate him."

"I don't see what he could have gotten from Mosquito," says Jeremy. "He was our graphic designer. He created logos, ASCII Arts, and demos. He was more the artist of the group than a real hacker. What had he become these days?"

Indeed, Mosquito had always remained somewhat apart in the team; he didn't particularly enjoy hacking. Phoenix must have known that the graphic designer held no information on the Doctor.

"He owned a multimedia studio 'Mosquito Bits,'" replies the major. According to his file, he was still actively involved in the graphic development of virtual environments for some games.

Jay smirks. "He always signed his works with a little stylized mosquito somewhere in the image. That was his signature..."

"And you?" asks Kinkaid.

"Me? What about me?"

"Your pseudonym 'SdS,' where does it come from?"

"Oh! That? An old reference to my teenage readings, you wouldn't get it..."

The Cajun doesn't push further, and Jeremy resumes: "One way or another, Mosquito's death alone must already benefit Phoenix. I agree with your idea that he didn't act without an ulterior motive, but what he needed might have been precisely to make him disappear."

"We'll dig into this direction, study Rodriguez's latest activities ... excuse me," interrupts Kinkaid, pulling out his vibrating phone from his pocket.

He quickly reads the message that just appeared on his screen. "It's Waterson," he comments. "They're arriving."

Kinkaid stands up and heads to the front door to open it. Sarah and Jeremy follow. They see two men getting out of a gaudily colored taxi, orange and green. The vehicle's suspension raises a good ten inches with a slight squeak as the obese man occupying the back seat struggles out of the car, gasping for air. Another man exits from the passenger side and settles the fare.

The major feels compelled to make introductions, although it's obvious to Jeremy and Sarah who the civilian agent in the duo that just arrived is.

"This is Agent Waterson. He speaks French," declares Kinkaid. "And this must be..."

"Vaughan," interrupts the former hacker, joining them. "Allan Vaughan. And... I don't speak French," he adds with a heavy Yankee accent.

He wipes the sweat that has begun to bead on his forehead as he struggled out of the taxi, then reaches into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt for a Ventolin inhaler. He immediately takes two deep breaths from it.

Jeremy stares at him.

"Ante?"

Surprised to be called by his old war name, Vaughan points at Jeremy with both index fingers, and a wide smile lights up his puffy face. "SdS? You're the French guy, right?"

"Jeremy Baltac," Jay introduces himself with his real name, pushing his glasses up his nose.

And as the group ascends the porch, Vaughan puts away his inhaler and launches into reminiscences in English with Jeremy.

Sarah, taking her hostess responsibilities seriously, offers everyone a drink. Vaughan takes the opportunity to accompany her to the kitchen, claiming that airplane food isn't rich enough to keep him alive.

"He did go back for five or six servings, though," Waterson mutters under his breath.

"He knows the whole story," Vaughan blurts out, pointing at the agent. "Go on, tell them everything." And he leaves the room to prepare a "small" snack.

Waterson clears his throat and begins his story.

"Vaughan was attacked at his home about ten days ago. He says Phoenix was there, that he drugged him and forced him to reveal what he wanted, using some kind of remote control that sent electric shocks to his brain."

"That's exactly what we thought," confirms Kinkaid. "What was Phoenix looking for?"

"Details of certain transmission protocols. The ones we found in Vaughan's emails, which were used two days later for the Piquet International heist."

"And then?"

"Then, Phoenix left him for dead. Vaughan remembers losing consciousness under the pain. When he woke up, he didn't wait to understand. He grabbed all the cash he had, gotten a fake passport, and took off for France. When I caught up to him, he was working as a network technician in the South, near Nîmes."

Jeremy has remained silent during the agent's report. Kinkaid turns to him and asks: "What do you think, Baltac? This confirms our hypotheses, right?"

"Hmm, yes ... but it doesn't tell us more about what Phoenix is planning. And then..."

"Something bothers you?" inquires the major. "You seem thoughtful."

Jeremy pushes his glasses back and lets his index finger wander back and forth on the bridge of his nose in profound reflection.

"Waterson?" he asks. "You say the attack happened about ten days ago? Do you know exactly when?"

"Two days before your friend's death," the agent replies without having to think about it.

"Major? Isn't that the day of KryptBoy's death in Moscow?"

The Cajun turns pale for a moment.

"Moscow?" Waterson wonders incredulously.

"There's been some new developments during your absence, Waterson," Kinkaid briefly informs him. "You're right, Baltac, according to our investigation, the dates would match."

"Vaughan says Phoenix was with him. Fine. But if Phoenix needed to be close to his victims to operate his system, how do we explain two attacks on the same day, five thousand miles apart?"

"He could have delegated," guesses Kinkaid. "Two remote controls, perhaps?"

"In that case, why choose to personally take care of Ante? KryptBoy's work seems to have been much more valuable, apparently taking days. No doubt Phoenix had to use persuasion during all that time."

The major continues for him: "While in Vaughan's case, it was just about retrieving some computer files."

"Exactly! And Phoenix made the trip himself for some lousy files? While he could have used one of his henchmen to steal Vaughan's computer and search for the coveted information at his leisure?" Jeremy pauses before resuming: "And sending the files by email? While he was there? A simple local copy would have left much less bread crumps."

"You think Vaughan lied to us?" Waterson questions.

Jeremy shrugs nonchalantly.

"Let's say two things bother me. How could an American with fake papers, without a work visa, and who doesn't speak the language find a job so easily in France? And how come Ante has no sequelae from Phoenix's attack, which was deadly for all the others?"

Kinkaid wonders for a moment, assembling in his mind the puzzle the Frenchman has already solved.

"You don't think Phoenix attacked him, do you? You think Phoenix and Vaughan are working together!"