Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

He smiled. “Good point.”

“Let’s just make sure we’re not followed.”

He put the car in drive while Michelle made the call to Edgar.

Two hours later they were staring across at Edgar Roy, who sat opposite them at an outdoor café many miles from where he labored on behalf of the U.S. government.

“We’re sorry about what happened before, Edgar,” began Michelle.

“Mr. Bunting was very upset,” said Edgar as he stared off. “I don’t like it when people scream like that.”

“Me either,” chimed in Sean. “And we appreciate your running down those plates for us. I hope Mr. Bunting doesn’t find out about that.”

“Mr. Bunting is very smart. But he’s not that smart,” replied Edgar.

“Meaning you covered your tracks well?” said Michelle.

“I like helping you both,” said Edgar. “I know you’re trying to help other people. Just like you helped me.”

Sean glanced at Michelle. “That’s right, Edgar. And we wouldn’t come to you unless we really needed the kind of help you can provide. It’s important. We’re actually working for the president of the United States on this.”

“Then I’m sure Mr. Bunting will have no problem at all with me helping you. What do you need?”

They explained about Vista Trading Group and Alan Grant.

Michelle added, “Really, all you can find out about the company and the man.”

“He’s mixed up in all this?” asked Edgar.

“We suspect he might be,” corrected Michelle.

“I can get to work on this today.”

“What about the Wall?” asked Sean.

“Maintenance issues, so I have some spare time.”

“A break from saving the world?” said Michelle, smiling.

“What?” said Edgar, looking at her strangely.

“It was just a little joke,” said Michelle, looking embarrassed.

“Oh, okay,” said Edgar, and he attempted a smile. “But it will probably take some time.”

Sean said, “That’s okay. We have some leads to follow up at the Pentagon. Whatever you find you can just email to us.”

“Do you have good encryption on your end?” asked Edgar.

“Uh, password-protected,” he replied.

“Your password is oh-five-oh-eight. That’s not very strong.”

A stunned Sean said, “How did you know my password?”

“It’s your date of birth backward. I got it on the third try when I hacked you a while back. I would have gotten it on the second attempt, but I didn’t think you would be so obvious.”

“Why did you hack me?”

“I didn’t know you as well back then. I didn’t know if you were my friend or not. I never hack my friends.”

“So did you hack Michelle too?” he asked.

Edgar glanced at Michelle. “No.”

“Why not?” demanded Sean.

“I knew right away that Ms. Maxwell was my friend.”

“Thanks, Edgar,” said Michelle, giving Sean a poke in the ribs with her elbow.

“I’ll change my password to something stronger,” groused Sean.

“All right. But don’t simply add your year of birth. That’s not good enough.”

Sean’s expression made clear that was precisely what he was planning to do.

“What exactly would you suggest then?” he asked in an exasperated tone.

“Random numbers and letters, uppercase/lowercase-sensitive, that do not correlate to any of your personal data in any way. Thirty-character minimum. And don’t write it down anywhere.”

Sean looked dumbstruck. “Great, but how exactly am I supposed to remember thirty random characters without writing it down, which sort of defeats the whole super-duper secret code thing?”

Edgar looked perplexed. “You can’t remember thirty random characters?”

“No, I can’t,” snapped Sean.

Michelle chimed in, “He’s older, Edgar. Losing brain cells at a daily rate you can’t even imagine.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Edgar somberly. “Then, if you really must, you can cut it to twenty-five characters but no less than that,” he suggested.

“Thanks,” said Sean curtly. “I’ll get right on it.”

HE WAS AT THE CEMETERY again staring at the same two graves.

The inscription on the grave on the left said that Franklin Grant had been a wonderful husband, loving father, and true patriot.

“I miss you, Dad,” said Grant. “I miss you more every day. You should be here. You should be a grandfather to my kids.”

He turned to the other grave. Loving Wife and Mother, read the inscription.

He had tried to keep the image such inscriptions inspired in his head. But he had been unable to for a very good reason.

As a thirteen-year-old he had inadvertently seen a picture of his parents dead in their car, their asphyxiated features deadly pale, and their bulging eyes wide open as they sat slumped against each other, their suicide pact complete.

“Miss you too, Mom,” Grant mumbled. And he did.

But his gaze and his thoughts turned back quickly to his father.

He had been a true patriot who had bled for his country. He had risen far. He had worked in the White House. As a boy Grant had gone there with his father, shaken the hand of the president of the United States at the time, seen the center of power of the strongest nation on earth. It had left an indelible impression on him. It had been a compelling reason he had joined the military. But the truth behind his father’s tragic end had left a far deeper mark, like a third-degree burn. He doubted it would ever fully heal.

The one thing that kept Grant going was that he had his plan. It was being executed and it was succeeding, albeit with some bumps along the way. He’d expected that. Plans this complex could not unfold free of problems. He had been ready for such an eventuality. And it was a good thing.

He placed the flowers on his parents’ graves, said a last goodbye, then turned and walked back to his car.

An hour later he was walking into his house and greeting his children. His seven-year-old son was in school, but his five-year-old daughter and two-year-old toddler came hurrying over to him. He scooped up his son in his arms, took his daughter by the hand, and walked into the kitchen, where his wife was making lunch.

Leslie Grant was in her middle thirties and as lovely as the day he had proposed to her. They kissed, then Grant snatched a cucumber from the salad she was preparing and walked into the adjacent living room carrying his son.

Dan Marshall was sitting in front of the large-screen TV dressed in khaki pants and a flannel shirt with tasseled loafers on his feet.

Grant put down his son, who quickly raced off to join his sister in the playroom. Grant turned to Marshall, who was cradling a beer and watching ESPN on the TV.

“How’re the Wizards doing?” asked Grant.

“Better. Nets drilled us last time. Hopefully, we can return the favor tonight.”

Marshall handed Grant a beer. Grant popped it and took a swig before sitting down in the recliner and studying his father-in-law.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Been better,” said Marshall.

“Work?”

Marshall sat back and turned his attention from the ball game to Grant.

“I’ve never stopped missing Maggie,” he said, speaking about his late wife. “But this is the first time I’m also glad she’s not around to see this.”

Grant put the beer down. “When we last spoke I didn’t take away from your comments that it was that bad.”

“Well, we were at the Pentagon. One has to watch what is said there.”

“So it’s worse?”

Marshall sighed, drained his beer, and put the empty bottle down. “It’s bad, Alan. I signed off on this mission. I had my doubts, but the orders from the top were crystal clear. It was going to happen, with my rubber stamp or without.”