Chapter 11
I stood up, the chill of the room finally reaching my shoulders as I pulled my coat tight.
“We need to secure the physical access points,” I said.
“I can lock down the digital side,” Marcus said, “but you should probably lock your office upstairs.”
I walked out of the server room and took the service elevator back to my private department.
The hallway was dark, the offices empty of staff at this hour of the night.
I reached my office door, a heavy oak panel with a brass lock that had not been used in years. I reached into my bag, pulled out the heavy brass key, and turned it until the deadbolt slid into the frame with a solid, metallic click.
The morning sun did not make the penthouse dining room feel any warmer. Patricia Vance sat across from me at the mahogany table, her fingers resting near a porcelain cup of Earl Grey that had already gone cold. A plate of lemon biscuits sat untouched between us, the glaze hardening in the dry air of the room.
She adjusted the knot of her green silk scarf, her eyes scanning the high ceilings and the rain-streaked glass.
“It must be lonely up here without a husband to manage the security,” Patricia said, her voice carrying the smooth, quiet weight of old money. “A civilian life is so fragile when you try to hold onto things that belong to the state, Claire.”
I did not touch my own tea. I slid a thin blue folder across the polished table, stopping it exactly an inch from her saucer.
“Your Level 8 credential flagged red at the Tegel airport terminal in Berlin on Friday,” I said.
Patricia did not look down at the folder. She kept her gaze fixed on my face, her expression unbothered.
“My late husband built half the radar arrays in Western Europe,” she said. “My credentials do not flag.”
“They do now,” I said. “I revoked your security profile at nine past eleven yesterday morning.”
She reached down and smoothed the silk scarf once more, her fingers tracing the edge of the fabric. It was the only sign that the temperature in the room had changed.
“You should have used your own credentials, Patricia,” I said.
“You have no authority to touch my family’s clearance,” she said, her voice dropping into a cold, aristocratic dismissiveness. “The Vance legacy built the secure networks you play with.”
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“I built the routing architecture,” I said. “I own the keys.”
She stood up without clearing her cup, her wool coat draped over her arm as she turned toward the foyer.
