Chapter 8
“This particular registration was filed by a corporate agent in Delaware five years ago,” Rachel said. “The listed contact is a logistics officer with the United States Navy.”
My thumb traced the edge of the paper, the texture rough under my skin.
“Which officer, Rachel?”
“The liaison coordinator for the Fifth Fleet,” Rachel said. “It was Harrison.”
I looked out the window at the gray brick facade of the building across the street. The connection was neat, deliberate, and entirely legal on paper, hiding under the cover of military logistics.
“He was using my signature to pay his own private security contractors,” I said.
Rachel did not look up from her notes, her pen hovering over a column of dates.
“We need to find out how he got the encryption key before we go to the committee,” she said.
I stood up, pulling my wool coat over my shoulders and gathering my folder.
“I will check the penthouse archives,” I said.
The rain had stopped by the time I reached the high-rise at one in the afternoon, leaving the pavement of the avenue slick and dark. The lobby smelled of wet wool and floor wax, the doorman giving me a quiet nod as I headed for the elevators. The brass indicator lights slowly ticked upward to my floor.
When the elevator doors opened on my floor, a young man in a charcoal suit was leaning against the cream-colored plaster wall of the hallway. He was holding a leather folder under his arm, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his thigh as he waited.
“Claire Harper?” he asked, stepping into my path before I could reach my door.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have a delivery from Vance Defense Solutions,” he said, opening the folder to reveal a single sheet of heavy bond paper. “It requires your immediate signature.”
I did not touch the folder. The paper was a formal demand for the restoration of the Level 8 routing credentials, citing emergency military procurement protocols and signed by Patricia Vance.
“Tell Harrison he can submit his request through the standard civilian liaison office,” I said.
The courier did not move, his eyes staying on my face with a practiced, professional coldness.
“The Commander indicated this was a matter of national security, Mrs. Vance.”
May you like
“It is Harper,” I said, my voice flat. “And the answer is no.”
I bypassed him, inserting my level eight access card into the brass lock of my apartment door.
