“Rispel believes it was the Russians,” Devereaux said. “Or possibly the Chinese.”
“Do we have actual evidence of that?”
“No evidence to the contrary.”
They passed a knot of protesters. Their signs were backlit by the lamps lining the Reflecting Pool, and Hobbs couldn’t read them. But the Deep state protects pedophiles chants were clear enough. He felt vaguely sorry for them. Of course there was a “deep state,” or whatever else people might want to call it—not just in America but in every country. How could a society function without a semipermanent core of experts committed to stable governance? As for “protecting pedophiles,” the fact that these people genuinely believed such a thing was real was proof of the need for a club of pragmatic insiders. No one was trying to protect pedophiles. People were simply trying to protect themselves—and by extension, of course, the country.
When they were out of earshot, Devereaux said, “What about Hamilton?”
“No one can reach her. Not even her law firm. Have you tried—”
“Of course. She was using her cellphone heavily at the Seattle Four Seasons until early afternoon, West Coast time.”
“My lord. You mean—”
“Yes,” Devereaux said. “Where there were more killings today. Her cellphone history shows calls to the Federal Detention Center, the Seattle District Court, and her law firm. Presumably she was as stunned as everyone else by her client’s mysterious release and was trying to figure out what the hell was going on.”
For the thousandth time that day, Hobbs thought, How could this have happened?
“Any other calls?”
Devereaux shook his head. “Some incomings from Diaz, and from another number we can’t pin down. But Hamilton is nowhere to be found. And Diaz is also missing.”
“Can you track the phone?”
“No. It’s either destroyed or in a Faraday case. I don’t know what the hell to make of this, I really don’t.”
They walked in silence for a moment. There had to be a way to manage this. There had to be.
“All right, look,” Hobbs said. “I’m just a lawyer. You’re the director of National Intelligence. You tell me it’s Russia, okay, I’ll go with Russia. But we need something. Even if it’s only to feed the media. Justice is facing a ton of questions, and I can’t keep dodging reporters.”
Hobbs heard a cellphone buzz. His, or Devereaux’s? He reached into his coat pocket to check and saw Devereaux doing the same.
There was a text message. Hobbs didn’t recognize the number, but there was a photo attached. For some reason, he felt suddenly queasy. Devereaux was looking intently at his own phone. He must have received a message, too.
He punched in his passcode and the message opened. It was a photo of an empty room. It looked familiar. He wasn’t sure why.
Then he realized. It was the guest room in Schrader’s Kiawah Island mansion. The one where Hobbs had . . . where he had . . .
His heart started pounding and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He fought to conceal the reaction. And then realized that Devereaux was paying him no attention at all. Because the man was so focused on a text message of his own.
He looked back to his phone. There was something printed below the photo. It said, The next transmission won’t be an empty photo. It will be video! With people in it. And it won’t be released just to you. Live and let live. With a little smiley face at the end.
No, he thought. Lord, no. It was perfectly horrible. And somehow, the smiley face made it worse.
Devereaux turned away. Hobbs thought he was trying to shield his expression. But then the man doubled over and vomited.