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from getting nukes and by what means they might acquire the materials needed.”
    Champion swiveled in his chair and peeked beyond his office windows at the workforce beginning to filter in. He gave the discovery a moment of thought. Janway was assigned to WINPAC (Weapons, Intelligence, Nonproliferation & Arms Control Center), so it was certainly within her scope to have such information. Peters seized the opportunity to sneak in another sip of his latte, concentrating on drinking more quietly. “Forensics went over the place twice and came up with nothing. Neighbors along the street didn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary, and it’s generally quiet down there. She did have some e-mail correspondence with Nora Mossa that dates back a few months. Trivial stuff, basically, and nothing recent. Still, it’s being analyzed to make sure nothing is coded. On the Mossa front, it’s been three days. No communication. No sightings. However, some sort of altercation took place in her apartment. Furniture was broken, and it looks like she packed in a hurry. Traces of blood were found on the floor, but the DNA wasn’t hers. There’s no husband. No serious boyfriend. She hasn’t made contact with her mother in Oregon.”
    Champion seemed uncomfortable when he told Peters, “Of course, we’re not sure she wasn’t taken either.” He didn’t wait for a vague supposition. “We need to find her and quickly. If she’s running, it sounds like she has a reason. It bothers me that she hasn’t made an attempt to be brought in. Intensify the search. Let the other agencies know this is now a priority for us.”
    Peters knew when he was being dismissed. Rising, he said, “I’ll see to it, sir.” He was half out the door when Champion called out.
    “Did you talk to the husband yet?”
    Peters shook his head. “I tried briefly. He’s pretty torn up and not exactly in a cooperative frame of mind, especially considering who’s asking.”
    “He’s a big-time lawyer who can generate headlines we don’t need. Give him a few days to reflect and try again.”
    “I’ll give it a shot,” Peters said, regretting the choice of words.

 
    CHAPTER 7
    At sixty miles an hour, the screeching tires indicated the current rate of speed was ill suited for the tight roadway. Sharp turns were maneuvered with varying degrees of pressure on responsive brakes. The vintage Porsche convertible jolted forcibly forward upon entering a straight section of road and then proved its craftsmanship when precise handling was called for.
    The difficulties of making it from one section of St. Thomas to another required an elevated level of patience and skill, since there was mazelike traffic feeding into Carnival Village. Several horns along the way cursed at Alex as he finally made it past the logjams and then beyond Havensight Mall, where the cruise ships docked. It would be smooth sailing from here; up into the mountains for a short stretch along Frenchman’s Bay Road, down again and then rising once more, where an impressive view of Charlotte Amalie’s waterfront revealed itself.
    The brisk, refreshing wind tossed his hair about and helped soothe his distressed nerves. The car’s stereo system was cranked nearly all the way up, the last fifteen minutes devoted to Sting. Even though Alex sang along, there was no canceling out the thoughts uppermost in his mind. For years he had been able to stow away fragments of his life. Images, thoughts, and emotions, all neatly tucked away, lying dormant. Now, all the healing and comfort of a new life had been ripped apart; shattered in one unexpected brush with the past. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss the intrusion, the damage was done. Yesterday on the beach marked the first time in four years he had uttered the code names of those who’d been betrayed. Men and women who had placed their trust in his hands, a miscalculation that cost them their lives. There were detractors who had questioned whether