Ghost Country by Patrick Lee

federal tax records,” Bethany said. “Not too surprising, someone way up in a company like that. We already know they’re big on secrecy. I’ll try corporate registration in the Caymans.”
    Thirty seconds later she came up empty there, too.
    “There are lots of other tax shelters to try,” she said, “but before I start on those I’ll pull his social security file. That’ll give us at least some basic info on the guy.”
    She navigated for twenty seconds. She pressed a last button and waited for something. She smiled.
    Then she frowned.
    “What?” Travis said.
    “Got it. Only one Eldred Warren with a social security number in the United States.”
    “Must be our man, then.”
    “Yes and no.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Give me a minute.”
    It turned out to be ninety seconds. She spent them navigating to some other information on her phone, and reading it. Her frown deepened as she did.
    “It’s the right guy,” she said, “but he’s not going to be any help to us.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because he doesn’t work in that building yet. I’m looking at his blog right now. He graduated number two in his class from Harvard Law School . . . three months ago. He hasn’t taken a job anywhere yet.”
    “That’s hard to believe,” Travis said. “Wouldn’t someone like that have offers waiting for him before he bought his cap and gown?”
    “Tons of them, but a guy like that knows he can pick and choose. It’s not unthinkable that he’d take his time. I had a dozen offers myself, and spent two months making up my mind. And this guy’s degree is more versatile than mine was. He’ll have everyone from movie studios to lobbying firms filling up his voice mail these days.”
    “All right, so maybe he doesn’t work for this company yet,” Travis said. “But he’s probably in talks with them. We could go have a chat with him, shove a gun in his face if we have to.”
    “Not anytime soon, we can’t. According to his last blog post, a few hours ago, he’s on vacation in Japan with his girlfriend.”
    T ravis sat on the couch and leaned back. He pressed his hands to his eyes. He was tired as hell.
    They were at square zero. They had nothing at all to work with. The barrier of open space around the oubliette was as vast as it’d been when they’d first spoken of it.
    He looked at his watch. Nine thirty in the morning. Paige had been captive for just shy of ten hours.
    Bethany was pacing now. Holding her phone but unable to think of anything to do with it.
    Travis closed his eyes again.
    Paige wanted them to move on. Wanted them to leave her behind and finish what she’d meant to do herself. She’d said it in almost those words, in her phone call to Bethany. And she’d meant it. That was the way she thought. She had the ability to see the big picture. Six and a half billion lives versus her own. She was lying in that room down the street right now hoping like hell that they wouldn’t risk trying to save her. Hoping they would forget about her and just get to work. And they could do that. They could climb back down the rope right now, into the ruined D.C. They could walk back down Vermont, ignore the remains of the high-rise and go another mile to the White House. They could spend days digging in the wreckage there for some kind of clue. And if that search turned up nothing, they could go across the river to the Pentagon and spend weeks. And after a while they wouldn’t have to think about Paige lying in that room, because by then she’d be long gone. She’d be gone by tonight.
    The people who’d hit the motorcade had taken her alive because it made sense at the time. They’d been acting on a snap decision, operating with more questions than answers. But that was probably no longer the case. Ten hours was plenty of time to take stock. Plenty of time for them to realize they didn’t need her.
    No doubt Paige was thinking the same thing right now. Lying bound, waiting for her captors to settle