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“You won’t find any toxins,” Roth muttered. “I saw what she did.”
“I’ve reviewed the video footage several times. She touched his back with her forefinger. There’s no pinprick, but—”
“She drew a glyph on him,” Roth said. “It was her touch that did it. Not poison.”
She opened her mouth as if to say, That’s impossible, then stopped herself. She’d seen a lot of impossible things since they’d met.
“They can . . . do that?” she asked softly.
“I think it’s how they started the virus, remember. Glyphs. A sign. A symbol. There are stories in other parts of the world about killing or incapacitating with a touch,” Roth said. As an author, he’d studied a variety of topics, including this one. “It’s called dim mak. The ancient Chinese knew it. Even ninjas in Japan were supposedly able to do it. It was in Kung Fu Panda if you saw the movie.”
“Sweet movie,” Jordan interjected.
“Vaguely remember it,” Monica said. “How would an attorney know it?”
“Who else would have access to people Calakmul would want dead?” Roth said. “From what I’ve read, death can be instant or delayed. No evidence of foul play. If it could happen here . . .” Roth’s chest clenched with dread. “I don’t feel safe anywhere.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Monica said, putting her hand on Roth’s shoulder. “Lund and I both believed he was on the verge of flipping. Now he can’t help us. But hopefully another source can.”
“What source?” he asked, his mind a mess.
“Dr. Estrada and Illari Chaska. In light of what just happened, Lund had them taken to a separate location. Grab some lunch and let’s get going.”
As they left FBI headquarters, using a different exit from the entrance they’d used going in, Roth still felt the paranoid sensation that everyone was staring at them. He kept the twins close, and they were flanked by Jordan on one side and Monica on the other as they pushed their way through the crowds on Pennsylvania Avenue. There were people everywhere, the street full of vehicles and commotion and noise. Roth kept looking around, trying to find a source of danger, but the fear was inside his heart. Jacob Calakmul had reached into FBI headquarters and murdered Roth’s friend right in front of him. There was no reason someone couldn’t do that to Roth or his boys.
Lund summoned an SUV using Uber, and they all crammed inside. It was a short ride, though, only a few blocks. They got out, and Roth stared up at the seven-story building next to them in confusion. “This isn’t a hotel.”
“Exactly,” Lund said. He walked up to the glass doors and held them open for everyone, then closed them. He stared out at the street for a moment before approaching the security guard.
“Can you buzz Talbot Glenn for me?” Lund asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the guard. He got on the phone and then spoke briefly. “Yes. Thank you.” He hung up and gestured to the elevator. “Elevators are that way.” He handed Lund a key card.
“Penthouse is on the top floor?”
They all went to the elevators, Monica shooting Lund a look. “A penthouse?”
He nodded curtly and led them into the elevator. He tapped the key card and then punched the seventh floor. The elevator rocketed up quickly, and they entered a lavish corridor. Monica’s cell phone buzzed, and she pulled it out.
“It’s Carter,” she said and then answered it. “Yes?”
Lund walked down the corridor to the final room and then pushed a doorbell button.
“We’re not far,” Monica said. “I’ll let you know when we’ve spoken to Dr. Estrada. Thank you.” She hung up.
The door opened, and a well-dressed middle-aged man with graying hair opened it. He had on a tweed jacket and plaid shirt and looked like a stereotypical university professor.
“Steve! Come on in!” he greeted them all with a slight Midwestern accent. “Good to see you, old friend.” They shook hands, and as Roth entered the penthouse, he was struck by the man’s wealth on display. There were antiques everywhere he looked, along with the kind of marble decorations usually displayed in old estates.
“Sorry it was short notice,” Lund said. “Where is Dr. Estrada?”
“In the study. This way. Follow me.”
Jordan brought up the rear, glancing each way. The boys looked impressed with the furnishings and decorations, and Roth was too, but his mind still felt a million miles away.
Opening the door at the end of a hall, the owner of the penthouse showed them a study that was paneled in dark wood with bookshelves and couches. A young bald man stood by the window—security, presumably, and a man and woman sat on one of the couches. The man looked to be Dr. Estrada. He had long, graying hair, a nervous smile, and salt-and-pepper stubble that suggested he hadn’t shaved in days. His companion was a younger woman, heavyset, with dark hair and a distinctly Hispanic look. She had a beanie on her head, a jean jacket over another jacket, leggings, and boots.
“Dr. Estrada?” Monica said, moving to the man and shaking his hand.
