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Holmes and Poe had told Edwards about Oliver Paul’s demand to release his wife.

Now Poe expected information in return. “Where are you moving her to?”

“That’s need-to-know,” said Edwards curtly. “And you don’t.”

“If we’re keeping secrets,” said Poe, “why should we tell you our new theory?”

The SAC looked directly at him. “Because you care about the security of your country and about saving lives. And because I can cancel your PI licenses with one phone call.”

Holmes glanced at Poe. “Go ahead, Auguste. Show him.”

Poe had been up early, unable to get comfortable on the narrow sofa. He’d gotten one hour of sleep, if that. When he’d walked into the comms room at 3:00 a.m., Holmes was already there. By the time Edwards and his team showed up two hours later, Diogenes had led them down another twisty path. And now they were ready to share it.

“You said the Texas refinery bombing was being attributed to Middle Eastern operatives, right?” said Holmes.

Edwards nodded. “That’s what our profilers came up with.”

“But the operatives came over the Mexican border.”

“Look,” said Edwards, “at this point, everybody’s coming over the Mexican border. It’s like the goddamn UN down there. Hard to sort everybody out.”

Poe tapped on his keyboard. “We’ve got another thought.” The screen lit up with a crude image of a hammer and sickle with the letters “PCP” in bold underneath. “We think the Texas bombers might be from Shining Path.”

Edwards looked skeptical. “What? Partido Comunista del Perú? Those maniacs? They’ve been practically out of business since the ’90s.”

“It’s true,” said Poe, “they took a big hit when Guzmán was arrested.” He clicked to a mug shot of a full-faced, bearded man labeled GUZMÁN, ABIMAEL. “No question he ran things.”

“Right,” said Edwards. “Without el jefe, they have been rudderless. And if I remember right, Guzmán died in custody.”

“He did,” said Holmes. “Back in 2021. After that, the Shining Path operatives mostly scattered. But their expertise got passed down. Remember their specialties?”

“Sure.” Edwards ticked them off on his fingers. “Torture, kidnapping, assassination, car bombings…”

“Right. But they didn’t stop there.”

Poe tapped another key. The screen went into a slideshow of crumpled, blackened structures, one after another. “They also targeted infrastructure—electrical grids and other power sources…”

Poe froze on an image of a collapsed building. The wreckage was a mass of concrete, wires, and twisted metal.

“Those nuts were Marxists,” said Edwards. “Even if they could get their act together, most of them would be in their sixties now. Are we looking at the Over-the-Hill Gang?”

“No. We’re looking at a whole new generation,” said Poe. “Interested in drugs. Smuggling. Trafficking.”

“And money,” added Holmes. “The universal language.”

“Even Marxists speak it,” said Poe.

Edwards shook his head. “If your friend Oliver Paul is behind this, where is he getting the cash to fund these operations? I thought you said he was a little watchmaker.”

“He has help,” said Poe. “Other people are getting what they want out of this. We just don’t know who. Not yet.”

Edwards nodded toward the screen. “Where did you get this software?”

“It’s proprietary,” said Holmes. “A personal pastime.”

The door opened. Poe turned. Helene was standing there holding her belly. She looked pale and shaky.

“Auguste, I’m cramping.” She winced and grabbed the doorframe. “It’s not good.”