Page 98 of The Thief
"Security?" I ask as Maverick parks across the street.
"Basic system. Cameras, motion sensors—nothing we can't handle."
"Neighbors?"
"Busy professionals who mind their own business. We should be fine as long as we don't make too much noise."
The street's empty except for a few parked cars and the occasional dog walker. No one pays attention to two men crossing the road like they belong there.
Getting inside is easier than it should be. Marcus' security is designed to keep out casual burglars, not professionals who know what they're doing. I have the alarm disabled and the back door open within five minutes.
"Impressive," Maverick says.
"Jer taught me well."
The house smells like expensive cologne and old leather. Everything's perfectly arranged, from the crystal decanters on the sideboard to the first-edition books lining the shelves. Marcus always did like his luxury.
"Where do we start?" Maverick asks.
"Office. If there's evidence of his betrayal, that's where we'll find it."
Marcus' office is on the second floor, windows overlooking his perfectly manicured garden. The desk is antique mahogany, probably worth more than my flat. Everything's organized with military precision.
"Check the computer," I say, heading for the filing cabinets. "Look for encrypted files, communication logs, anything that doesn't belong."
The first cabinet is full of legitimate business documents. Contracts, financial records, correspondence with Henry's various enterprises. Nothing suspicious, nothing that screams treachery.
The second cabinet is more interesting.
"Freddie," Maverick calls from the computer. "You need to see this."
I leave the files and move to look over his shoulder. The screen shows an email account I don't recognize. It’s password-protected but Maverick's already cracked it.
"Burner account," he explains. "Separate from his regular email. Look at the sent folder."
The messages are cryptic, coded, but the pattern's clear. Regular communications with someone identified only as "W.H." over the past six months. Times, dates, locations. Information that matches perfectly with Trace's attacks on our operations.
"W.H.," I say. "William Harrington. Trace's father."
"That's what I was thinking. But look at this one, sent three days ago."
The message is longer than the others, more detailed. It mentions the family dinner, Henry's house, specific details about our security arrangements. Everything Trace would need to plan his assault.
"Bastard," Maverick breathes. "He really was feeding them information."
"Gets worse. Look at the timestamps."
The messages were sent in real time, during family meetings, during strategic planning sessions. Marcus was literally sitting at Henry's table, pretending to be loyal, while typing out our secrets to the enemy.
"Print it," I say. "All of it. Henry needs to see this."
While Maverick works on the printer, I go back to the filing cabinets. The bottom drawer of the second cabinet is locked, but locks have never been much of an obstacle.
Inside, I find Marcus' insurance policy.
Bank statements showing regular payments from offshore accounts. Photographs of family members, including some of Alastríona that must have been taken without her knowledge. Detailed floor plans of Henry's house, marked with entry points and security blind spots.
And at the bottom, a handwritten journal.
