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system used a set of temporary, real-time keys, and occasionally the process of turning it from unreadable hieroglyphics to clear text could take several seconds.
    The file opened. It was a listing of plane tickets that showed transit in and out of Moldova, a small landlocked country between Romania and Russia.
    “Those accounts will be backtracked,” said Reid. “They’ll look for patterns, connections to other accounts. We may have more of a profile in a few days.”
    “Moldova may simply have been chosen because of its banking system,” said Breanna. “The banking system is notoriously opaque to outsiders. Even insiders. And there are plenty of suspect mafia connections.”
    “Always a possibility.”
    Breanna looked at the data. None of the transactions were recent.
    “These are all connected to the Wolves?” she asked.
    “They’re connected to accounts that were associated with the Berlin activity,” answered Reid. “As I say, the Moldova connection is still tenuous.”
    Activity. An interesting way to describe murder.
    “Everything is tenuous,” said Breanna.
    “Not everything,” said Reid. “As for the identity—”
    “The DNA is suggestive, not conclusive,” she said.
    Reid didn’t answer. It was his way of reproaching her—worse, she thought, than if he had argued or even called her a name.
    Not that Reid would do either.
    “At some point we will have to address this with Colonel Freah,” said Reid finally.
    “We’ll keep it where it is for now,” said Breanna. “Until we have more information, I don’t see any point in going down this road with Danny. It’s still . . . far-fetched.”
    “Admittedly.”
    Breanna looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, I have a meeting.”
    “I’ll keep you up to date.”
    “Thanks.”
    T he meeting Breanna was rushing to couldn’t start until she arrived, which meant that a dozen generals and three admirals stared at her as she came in the door. While her civilian position as head of the Office of Technology put her on a higher administrative level than most of the people in the room, she was still a colonel in the Air Force Reserve, and not a few of the people in the room thought of her that way.
    Sometimes she did, too.
    “Sorry I’m late,” she said, rushing in.
    “Well, you’re here now,” said General Timothy “Tiger” Wallace. “Let’s get moving.”
    Wallace gave her a tight grin, but the expression gave nothing away. He was the Air Force’s chief of staff—the top boss—and a difficult man for her to gauge. He’d served with her father, and claimed to be a great admirer of Dreamland and everything associated with it. He and Zen occasionally had lunch together during his visits to Capitol Hill. On the other hand, he frequently butted heads with Breanna’s boss, Deputy Defense Secretary Harold Magnus. The two had clashed when Magnus was in the Air Force some years before, and while they didn’t openly feud—Magnus wasn’t the type, and there was no percentage in it for Wallace—Wallace’s animosity was often subtly displayed, especially toward Magnus’s pet projects.
    One of which Breanna had come to discuss.
    “Thank you, General,” she said, sliding her laptop onto the table. “Everyone is aware of the Sabre UAV program and its present status.”
    She nodded toward Steph Garvey, the two-star Air Force general in charge of the Sabre program. Garvey gave her a smile—genuine and easy to read.
    “We have made good progress with the UM/F program in general,” continued Breanna. “Including the Navy variant.”
    “That’s a matter of opinion,” grumbled Admiral David Chafetz. There was no mistaking Chafetz’s attitude—he didn’t like anything even remotely connected to the Air Force, and was a skeptic of unmanned aircraft as well. That was two big strikes against the Sabre program.
    Officially designated UM/F–9s, the unmanned aircraft had been developed as replacements for the Flighthawks, the robot aircraft