hand, the phone was a dead end. Even the NSA couldn’t trace links that didn’t exist. On the other…
“No one uses a phone that way,” she said.
“Correct. Can’t even do a voice log.”
For the last few years, the NSA had recorded most calls made over public networks, trillions in all. The agency had logged the voice of practically every human being, a fact it didn’t advertise. An even bigger secret was the fact that its voice-recognition software could compare that library to new calls.
The software was close to perfect. To find matches it relied not just on pitch or intonation but on tiny differences in the length of gaps between words. Those were unique. As a result, the agency could determine with extraordinary confidence who had made a call, even if the person was calling from someone else’s phone. Whoever Jacques was, the NSA almost certainly had a record of his voice. But if he hadn’t used the phone, the agency couldn’t match him.
So did Jacques know who she was, the resources she could call on? Or was he naturally careful? Clever or lucky. Lucky or clever. Either way, the next step would be going back to CC and Wilkerson. They’d have to pay attention.
“I’ll check the sequentials too,” Broadnik said. Meaning phone numbers close to the one Jacques had used. “If they were turned on at the same time, used in a similar pattern. Just in case they bought a bunch of SIM cards all at once. Wouldn’t count on it though.”
“Question. You think there’s an app for a jailbroken phone that would let you simulate a message? So the phone would look like it had sent a message when it hadn’t.”
“Child’s play. I mean, if there’s not, I could write it in a day. It would be easier than coding a real messaging app, just a fake screen.”
Thanks, Jake. Really glad to hear fooling my daughter was so easy.
But Rebecca would bet they’d solved the mystery of why Kira hadn’t texted. Jacques had made her phone disappear and then when she’d asked to borrow his he’d agreed. Go right ahead…
“Thanks, Jake. I have to talk to the Spanish police.”
“Want me to call the DGSI too?” The DGSI was the French equivalent of the FBI, the national law enforcement agency that handled counterterror and counterespionage.
“Not yet.” Asking the French for help would be a whole new level of complexity, and Rebecca didn’t see what it would add, at least for now. “But if you hear anything else—”
“Course.”
* * *
On the way back to the apartment, her phone rang again. Rob Wilkerson.
“CC says they checked. No one matching her name or description in the hospitals or station houses. The coroner too. So that’s good…”
Good, your daughter is still missing. “I have news too.” She told Wilkerson what Broadnik had said.
“That’ll get CC’s attention.”
“Enough to call in a couple detectives to come with me to the big clubs?”
“I think. I’ll ask him to light up their informants too, see if anybody’s heard anything.”
“Can he pull video from Sants and the airport?” Barcelona Sants was the city’s main train station.
Wilkerson hesitated.
“Unless you have some reason to believe she went through there I don’t want to make that ask yet. The detectives, the snitches, CC can do that on his own. Tape from the transportation hubs is bigger. Even with the phone, realistically, it hasn’t even been one day.”
She wanted to argue, but Wilkerson was right.
“I’ll call you after I’ve talked to him.” Then he was gone. But she felt slightly better. The wheels were starting to turn.
* * *
Step-by-step, her mood improved. So far, everything suggested Jacques was a pro. Thrill killers—even serial killers—were sloppier. And picked easier targets. Jacques had known from the start Kira was traveling with her parents. He would have expected they would search for her. If he’d wanted easier prey he could have found a woman traveling on her own.
The level of planning, along with the difficulty of the target, suggested that Jacques intended this job as a kidnapping rather than murder.
She hoped.
* * *
At the apartment, she found Brian sitting on the couch.
“I know I should be putting up posters. Instead of sitting here just hoping she’ll walk in.”
She filled him on the calls from Broadnik and Wilkerson. “I’m gonna go to the clubs.”
“I should come.”
“Stay with Tony. He needs you.”
“Becks.” He sagged back. Suddenly he looked defeated. Old. She had never thought Brian looked old before. Even during the worst years of their marriage. Even