drawn to another icon, lower down in the directory, with MPD written beneath it – the Missing Persons Database.
Shepherd had been rehearsing this moment for the past seven years. All he had to do was click on it, type in a name, a few details then sophisticated algorithms and search spiders would scuttle out across police networks covering more than half the world.
He clicked on the icon and a simple command box opened. It had spaces for key search data: name, DOB, age, height, weight, hair and eye colour. His fingers moved over the keyboard, finding keys on their own.
Name: Melisa Erroll
Date of birth: He never knew it and she would never say
Age: She would be about thirty-six now
Height: Around one sixty
Build: Slight
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
He paused and took several deep breaths. The room smelled of sweat and fear, though that could just as easily be coming from him. The MPD had primarily been designed to locate people fast to rule them out of investigations. Consequently the search engines were programmed to trawl through death registers first. If he got a hit back quickly it would mean her name had been found amongst the roll call of the dead – and, even after seven years of unanswered questions, he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for that. But there was also something else that made him pause. The misuse of FBI resources for personal ends was pretty high on the list of prosecutable offences, for obvious reasons, and every search on the MPD was logged and could be checked. Then again, he wasn’t searching for any more sensitive details, like bank accounts or passport activity. Not yet at least. But pressing the button would still be crossing a line. And despite everything that had happened in his life, he still believed in rules and obeying them.
He re-read the words he had typed into the search criteria, the barest thumbnails of a human life, and wondered what Melisa would do in his situation. She would probably have instigated a search the moment she got her hands on the laptop. Melisa was passionate and impulsive, a do-er.
Love is a verb – she used to say – Love is a doing word.
A single tear slid down his cheek. Then he hit Return.
And the search went live.
48
O’Halloran sat in the den of his house, his eyes fixed on the old bulky TV in the corner that had once been the main family set. The American military exodus from Afghanistan was now the lead story, confirmed by several sources and top of a lengthening list of similar military stand-downs. As well as the Chinese withdrawal from the Senkaku Islands there were now additional reports that the British were also pulling their troops out of Afghanistan, the North Koreans had pulled away from the border with the South, Israeli tanks had done the same from Palestine and government-backed troops in Syria had ceased many of the ongoing assaults on rebel-held cities, leaving artillery batteries deserted. It was as if the over-riding imperial and destructive impulse of thousands of years had been cured overnight by a simple, universal human desire to return home.
In his own small way, O’Halloran had felt it too. His desire to come home had been unexpected and almost primal in its intensity. Twice now he had gone out to his car to head over to the office but both times just the thought of putting the car in gear and driving back to Quantico had filled him with such a feeling of panic that he had ended up sitting there, sweating despite the cold, the engine running and his hand resting on the gearshift. Just the few steps down the drive had made him feel as if a rope was wound around his heart, pulling tighter with each step he took. Both times he had ended up turning off the engine, getting out of the car and walking back to the house, the pressure and panic easing with each step until, by the time he crossed the threshold back into the warmth and comfort of his home, it had gone entirely.
His cellphone buzzed, cutting through the low burble of the news. He stiffened in his chair and the springs creaked as he snapped back into professional mode.
‘O’Halloran.’
‘Sir, it’s Squires. You anywhere near a TV?’
Squires was one of the section chiefs who lived in an office down the hall from his. He was also working from home today, O’Halloran recalled. ‘I’m watching the news now.’