1

The first call comes Tuesday evening while I'm helping Jake with math homework. Unknown number, DC area code.

"We need to talk," the voice says. Professional, careful. "About your recent inquiries."

"Who is this?"

"Tomorrow, 2 PM. The museum café."

"How did you get this number?"

The line goes dead. I look at Jake's fraction problems, try to focus on something with clear solutions.

---

The Natural History Museum café at 2 PM. Families with kids, tour groups, normal Tuesday afternoon crowd. She's already there when I arrive - mid-forties, government ID badge flipped backward, coffee cup halfway empty.

I sit across from her without introduction.

"You wanted to understand institutional behavior," she says. "Let me give you an example."

She slides a tablet across the table, shows me a court filing. Multi-billion dollar lawsuit. Claims of "serious mental anguish" over a news segment.

"Twenty billion dollars," she says quietly. "For hurt feelings about a TV interview."

I read the filing. The psychological profile is obvious - extreme narcissistic injury, victim positioning, vindictive escalation. But there's something else.

"This isn't just about money," I say.

"No. The company being sued needs government approval for a merger. Coincidentally."

I look up from the tablet. "Leverage."

"Now you're thinking institutionally." She takes a sip of coffee. "What do you see?"

"Individual psychology used as financial pressure. Personal grievance through legal threats through government approvals."

"The company already offered fifteen million to settle. Not enough."

I study the filing again. The language is grandiose, victim-focused, completely disproportionate. Vindictive rage deployed through courts with regulatory consequences.

"How many other companies are facing similar pressure?"

"That's the right question."

She doesn't answer it.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Someone who is watching this happen across multiple agencies. Media companies, defense contractors, pharmaceutical firms. Personal grievances become lawsuits become regulatory pressure."

"For what purpose?"

"Control. Compliance. Compensation." She closes the tablet. "Individual psychology you understand. This is how it works at scale."

I lean back, processing. Not random corruption or chaotic decision-making. Systematic use of personal dysfunction to create pressure on institutions.

"The efficiency official we discussed," I say carefully. "Same approach?"

"Different method, same principle. Personal vulnerabilities become institutional tools."

She stands, leaves money for coffee.

"Your Vienna assignment connects to this. The researchers aren't just gathering pharmaceutical data - they're mapping pressure points across multiple sectors."

"For whom?"

"That's what you need to figure out." She adjusts her badge, turns it forward. Department of Commerce. "But now you know what to look for."

She walks away, leaving me with the tablet and more questions than answers.

But at least now I think I understand the game.

2

The second call comes at 9 PM the following day, while Emma and I are cleaning up dinner dishes.

"You've been asking about the researchers," the voice says. Different caller, same careful tone.

I step outside, close the kitchen door behind me.

"How did you get this number?"

"Word travels."

Great. Apparently I'm advertising my confusion on a billboard. 1 800 IAM LOST

"The researchers," the voice continues. "Their data collection has a purpose. Disease surveillance systems, vaccine safety databases, emergency information. Things that keep disappearing from official servers."

"Disappearing how?"

"Budget cuts. Staff reductions. Server migrations that intentionally lose critical datasets."

I walk toward the backyard, away from the house. Mrs. Patterson's porch light is on, her dog barking at something in the distance.

"So they're backing up medical information?"

"Before it gets lost forever."

I think about Emma's work, the data she relies on. Information that widely available until suddenly it isn’t.

"And the efficiency official?"

"Different goal entirely. Cutting oversight budgets while his companies avoid regulation."

The connections begin to become clearer. I think. Not corporate espionage or foreign intelligence gathering. Emergency data rescue.

"Why are you telling me this?"

I look back at the house. Emma moving through the kitchen, twins doing homework at the counter. Normal family life depending on systems most people take for granted.

"How does this connect to my domestic assignment?"

"It depends what side you're working for."

The line goes dead.

3

I call Rachel Thursday morning after dropping the kids at school. We've worked together for eight years - she tracks money flows for corporate clients, I handle the human element. Clean division of labor.

"I need a favor," I tell her.

"When don't you?" But her voice is cautious. "What kind of favor?"

"Financial. Government contracts, private payments, unusual activity."

Long pause. "This, your new career focus?"

My new what? "How do you know about that?"

"People talk. You know there are no secrets in this town."

I pull into an empty parking lot, suddenly conscious of being on an open line. "Can we meet?"

"Maybe. What are you looking for specifically?"

"Satellite internet contracts. Rural broadband funding. Space launch agreements."

Another pause, longer this time. "That's a wide net."

"I know."

"And those contracts are... politically sensitive right now."

"I know that too."

"I'll see what I can find. Usual place, tomorrow noon."

She hangs up before I can respond.

---

Friday noon at the Smithsonian Metro station. Rachel emerges from the crowd carrying a single manila folder.

"This was harder to get than usual," she says, handing it over.

I open it. Financial summaries, contract values, payment schedules. But everything is redacted or incomplete.

"What am I looking at?"

"What's left after the interesting parts were classified or moved to different tracking systems. Answers in a void."

I flip through pages of black bars and missing data. "This tells me nothing."

"Omission tells you something important." She lights a cigarette despite the no-smoking signs. "These contracts used to be public record. Now they're not."

I study the fragments. Billions in satellite contracts, but no vendor details. Rural broadband allocations with no geographic specifics. Government grants with no institutional recipients.

"Rachel, what is happening?"

"Budget cuts. Gutted departments. Data destruction." She takes a long drag.

"And the money flows?"

"Faster than ever. But harder to track."

A Metro train arrives, and half the people around us board it. Rachel watches them carefully.

"You should know," she says quietly, "I had to make some calls to get these scraps. Those calls got noticed."

"By whom?"

"People who don't usually notice my work." She drops the cigarette, grinds it under her heel. "Maybe take a break from this investigation."

"For how long?"

"Until whatever you're involved in resolves itself." She turns to leave, then stops. "And maybe vary your routes home. You know, just in case."

I watch her disappear into the crowd, leaving me with a folder full of blanks and the distinct feeling that my cluelessness might be the least of my problems.

4

I come home Friday evening with Chinese takeout, keys jingling against the front door. Emma's car in the driveway, kitchen lights on.

Emma is standing by the refrigerator. Perfectly still.

There's a man sitting at our kitchen table.

"Mr. Richardson." He doesn't look up. "Close the door."

I set the takeout down, eyes on Emma. She gives me the smallest shake of her head.

"Where are the kids?"

"Soccer practice," Emma says. Her voice is steady.

The man finally looks up. Unremarkable face, pale eyes. "That gives us time."

"For what?"

He opens a folder. Photographs slide across the table. Me at the museum café. Me with Rachel at Metro. Me in Vienna.

"You need to stop. In order to avoid problems.”

"What kind of problems?"

"Expensive ones." He closes the folder. "Seventy-two hours."

"For what?"

"To decide which side you're on."

He stands, moves toward the door.

"And if I don't?"

He pauses next to Emma, doesn't touch her, doesn't look at her.

"Ask your friend Rachel how her weekend is going."

The door closes softly.

Emma and I stand in our kitchen, surrounded by homework and kids' artwork on the refrigerator.

"What have you done?" she asks quietly.

I look at her, at our house, at everything that just became something else.

"I don't know."