By morning the investigation room at the Bureau smelled of cold coffee, old sweat, and screens that had been running too long.
Nobody had slept. The main wall was split into a dozen feeds, half of them replaying pieces of the stream on a loop and the other half scrolling records pulled up beside them — Langford's delegation file, James's protected Challenger profile, the Ganner Corp prototype paperwork, a stack of diplomatic access approvals, and the emergency travel freeze sitting over all of it in red.
O'Shea stood in the middle of the room with his sleeves pushed up and did not sit down. None of them moved slowly, because every one of them knew that England's people would run the moment they were given the room to.
Niamh came in with a tablet and two answers.
"The inheritance trail's a wall," she said. "The England trail isn't."
She set the tablet down where he could see it.
