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pushing himself from his chair and approaching the TV screen. With his index finger, he touched the top right hand corner and another image appears. “This is the agent they sent in a week ago,” he explained pointing to the picture of a thirty-something-year-old man with a Harvard haircut and wearing a silk suit. “ So far he ’s come up with nothing.”
    “ He ’s the best they got, huh?” Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he continued to look at the agent. There was something about the man that seemed familiar, but Isaac couldn’ t quite place it. “There are a number of professional hackers employed by the White House,” Foxhounds continued, ignoring Rose’s snide remark. “Some of them conduct counter espionage, others check the security of the government’s systems.”
    “ It ’s not likely to be one of them,” Rose announced dismissively. “Those guys are much too smart for that.”
    “ Maybe, ” his boss concedes, shrugging. “Or maybe they’re being offered a great deal and it’s blurring their ability to think clearly.”
    Rose wasn ’t buying it and stared skeptically at his employer.
    “One thing is for sure, whoever our man is, he knows a hell of a lot about computer security. He can’t have acquired that kind of knowledge without leaving a trail.”
    “So why isn’t the CIA following that trail?” Isaac asked coldly.
    “They need a little help,” Foxhound smiled. “And you’re it.”
    With a puff of air and a nod, Isaac ’s arms flopped to his sides. “Where do I start?”
    “ You ’re looking at it,” Foxhound responded, gesturing to the email that remained displayed on the large screen. “The only tangible evidence we have.”
     

* * *
     
    Rose had his own office in the building, it was smaller than Foxhound's, of course, but it was fitted out with all the gadgets he needed. Except he rarely needed any of them. His approach to the job had always been more hands-on. Foxhound had dubbed it the ‘bull in a China shop method’, but even he had to admit it got results. As Isaac walked into his office and approached the desk, he found it covered in a thick layer of dust. Given the sensitive nature of their work, The Trackers didn’t have a staff of office cleaners. That, coupled with Isaac’s long absence from the room, accounted for its very neglected condition.
    He swiped his fingers across the desk, then glanced at them. With a shake of his head, he rubbed his hand across his jeans before slipping into his seat. The room was sparse, with just the one desk, one chair and bare, cream-colored walls. There was a window to Isaac ’s right and as he fired up his computer, his gaze drifted over to the glass window pane.
    He was on the fourth floor, able to see only the executive offices of the building directly across the street. Most of those windows were covered by blinds, but one was open. It revealed a large, open-plan office space with at least a dozen employees. Momentarily, Isaac ’s focus remained on the window and the people, some scurrying eagerly, others sitting idly at their desks, all unaware of his observing.
    When he heard the familiar string of beeps, he turned to his brightly lit computer screen. His fingers, unused to the task, slowly typed his password. Then, he clicked a few more keys and the screen displayed the email he ’d been shown in Foxhound’s office. He stared at it for several seconds, as if it could reveal its secrets to him. And after a minute, he tapped several more keys.
    The email disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a scrolling series of white numbers and letters that flashed quickly one after another. Isaac leaned back in his chair, propping one foot on the corner of the desk while he let the computer do its work. Impatiently, he tapped his index finger on the plastic edge of the keyboard. “Come on,” he grumbled under his breath, his dark, restless eyes darting from the screen and