Riptide

someone got to him and paid him to do it or someone stole
    his password and made him the sacrificial goat in case someone discovered
    what he had done."
    "How long will it take you to find out this person's name,
    Savich?"Thomas asked.
    "Well, MAX already did that. The guy was a thirty-four-year-old
    computer programmer who was in an accident four months
    ago. He's dead. Chances are very good that he was set up as the
    goat. Chances are also good that he knew the person who stole his
    password. I wouldn't be surprised if the guy talked about what he
    did to someone who took it to Krimakov, who then acted."

"And just what kind of accident befell this one?"Thomas asked.
    "The guy lived in Athens, but he'd gone to Crete on vacation,
    which is where Krimakov lived. You know the Minoan ruins of
    Knossos some five miles out of Iraklion? It was reported that he
    somehow lost his footing and fell headfirst over a low wall into a storage
    chamber some twelve feet below where he was standing. He
    broke his neck when his head struck one of the big pots that held
    olive oil way back when."
    "Well, damn," Adam said. "I don't suppose Krimakov's former
    bosses in Moscow have any information at all on this?"
    "Not that MAX can discover," Savich said. "If they have any
    more, and that's quite possible, they're holding it for a trade, since
    they know we want everything they've got on Krimakov. You
    know what I think? They've got nothing else useful. There hasn't
    been a peep out of them in the way of exploratory questions."
    "You found out quite a lot, Savich," Thomas said. "All those accidents.
    Doesn't seem possible, does it? Or very likely."
    "Oh, no," Savich said. "Not possible at all. That was the conclusion
    their agents drew. Krimakov murdered all of them. Hey, wait
    a minute, when you knew him, there weren't any computers."
    "There wasn't much beyond great big suckers, like the IBM
    mainframes," Thomas said.
    Sherlock said, "I wouldn't even want to try to figure out the
    odds of all those people in one family dying in accidents. They are
    astronomical, though."
    "Krimakov killed all those people," Becca said, then shook her
    head. "He must have, but how could he kill his own wife, his two
    stepchildren? Good grief, he burned his own little boy? No, that
    would truly make him a monster. What is going on here?"
    "He didn't kill his own child," Adam said.
    "No, he didn't," Sherlock said. "But the kid won't ever lead any

kind of normal life if he survives all the skin grafts and the infections.
    Was his getting burned an accident?"
    Thomas said, "Listen, all of this makes sense, but it's still supposition."
    Savich said, "I've put Krimakov's aged photo into the Facial
    Recognition Algorithm program that's in place now at the Bureau.
    It matches photos or even drawings to convicted felons. It compares,
    for example, the length of the nose, its shape, the exact distance
    between facial bones, the length of the eyes. You get the drift.
    It'll spit out if there's anyone resembling him who's committed
    crimes either in Europe or in the United States. The database isn't
    all that complete yet, but it can't hurt."
    "He was a spy," Sherlock said. "Maybe he was a convicted felon,
    too. It's just possible he's done bad stuff other places and got
    nabbed. If that's so, then there'll be a match and just maybe there'll
    be more information available on Krimakov."
    "It's a long shot, but what the hell," Adam said. "Good work, you
    guys." Adam paused a moment, then cleared his throat. "Maybe it
    wasn't such a lame idea for Thomas to bring you guys on board.
    Hey, you've even got a cute kid."
    The tension eased when they heard Sean sucking his fingers.
    Sherlock said as she lightly rubbed her son's back, "Hey, Becca, I
    like your hair back to its natural color."
    "I don't think it's quite the right color," Adam said, stroking his
    fingers thoughtfully over his chin. "It still looks a little fake, a bit on
    the brassy side."
    Becca got him in the belly with her fist, not hard, since he'd
    eaten at least four slices of pizza covered with olives and artichokes.
    Of course he was right and she just laughed now. "It will grow out.
    At least it's not a muddy brown anymore."
    Thomas thought she looked beautiful, her hair, just like Allison's,

straight and shiny to her shoulders, held back from her face with
    two gold clips.
    Becca cleared her throat and said in a short lull in the conversation,
    "Does anyone know how Krimakov found me?"
    The chewing