Maybe, he thought, this was a momentary screw‑up. I just happened to be at the right place at the right fleeting moment, when somebody, somewhere, was entering those names. Maybe some NIH bureaucrat hit the wrong key on a keyboard someplace in Maryland.
But it was the break he'd been waiting for.
He turned off the IBM and headed for the fridge and another Brooklyn Lager. Ally, Ally, Ally. Can it be you? This is so weird.
Worse than that, it was painful. There was that immortal line from Casablanca: "Of all the gin joints in all... she walks into mine."
Why you, dear God?
Coming back, he sat down, took a long hit on the icy bottle, and reached for the phone.
Chapter 11