Spirit Walk_ Old Wounds (Book 1) - Christie Golden [43]
If only she could tell him the real reason.
Libby shook herself out of her reverie and returned to her duty. Fletcher had tried to sweeten the blow with flattery, telling Libby that it was through her determined efforts that six months ago they had figured out what was going on in covert ops in time to stop it. The flattery hadn’t worked; Libby still hated the grindingly boring tasks that made up so much of her work.
The one thing that did seem intriguing was the fact that while Mole—somehow she always thought of The Wind in the Willows when she used the term—had clearly accessed many different classified documents over the last few years, there didn’t seem to be any corresponding leaks to the Cardassians, Vorta, or even the Syndicate. Mole was gathering information, that much was certain. He—or she—had even been able to access information that Aidan hadn’t been privy to. And yet, there was no evidence that the information thus gleaned had been passed on to anyone.
She fell back on her tried and true method of puzzling something out. What were the facts?
One: Someone placed at least somewhat high in Starfleet was accessing documentation on an extremely classified level—including all of Voyager’s logs. That particular bit of information was one reason Libby suspected Fletcher wanted her in on this—he knew she had a personal investment in finding the mole.
Two: She or he had left a trail, but Libby couldn’t assume it was a complete one.
Three: The information that Fletcher knew Mole had learned was not the usual sort of thing. In addition to documentation that pertained to the Dominion War, which was to be expected, Mole had been accessing medical data and research, little-known negotiations, and private personnel files. Vital information in the wrong hands, certainly, but hardly the sort of information that was usually sold on the black market. It seemed oddly intimate. Libby wondered if maybe Mole was trying to frame someone.
She shook her head. “Supposition, Agent Webber,” she told herself firmly. She returned to her list of known facts.
Four: Mole was slippery. Every lead she’d followed had petered out. It almost seemed as though there were a lot of Moles with the same agenda, each one gathering just a little bit of information here and then absconding with it, never lingering too long lest he be caught….
Now, there was a frightening thought, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she pondered it.
What if there wasn’t one mole? What if there was a whole group of them?
What if this was a real, honest-to-God conspiracy?
After his disappointing evening, the Doctor glumly returned to his apartment, which had been specially equipped with holographic emitters throughout. There was a message waiting for him. He scowled at the blinking light, as if it were the source of all his troubles, then he ignored it. He didn’t care who it was. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Sighing heavily, he threw himself onto the couch, covered his face with his arms, and wallowed in his wretchedness.
“A dismal universal hiss, the sound of public scorn,” he muttered, quoting Milton.
In all his years of activation, he had never been so spurned. Not even his time in prison compared to the anguish and humiliation he had endured over the last three hours. The worst thing about it was that he knew full well that none of it had been meant in malice. They weren’t trying to make him feel dreadful—they just did.
His computer beeped again. He rolled over and covered his ears with the pillow.
“Go away and leave me to my misery,” he muttered.
The beeping continued. There was only one person in the galaxy with that kind of stubborn patience, and even as he cringed from the thought of talking to her, he knew he wanted very much to see her face.
At last, steeling himself, he went to the