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CHAPTER 17 — THE LOST NETWORK
The dinner party thinned as the night wore on. One by one, the dignitaries drifted toward the valet circle, their laughter echoing through the marble foyer. Wilder watched them go from the edge of the room.
He recognized many faces. Others he knew only by reputation.
Captains of industry. A man often attired in judicial robes— he was almost certain. A famous man of religion. Famous faces from the New York Times and Washington Post. A former ambassador. A senator whose name carried weight in every committee room in Washington.
It was a Who’s Who of the American establishment — the kind of gathering where decisions were made long before Congress ever heard of them.
When the last of the guests departed, Simmons motioned to the team.
“Library,” he said quietly.
They followed him down a long hallway lined with portraits of the Higgins family — men in military uniforms, women in evening gowns, generations of wealth and influence staring down at them.
The library door was guarded by a nondescript man in a dark suit. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. But Wilder saw the way he stood — weight balanced, eyes scanning, hand never far from his jacket.
Lethal.
Simmons opened the door and ushered them inside.
The room was paneled in dark wood, lined with shelves of leather‑bound volumes. A large table sat in the center, lit by a single brass lamp. The air smelled faintly of tobacco and old paper.
Simmons closed the door behind them.
“You gentlemen are probably wondering why this dinner was held here,” he began. “Mr. Higgins assured this estate would always be available to us. He left instructions in his will for its maintenance and upkeep. He’s a patriot from the grave.”
Wilder nodded. He’d known Carter Higgins IV only briefly, but the man had been a force — wealthy, connected, and fiercely loyal to the intelligence community.
Simmons continued. “Brigadier General Stolis won’t be here either. He’s left the program, but he keeps his finger on the pulse of things.”
Wilder expected what came next.
“I’m leading the program now,” Simmons said. “Captain Lorenz is my right hand and primary confidant. He’s the note taker and message deliverer. He has a network of people working to cut the throat of the Soviet beast.”
Lorenz straightened slightly, but his expression remained humble.
Simmons stepped closer to the table, placing both hands on the polished wood.
“Now… let’s talk about why you’re here.”
The room fell silent.
Simmons drew a slow breath. “During the Nixon years, a covert cell was created — off the books, off the record, off the radar. It was designed to operate without oversight. No congressional committees. No budget lines. No accountability.”
Wiley nodded grimly. He’d suspected as much.
Simmons continued. “It was called the Lost Network. Not officially — that was just the nickname. But it fit. They were ghosts. They ran operations in Cuba, Laos, Cambodia, Angola… anywhere the White House wanted deniable action.”
Dale leaned forward. “I thought it was dismantled.”
“It was,” Simmons said. “Or so we believed.”
Wilder felt a chill move through him.
Simmons went on. “Three months ago, Cuban intelligence captured an American operative. Not CIA. Not military. No agency claimed him. But his equipment… his methods… his tradecraft… all matched the Lost Network.”
Lorenz opened a folder and slid a photograph across the table. A grainy image of a man in restraints, bruised but defiant.
Wilder studied it. “Who is he?”
“We don’t know,” Simmons said. “But he claimed he was working for Americans. And he used a phrase we haven’t heard in decades.”
Simmons paused.
“Legacy Operations.”
Wiley exhaled sharply. “That’s Lost Network language.”
“Exactly.”
Simmons continued. “We’ve been tracking unusual activity — encrypted bursts on old frequencies, civilian boats running covert patterns near Cuba, money moving through shell companies tied to Cold War cutouts.”
Wilder felt the pieces aligning.
“And you think Rourke is behind it,” he said.
Simmons didn’t answer immediately.
“We don’t have proof,” he said finally. “But we have suspicion. Strong suspicion.”
Dale growled. “That bastard walked out of that courtroom like he owned the world.”
“He owns something,” Simmons said. “We just don’t know what.”
Lorenz cleared his throat. “There’s more.”
Simmons nodded. “Yes. There’s a mystery hand behind him.”
Wilder frowned. “Meaning?”
“Rourke doesn’t have the resources to resurrect the Lost Network,” Simmons said. “Not alone. Someone is funding him. Protecting him. Guiding him.”
Wiley leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Someone powerful.”
“Very,” Simmons said. “Someone with access. Someone with reach. Someone who wants deniable operations in Cuba again.”
Wilder felt the weight of it settle on him.
Simmons looked directly at him.
“Nelson… we need you. Not as a war crimes witness. As a captain. As a man who speaks the language and sees the patterns. As someone who has faced Rourke and lived to tell it.”
The room was silent.
The Lost Network was awake. Rourke was moving. And someone in the shadows was pulling the strings.
Wilder exhaled slowly.
“Tell me what you need.”
Impartial Grace 