Lamb finished his drink, then reached for Catherine’s untouched glass. A ghost network. He didn’t especially approve—in Lamb’s lexicon, a joe was not to be trifled with; even an imaginary joe—but the old lag had doubtless done it for beer money, which left Lamb half-inclined to applaud. A ghost network didn’t require joes. All it took was a little identity theft; enough to convince your paymasters you were nurturing the real thing: verifiable names, plausibly sympathetic to whatever cause you’d hired out to.
