Skip hesitated. This was not directly relevant to Bitan’s abduction story. “Is there a reason why you don’t want to share this with everyone?”
“Yes. I need to be the one to discover it. This is my destiny. This is what I was chosen to do by the revelation on Mount Hermon. And when I do find it, naturally I’ll share that discovery with the team—but not until then. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” said Skip. “I absolutely am.”
“Good! We’ll meet here tomorrow morning early, at five thirty. Bring your day pack, water, and lunch.”
“You bet!” In his excitement, Skip forgot to be taken aback by the ungodly hour.
Bitan leaned forward. “Here’s the thing. If it did come down somewhere else, it’s just possible the government never found it. Which means it’s still there.”
24
CORRIE ENTERED THE lobby of the Albuquerque Field Office at ten minutes to noon on Saturday. She passed through the security barrier, went to the elevator bank, and made her way up to the third floor, going through the motions without much conscious thought, like a zombie. She hadn’t slept in the nine hours since the initial call, but it was shock more than weariness that made everything seem unreal.
After hanging up with Garcia, she’d spent a few minutes silently weeping. Then she just lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that none of this was actually happening. It couldn’t be. She’d go in to work and see Morwood at his desk, looking out through the glass at her, one skeptical eyebrow arched. But of course, it wasn’t like that, and one way or another she had to pull herself together.
She’d never spent much time on the top floor of the FBI building on weekends, but she sensed an odd, church-like atmosphere the moment she stepped out of the elevator. As she walked through the cube farm, then along the row of offices set against the far wall, this stillness only added to her feeling of unreality. In the distance, barely audible, she could hear a woman sobbing. Funny how she forgot that Morwood had ghosted other agents besides herself.
As she approached the corner office, she began to see more people. The death of an FBI agent, even accidental, was not only a tragedy but a big deal that needed to be investigated. That it happened on the premises made it doubly serious. No doubt that was why Garcia had called her in today. Corrie had no illusions she’d been brought in for a grief therapy session.
There was no administrative assistant outside Garcia’s office, and Corrie was still a few minutes early, so she sat down in one of the chairs outside the SAC’s door. She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths. The sense of disbelief was, in a way, a protective carapace: if she could get through this meeting with that shell intact, maybe it could last the rest of the weekend.
The door opened and three or four senior agents in suits filed out. None of them looked at her. Silence for a moment, then she heard: “Swanson? Come in, please.”
Corrie stood up and walked into the office. She’d been here only a couple of times, but it had always looked the same: American flag in one corner, FBI flag in another, framed photo of the president between them. Two windows on adjacent walls, offering views of the freeway. Neat files on the desk beside a few family pictures. Conference table; chairs; desert landscapes on the walls. She recalled that Morwood had brought her up for an initial meeting after—in his words—deciding she stood a fair chance of sticking around.
“Good morning,” Garcia said in his soft voice. “Close the door and take a seat, please.”
Garcia’s alert brown eyes took her in quickly; he rose to shake her hand as she chose a chair, then sat down again and placed his beefy arms on the desk, hands clasped and fingers interlaced. His mouth was a straight line, neither smiling nor frowning; but then, she’d never seen Garcia either laugh or shout in anger.
“Thank you for coming in, Agent Swanson.”
“Yes, sir,” Corrie replied.
“Hale—Agent Morwood—was well liked here. He was a dedicated agent, respected for his loyalty to the Bureau. This is a tragedy for the entire office, Swanson: we share a common loss. I’m sorry if I seemed short with you on the phone last night.”
“Not to worry, sir.”
Now Garcia hesitated uncharacteristically. Through her haze of shock and sorrow, Corrie had noted there was no folder open in front of the SAC; no recording device visible. This, too, seemed unusual for what she expected to be a debrief.
Garcia took a deep breath. “I think it best to mention something up front, Agent Swanson, so that there’s complete transparency—and so you’ll better understand my line of questioning.”