KHARTOUM
Seth Holland sat in his dimly lit office, staring at his computer screen in utter dejection. As he used the mouse to scroll slowly down the page, the faces of a unique, secret community blurred before his eyes. Dusk was falling outside his windows, a dark purple haze sinking over the city, but Holland could not take comfort in the end of the workday. He was beyond frustrated, and the late hour had nothing to do with it.
The answer he sought was just out of reach. He knew it, had known it for hours on end, for that matter, but now it was really starting to get to him. His patience-which was fleeting enough on the best of days-was long past the point of wearing thin.
The identity of the man with the rucksack had consumed him since that afternoon, when Holland had first spotted him on the front steps of the embassy. It had started as nothing more than vague curiosity, an itch that refused to go away. Hoping to rid himself of it, Holland had gone directly from the lobby to his fourth-floor office, where he’d proceeded to place calls to several different departments on an internal line. He’d assumed that he would have his answer in a matter of minutes, as that was how this kind of thing usually played out. In this case, though, that assumption was wrong. He’d been shut down at every turn, and now, six hours later, what had started as simple curiosity had evolved into a very different sort of beast. And an implacable one at that.
Now he didn’t just want an answer. Now he needed an answer.
When he first started looking into it, he had forced himself to do so with an open mind. After all, there was a chance that the whole thing was entirely innocent; that he had seen the man, or someone resembling him, in casual circumstances at some point in the past, and seeing him again had simply triggered that memory. It was a possibility that could not be discounted, but to Holland, it didn’t feel right, and after twenty years in the Central Intelligence Agency, he had learned to trust his gut. Ever since that brief encounter in front of the building, every instinct he owned had been telling him that the recognition was rooted on a far more important level, a professional level, but since he couldn’t be certain, he’d been forced to consider all the angles, even those that didn’t seem likely.
That was how his search had begun: with all the angles. And with the basics. The vast majority of people who came to the embassy were there on routine business: registering births, replacing passports, seeking visas, or notarizing documents. For this reason, Holland’s first move was to call the consular duty officer. It took him thirty seconds to explain what he wanted, and the fax came through a few minutes later. It was a list of every male who had appeared in the ground-floor office that day, along with any relevant personal information.
Holland was able to subtract five names right off the bat, simply because they had come in after the unknown subject had already left the building, and another nineteen because the men in question were either too old or young to fit the unsub’s description. Another four could go because they were not Caucasian, leaving Holland with a grand total of sixty-three names. These he ran through the database at Langley, which he was able to access remotely via his desktop computer. Fifteen minutes after submitting the query, he received the reply. None of the names were flagged, at least in the Agency’s records, which made it unlikely that he had encountered those people on the job. In other words, the list was useless, a dead end.
Undaunted by this temporary setback, Holland next placed a call to the public affairs officer, the man in charge of the Public Diplomacy Office. This was another long shot, since the man had only five full-time employees, but Holland wanted to be thorough. As expected, the answer came back in the negative. The PAO had not received any visitors that afternoon, and neither had any member of his staff. Subsequent calls to the Political/Economic Section and the Information Resources Center also failed to pan out. By this time Holland was starting to wonder if he had missed something, and he could no longer deny his rising consternation.
After two hours of trawling, he decided to take a break in the hope that a short rest would jar his memory. After asking his secretary to hold his calls, he kicked off his shoes, lay down on the couch in his office, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift back to the encounter. He allowed the images to unreel of their own accord, trying to focus on what he had seen. And exactly what had he seen? There was nothing to distinguish the man from a thousand others. A million others, maybe. A tall, lean, dark-haired man in his mid- to late thirties, wearing steel-framed spectacles, a navy sport coat, gray slacks, and carrying a rucksack of the army surplus variety. There was nothing unusual about that picture…
Holland’s eyes abruptly sprang open. No, nothing wrong with the picture…except for that rucksack. Because that doesn’t fit at all, does it?
He tossed his legs over the side of the couch, then jumped up like a jack-in-the-box as the realization grabbed hold of him. That sack damned well was unusual. The more he thought about it, the greater his certainty. Why would a man dressed in business casual attire be lugging a military-style pack? It didn’t jibe. Which led Holland to wonder…If he hadn’t been carrying it all along, where would he get it?
The answer was obvious. The embassy was filled with marines, all of whom had ready access to that kind of equipment.
But why would one of them hand over his pack? And more importantly, what had been inside when he did?
With these questions blowing through his mind, Holland picked up his phone and called Post One on the ground floor. He asked for the detachment commander but was informed that he had just gone off duty. Holland left a message with the corporal in charge, asking the commander to get back to him ASAP. That had been two hours earlier, and he had not heard a word since.
Rubbing his eyes wearily, Holland stood and walked over to one of his windows. He stood there for a moment and studied the view. The sky was a rich, deep shade of magenta, the color fading quickly to coal black, and dusk had thrown long shadows over the inner walls of the courtyard. Below his window, he could make out a dark figure huddled against the rapidly encroaching cold. There was the flare of a match as the figure lit a cigarette. Then a second figure approached. Another flare, another cigarette. Coworkers, Holland assumed, sharing some watercooler gossip at the end of their shift. He envied them that camaraderie, the kind that could only exist between equals. Holland had no direct equal in the embassy, and since his work was not for public dissemination, there was no one he felt comfortable conversing with. It made for a very lonely posting. To make matters worse, he still had eight months to go in his current assignment.
It would have been much easier to bear if his wife had accompanied him, but she had flatly refused. Her decision to stay in Miami had stung him deeply, and he had unwisely lashed out at the time, calling her selfish and stubborn, as well as a few other things that did not bear repeating. Those accusations had let to a bitter argument that he deeply regretted. Like any job that involved long deployments and time apart, intelligence work was hard on families. The divorce rates in the ranks of the CIA were incredibly high, somewhere in the region of six to seven percent in the Operations Directorate alone, and Holland had no desire to add to those depressing statistics. Besides, he could see now that she had been right all along. North Africa-and Sudan in particular-was no place for Western women and children. What had happened to Lily Durant in Camp Hadith was proof enough of that.
Aside from Jake, their five-year-old son, Jen was the one good, stable thing in his life, and he had no intention of letting her slip away. He had made that promise to himself on the flight over, and he had not forgotten it. He only hoped that she knew how sorry he was. He’d apologized several times over the phone, and she had seemed accepting enough, but it was always hard to tell with her. Her birthday was coming up, though, and if she was harboring any lingering resentment, Holland figured the right gift would get rid of it once and for all. He’d seen a solid gold necklace on his last trip into the city center, and that had potential, assuming it was the genuine article…
He stopped himself and nearly laughed aloud at his own naivete. In the backstabbing, greed-driven souqs of Khartoum, that would be quite an assumption, and buying into it could only end one way: with one very happy shopkeeper and one very pissed-off wife.
The phone on his desk chirped, snapping him back to the present. Turning away from the window, he crossed the room in three quick strides and snatched it up. “Holland.”
“Mr. Holland? This is Sergeant Sadowski. I was told you wanted to speak.”
Holland closed his eyes and clenched a victorious fist in front of his chest. “Yes, Sergeant, that’s right. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, and I’m sorry to interrupt your downtime… I know you don’t get much of it.”
“Not a problem, sir. What can I do for you?”
The CIA officer took note of the man’s voice. It was calm, cool, and slightly curious, which presented him with a problem. Clearly, Sadowski had no idea who he really was, and judging by his clipped tone, he wasn’t eager to do any favors for a mid-level budget manager.
Technically, the man’s ignorance was good news. This was how it was supposed to be. The identity of the CIA’s station chief was a closely held secret in any embassy. Normally, it would have come as a relief to know that his cover had withstood intense scrutiny from within, but the secrecy wouldn’t help him here. He needed answers, but he had almost no leverage with which to extract them. Holland instinctively knew that he might have to make a professional sacrifice to get them, and if that was the case, he might be getting back to Jen and Jake much sooner than he had anticipated.
And that, he silently acknowledged, would not be a bad thing at all. “Sergeant Sadowski, I understand that you were on duty in Post One this afternoon. From zero six hundred to fourteen hundred hours. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
Holland noted the wariness in the other man’s voice. “Between, let’s say, twelve hundred hours and the end of your shift, did you have any visitors? Anyone outside your chain of command?”
There was a tense pause, and the station chief knew he had pushed it too far. “Mr. Holland, I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. And frankly, I don’t see how it concerns you.”
“I’ll tell you what, Sergeant-”
“Sir, I can’t-”
“No, just listen,” Holland said quickly. “According to your information, I am the budget manager for DISAM here in Khartoum. That is what you’ve been told, right?”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Holland knew he had gotten it right. “Well, I’m telling you right now, that is not the reality. I do not work for that organization.”
There was a brief, speculative pause. “So who do you work for, Mr. Holland?”
“I heard you were a smart man, Sergeant. I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.”
Another long silence ensued. Holland, listening to the sound of the other man breathing over the line, could almost sense the moment that Sadowski caught on. By his rough count, it took less than thirty seconds.
“I’m going to need some proof of what you’re saying, sir, before I tell you anything. And that’s assuming I even can.”
“Look…” Holland didn’t want to get into it over the phone. “Do you know where I’m located?”
“Yes,” Sadowski replied. “Fourth floor, room four-oh-two.”
Holland wasn’t surprised to hear that the man already knew where his office was. At least once a month, the Marine Security Guards conducted a series of drills known as “Reacts”-which was short for Reaction. Each React started with a simulated emergency, such as a fire, a bomb threat, or a riot outside the embassy. From there, the MSG gathered in the designated React Room, a storage area for weapons, communications equipment, and other essential gear, where they received their orders directly from the detachment commander. As the man in charge of those drills, it was only natural that Sadowski would know the embassy’s layout like the back of his hand.
“I’m up here now,” Holland continued. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind stopping by for a few minutes. I promise you, it won’t be a waste of your time.”
There was a brief pause as the other man considered, and the station chief found himself holding his breath. Finally, Sadowski said, “I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Holland exhaled slowly in relief. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The line went dead, and Holland hung up the phone. As he stood there in the dark, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made a serious error in judgment. Essentially, he had told the marine sergeant the truth: that he was the ranking CIA officer at the embassy. Not in so many words, of course, but the implication was clear, and a man with Sadowski’s experience wasn’t likely to miss the underlying message. Now he knew what only five other men at the embassy knew, including the four case officers who reported directly to Holland. It was the kind of information that hundreds, if not thousands, of Arab fundamentalists across the country would gladly kill for.
Holland shook off the lingering doubt. He had just committed an unforgivable sin in the eyes of his employers, but somehow, he knew that he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but the identity of the man on the steps was worth the professional sacrifice. He was sure of it. And if it turned out that he was wrong, so be it. He’d made a calculated wager. Staff Sergeant Daniel Sadowski was a U.S. Marine who had served his country with distinction for years on end, not a gossiping secretary or some shifty, back-alley merchant in the city bazaar. Holland’s true position at the embassy was as safe with him as it was with anyone else, including Holland’s own subordinates.
Turning on his desktop lamp, he crossed to a large Gardall safe in the corner of the room. Crouching before it, he punched in a ten-digit code. The LED light to the right of the keypad turned green. He turned the handle and pulled open the heavy steel door. Inside there were two shelves. The bottom shelf held nothing but files, each of which was labeled with the appropriate security classification. The two objects he needed were on the top shelf. He had not touched either since he had arrived in Sudan eight months earlier. Grabbing them both, Holland closed the safe and locked it once more.
Just as he finished doing so, there was a knock on the door behind him. Getting back to his feet, he crossed the room, placing both objects on the edge of his desk along the way. He opened the door and recognized Sadowski on sight. The twenty-seven-year-old marine was a shade over six feet tall, with a wrestler’s physique, flat green eyes, and hair clipped so short it was impossible to tell what color it was. He was wearing civilian clothes-khakis, a checked flannel shirt, and steel-toed boots-but it was what he held in his right hand that caught Holland’s attention. It was a plastic shopping bag, weighed down in the middle. From the way he was holding it, it was impossible for Holland to determine the contents.
He extended a hand, and Sadowski switched the shopping bag to his left before they shook. Holland pretended not to notice. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant. Come on in.”
Holland stepped back to give him room, and Sadowski crossed the threshold, looking around as he entered the room. For the most part, there wasn’t much to see, which was exactly how Holland wanted it. The office was larger than most, but as spare as a janitor’s. It contained nothing but a desk, a file cabinet, the safe, a few chairs, a couch, and a bookshelf lined with the standard foreign policy textbooks. There were a few motivational posters on the wall to round out the bland decor. It was everything one would expect from a mid-level public servant. The only things that didn’t seem to fit were the items Holland had retrieved from his safe. Sadowski, a trained soldier, spotted them instantly. The first item elicited no reaction, but when he saw the gun, a Heckler amp; Koch USP Expert, a slight frown spread over his face.
After closing and locking his door, Holland crossed to his desk and picked up the gun. Sadowski tensed, but Holland merely held it out for him to take, butt first. The marine sergeant, after a second’s hesitation, accepted the weapon, dropped the magazine, and checked the chamber reflexively.
“It’s clear,” Holland assured him.
As Sadowski reinserted the empty magazine, Holland picked up the second item on his desk, the credentials that marked him as an active field officer-GS-13, step 6-in the Central Intelligence Agency. He held out the plastic ID card. Sadowski stared at him for a moment, then set down the gun and accepted the proffered identification. His eyes flicked over it for a minute, as though he knew what to look for. Then he handed it back. Following Holland’s lead, he took a seat in front of the desk and placed the plastic bag by his right foot.
“Well, I’m convinced,” the detachment commander began. “You are who you say you are, Mr. Holland. I guess you can probably figure out what I’m wondering now.”
The CIA officer nodded. “If I were you, I’d be wondering why I’m showing you this.” He gestured toward the ID and the gun. “Why I’m bringing you into the loop.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it’s not for my health or yours, Sergeant. I’m telling you the truth because I need your help.” He leaned forward and placed his forearms on his desk, fixing the young marine with a steady, serious gaze. “This afternoon I saw a man walk out the front door of this building with an olive green military rucksack. The way I see it, he must have gotten it from you or one of your men. I want to know what was inside that pack. And if you have a name, I want that, too.”
Sadowski nodded slowly. “You don’t want much,” he said at length.
“I realize it’s a lot to ask for. I also realize you are under no obligation to share this information with me. I’m requesting that you do so as a professional courtesy.”
Holland let his eyes drift down to his Agency ID, which was sitting on the desk between them. His meaning was clear, but Sadowski didn’t flinch.
“I’m not sure that’s a good enough reason, Mr. Holland.”
“Maybe not,” Holland said. He smiled disarmingly. “But it’s all I’ve got. Tell me, what time did you speak to Reynolds? Was it before or after this visitor showed up?”
It was a shot in the dark, but from the fractional movement that followed, the way Sadowski’s eyes darted up to the left, Holland saw that he’d gotten it right. He felt a brief flash of satisfaction, but it couldn’t last. What he had just learned-what Sadowski’s body language had given away-was not what he wanted to hear, in a manner of speaking.
After striking out with the consular office and the PAO earlier in the day, Holland had started to suspect the worst, that the man with the green rucksack had met with just one person at the embassy-Walter Reynolds, the charge d’affaires himself. Holland had been hesitant to fully consider that possibility, because if he was right, there was basically no chance he would ever get the answers he was looking for. He did not have a lot of respect for the chief of mission, whom he regarded as lazy and incompetent. But he was still the man in charge, and if he didn’t want anyone to know who had stopped by his office, there would be no prying it out of him.
In other words, Sadowski was his last chance for answers, and he was starting to look uncomfortable. If he walked out, Holland would be left with nothing. With few options left, he decided to play his trump card. It was the one thing he knew would elicit a strong reaction from the man sitting across from him, if only because it seemed to elicit that kind of reaction from everyone.
“Sergeant, did you ever meet Lily Durant?”
Sadowski looked up, his face pinching into a frown of confusion. Clearly, he was trying to figure out where this was going. “No. I saw her once, when she first arrived, but I never spoke to her. At the time, I didn’t even know who she was. I don’t think anyone did. Why do you ask?”
“You know what happened to her, though.”
“Of course.” The staff sergeant’s confusion was rapidly turning to anger. “What kind of question is that? Everyone knows what happened to her. Those fuckers raped and killed her in cold blood. Not only that, they had the nerve to record the whole damned thing, and we-”
He caught himself in time, but Holland knew exactly what he’d been about to say. “And we did nothing,” he said quietly. “Right?”
Sadowski didn’t respond, but the truth was written right there in his eyes. Holland genuinely sympathized with him. He had been trained to fight America’s enemies the world over, but Lily Durant had been killed less than 1,000 miles from where he was standing, probably by the same government that was hosting them, and he had no choice but to stand there and take it. It would be hard for any man to endure such bitter circumstances, let alone a man with Daniel Sadowski’s training and temperament. If the marine had left the building at that moment, weapon in his grip, and taken matters into his own hands, beginning with the presidential palace located a few miles to the north, Holland would not have been surprised.
“I understand how you feel, Sergeant. There are a lot of unhappy people out there. People who are less than pleased with how the president responded to this situation. Believe me, you’re not the only one. Not by a mile.”
Sadowski shook his head angrily. He seemed to have forgotten their earlier verbal sparring; his mind was now fixed on what had happened two months earlier, as well as everything that had occurred in the interim.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said in a low voice. His face seemed to mirror the frustration everyone in the building was feeling. “Why didn’t he authorize some kind of direct action? Hell, why are we still here? It was his niece, for Christ’s sake. You think he would have…”
“Would have what?” Holland asked. He was genuinely interested. Everyone seemed to agree that David Brenneman should have acted in the wake of Durant’s death, but few could agree on what should have been done. The ideas seemed to range from a strongly worded letter of protest to the complete destruction of the Sudanese capital. Holland had listened to these theories, and everything in between, but had heard few sensible suggestions. “In your opinion, what should he have done, Sergeant?”
Sadowski stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, as if trying to decide whether or not Holland was mocking him. Satisfied that he wasn’t, the marine shrugged and grimaced, then ran a hand over his short, bristly hair.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t pretend to have all the answers, Mr. Holland. But you want me to be honest?”
Holland nodded. “Bluntly,” he said.
“Putting it bluntly, sir, my guys think that we should have evacuated our people, then launched a few cruise missiles up the man’s ass. It’s kind of hard to disagree with that plan of action, especially after what happened.”
Holland nodded. He didn’t have to ask for an explanation. The “guys,” he knew, were the marines under Sadowski’s command; the “man” was none other than Omar al-Bashir, the president of Sudan.
“So you agree with them,” he said. It was not a question.
Sadowski held his gaze for a minute. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight, but completely controlled. “Everyone knows that Bashir was behind what happened in West Darfur. He knew what he was starting when he sent in the Janjaweed to destroy that camp, and if he didn’t know, too fucking bad.” Sadowski nodded slowly. “We should have bombed him to hell and back. Yeah, I do agree with that. Absolutely.”
“But instead, we did nothing.”
“That’s right,” Sadowski said. The scowl on his face said more than he could have ever put into words. “Nothing at all. It’s complete bullshit.”
Holland leaned back in his chair and studied the other man plaintively. Having firmly established the young marine’s mind-set, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the next topic. It was something he’d been considering for the past couple of weeks, and while it had started as nothing more than a stubborn idea, a glimmer of insight inspired by events unfolding across the country, he had not been able to shake it. Now, for the first time, he was about to share his suspicions with somebody else, and he had no idea how they might be received.
“What if I were to tell you,” he began slowly, “that I think we are doing something? Something no one knows about. Something no one is meant to know about.”
A hint of curiosity broke through the young man’s angry facade, and he looked at Holland with renewed interest. “Such as?”
Holland shook his head. “I can’t give you any specifics, Sergeant, for the simple truth that I don’t know. This is just an idea, and I can’t prove a thing. But take a look around.” He lifted his arms out to his sides, as though the answer could be found right there in the room. “Look at what’s happened since April. Better yet, look at what hasn’t happened. We’ve had…what? Four demonstrations outside the building over the past month?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is that the normal state of things?”
“No,” Sadowski conceded. He was starting to look interested. “The numbers are way down, as a matter of fact. Before the attack on Camp Hadith, we were getting an average of three a week, ranging from a few students with signs to a few hundred hard-liners with rocks, sticks, and plenty of American flags to burn. Lately, there’s been almost nothing.”
“Nothing for us,” Holland corrected. “But last week there were three demonstrations in protest of Bashir’s regime in Khartoum alone. Did you know that? Demonstrations in protest of his regime. Rallies were staged in Juba and Nyala as well. Of those that took place here in the city, two were staged at Nillien University, and one took place outside the al-Safa mosque in the Jarif district. They were put down by the local police, of course, and put down quickly, but each was attended by more people than the last, and another is scheduled for Tuesday, two days from now. Based on the evidence, I’d say the tide has turned in our favor, and the momentum is only building.”
Sadowski looked intrigued, but also confused. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “Are you suggesting that we had something to do with those demonstrations? That we arranged for them somehow?”
“That depends on who you mean by ‘we.’ I can tell you unequivocally that the Agency is not involved with whatever is happening.” Holland was breaking a number of serious rules by being so candid with the young marine, but he needed Sadowski’s help, and he had already realized that he wouldn’t get it for free. “At the very least, I would have been told up front if we had a part in it. Even if it was on the periphery.”
The sergeant thought that through for a minute. “So you’re wrong,” he said. “If the kind of operation you’re talking about did exist, the CIA would be the natural choice to run it. And since you claim to have no idea what’s going on, these demonstrations must have happened of their own accord. Right?”
“That’s possible,” Holland conceded. “But when was the last time anyone in this city-let alone hundreds of people at a time-said anything negative about Omar al-Bashir in public? I don’t see that happening without some kind of serious provocation.”
“And you think we’re responsible for that provocation.”
“I think it’s possible.”
“But how could that happen without you knowing about it?” Sadowski demanded. He gestured toward Holland’s credentials, which were still sitting on the desk between them. “You’re the CIA station chief. Wouldn’t you be the first person to be tipped off if something like that was going on?”
“Normally, yes,” Holland said, barely managing not to wince at the younger man’s statement of fact. It was strange and more than a little disconcerting to hear his title spoken aloud, and it served to remind him how big a risk he had taken by telling Sadowski the whole truth. “But I don’t think we’re in anything close to normal territory.” He paused. No, not remotely close. In his view, they had entered a zone where everything became murky and ambiguous. “If Brenneman decided to go with an outside source for some reason, it might explain why we’ve been cut out of the loop.”
Sadowski frowned and shook his head. “I don’t see how that makes sense. Why would the president do that? Why put you in that position?”
“I don’t know,” Holland admitted. “But if it happened the way I think it did, it’s the only possible explanation.”
It took a few seconds, but then it clicked for the marine sergeant. “You think that the man who came to the embassy today is somehow tied up in this…” He stumbled for a second, searching for the right word to describe it. “…this theory of yours, don’t you?”
Holland met the younger man’s eyes. “I think it’s a possibility, Sergeant, but again, I can’t prove it. So in that regard, yes, it’s nothing more than conjecture. That’s why I need your help. That’s why I need to see the disks you have in that bag at your feet. The security footage for the building from this afternoon.”
Sadowski looked startled. “How did you…?”
The CIA station chief waved it away. “What else could it be? I was starting to think that your visitor might have taken it with him.”
“He did,” Sadowski confirmed, sitting back in his seat. Now that the wall between them had melted, he seemed almost eager to talk. “Reynolds called down a few minutes beforehand and told me to give him the security disks and any backups, no questions asked.”
“Is that all he took?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Did Reynolds say who the man was? Did he give a name?”
“No. He just said that someone would be down for the disks. The guy showed up a few minutes later, and I handed them over. Then he said he wanted something to carry them in. He looked like he was in a hurry, and I didn’t want any problems with Reynolds, so I just emptied my ruck, stuck the disks in, and sent him on his way.”
“But you didn’t give him the backups,” Holland pointed out. “Why not?”
Sadowski shrugged. “It wasn’t a normal request. More importantly, it was against protocol. I didn’t like it, so I decided to cover my rear end, just in case. Believe me, when you join the Corps, CYA is one of the first things you learn about.”
“And let me guess. The disks you have in that bag are just another set of copies.”
The marine didn’t take the bait. “Actually, these are the backup disks themselves. Your call caught me off guard, sir… I didn’t think to make any more.”
“Right,” Holland said dryly. “That’s why it took you two hours to get back to me.”
Sadowski opened his mouth to argue, but Holland held up a hand, cutting him off. “Relax, Sergeant. I’m not blaming you. I would have done the same thing in your position.”
The marine nodded, clearly relieved to be off the hook. He seemed to have forgotten that Holland had no actual authority over him. Reaching down, he grabbed the bag at his feet and placed it square on the desk. Holland pulled it toward him and withdrew the contents. There were four disks in all, each in a clear plastic jewel case.
“Why so many?” he asked. “How long was he here?”
“Not long. Maybe half an hour or so, but those recordings cover every camera we have, including those with a view of the street. I figured you would want everything.”
Holland looked up. “You knew from the start that you were going to give them to me?”
“No,” Sadowski admitted. “When I talked to you earlier, I was still on the fence.” He didn’t bother to say what had changed his mind. Instead, he nodded toward the small stack of recordable disks. “What are you going to do with them, sir?”
Holland had already thought this through. “First, you and I are going to go down to Post One. That’s the only place in the building that has a multiplexer, and I don’t want to have to flip from camera to camera, scene to scene. We’ll watch these together. You know this place better than anyone, and you might be able to spot anything out of the ordinary. I want your input.”
“And then?”
“That depends on whether or not I can identify him. Maybe seeing his face again will jog something loose. If I can pick him out, I’ll pass the name up the line, along with a detailed report. If I can’t…Well, we’ll just have to see. Either way, I’m going to send these recordings to Langley. They’ll run the video through the facial recognition software. Also, if the man’s name is anywhere on file, they’ll find it.”
“But you’re sure-”
“It’s in there somewhere,” Holland said, anticipating the question. As he stared at the small pile of disks, he knew they contained the information he had been seeking all day. It was strange to be that close and yet still not know. “ He’s in there somewhere. I’ve never been more certain of anything. And once we find out who he is, we’ll have some answers.”