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Authors: Robin Burcell
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office at Quantico. Have at it.”
“Pearson would like to search your apartment, as well.”
“Do I need an attorney?”
He looked her right in the eye and lowered his voice. “You know I’d tell you if you did. It’s . . . more a matter of national security. And your safety. Pearson will explain when we get to his office. He’s asked that I escort you.”
Still she didn’t move. It wasn’t because she didn’t believe him. She knew Scotty enough to realize he wouldn’t lie about something that important. If he said they were searching as a precaution, she believed him. Her concern, at this point, was for the laptop with the files on it. Actually not the laptop, which could only be traced to her. If, however, they were to discover a flash drive in its port that might very well have Scotty’s fingerprints on it?
“Fine. Let me get my phone and my keys. I’ll drive myself. You can follow me.”
She turned around, knowing they’d be watching her like a hawk. She walked straight to the kitchen table, keeping her back to them, hoping she could palm the flash drive without them seeing.
“Don’t touch the computer,” one of them said.
“You need the flash drive?” She pulled it from the port, smeared her thumb and forefinger across it to smudge any prints, then held it out.
The dark-haired agent closest to her reached over, took it from her. She eyed the notes she’d made from the flash drive files, wondering if they’d take that, too. Maybe they wouldn’t connect it to the flash drive. Losing the laptop, she could handle. Losing the notes?
Unfortunately one of the investigators looked at it at the same time, then picked it up along with the laptop.
She wondered if her day could get any worse.
9
S ydney had been holed up in Pearson’s office ever since she and Scotty left her apartment. He did allow her to make one stop, to her across-the-hall neighbor, Tina, so that she could explain that a couple of her coworkers were going to be doing some work at her place and not to be alarmed if she saw them removing any property. Once at HQ, Pearson explained their position, his concern being only for her safety—look what had happened to the young man in South San Francisco who’d found the numbers on the copy machine and been shot as a result.
That she understood. Even so, she paced the room, feeling like a criminal. Pearson eventually left, had been gone for a couple of hours, and Scotty had been assigned the job of babysitter. And for what? To make sure she didn’t run off? They undoubtedly had the list by now. So what the hell was taking them so long? she wondered, looking at the clock. It was almost five P.M.
“This is utter bullshit,” she said, yet again. “Why are they searching my apartment? What are they expecting to find, when the list they want is—was—locked up in my desk drawer at Quantico?”
Scotty was seated in one of the chairs in front of Pearson’s desk. “You heard what he said. They’ve just got to be sure. Protocol and all.”
“What’s there to be sure of? I wouldn’t lie to him.”
Scotty got up out of his seat, looked through the partially open blinds out to the main floor, then turned back to her. Up until now, he’d been fairly quiet, not commenting on the case. Probably because he was worried about what they might find that could lead to him. Not that she was about to say anything. Not here. Not when she didn’t know if there were any listening devices.
“You made a copy when you knew it was a classified document,” he said, his look almost pleading with her to shut up. “That’s not exactly telling the truth.”
In this case, truth was subjective. The last thing she wanted to do was get Carillo in trouble over this, so she wasn’t about to mention that he’d made the copy, not her. “An oversight on my part. How was I supposed to know the thing was some national security document?”
“Because I told you so.”
“No, what you told me was a
“Pearson would like to search your apartment, as well.”
“Do I need an attorney?”
He looked her right in the eye and lowered his voice. “You know I’d tell you if you did. It’s . . . more a matter of national security. And your safety. Pearson will explain when we get to his office. He’s asked that I escort you.”
Still she didn’t move. It wasn’t because she didn’t believe him. She knew Scotty enough to realize he wouldn’t lie about something that important. If he said they were searching as a precaution, she believed him. Her concern, at this point, was for the laptop with the files on it. Actually not the laptop, which could only be traced to her. If, however, they were to discover a flash drive in its port that might very well have Scotty’s fingerprints on it?
“Fine. Let me get my phone and my keys. I’ll drive myself. You can follow me.”
She turned around, knowing they’d be watching her like a hawk. She walked straight to the kitchen table, keeping her back to them, hoping she could palm the flash drive without them seeing.
“Don’t touch the computer,” one of them said.
“You need the flash drive?” She pulled it from the port, smeared her thumb and forefinger across it to smudge any prints, then held it out.
The dark-haired agent closest to her reached over, took it from her. She eyed the notes she’d made from the flash drive files, wondering if they’d take that, too. Maybe they wouldn’t connect it to the flash drive. Losing the laptop, she could handle. Losing the notes?
Unfortunately one of the investigators looked at it at the same time, then picked it up along with the laptop.
She wondered if her day could get any worse.
9
S ydney had been holed up in Pearson’s office ever since she and Scotty left her apartment. He did allow her to make one stop, to her across-the-hall neighbor, Tina, so that she could explain that a couple of her coworkers were going to be doing some work at her place and not to be alarmed if she saw them removing any property. Once at HQ, Pearson explained their position, his concern being only for her safety—look what had happened to the young man in South San Francisco who’d found the numbers on the copy machine and been shot as a result.
That she understood. Even so, she paced the room, feeling like a criminal. Pearson eventually left, had been gone for a couple of hours, and Scotty had been assigned the job of babysitter. And for what? To make sure she didn’t run off? They undoubtedly had the list by now. So what the hell was taking them so long? she wondered, looking at the clock. It was almost five P.M.
“This is utter bullshit,” she said, yet again. “Why are they searching my apartment? What are they expecting to find, when the list they want is—was—locked up in my desk drawer at Quantico?”
Scotty was seated in one of the chairs in front of Pearson’s desk. “You heard what he said. They’ve just got to be sure. Protocol and all.”
“What’s there to be sure of? I wouldn’t lie to him.”
Scotty got up out of his seat, looked through the partially open blinds out to the main floor, then turned back to her. Up until now, he’d been fairly quiet, not commenting on the case. Probably because he was worried about what they might find that could lead to him. Not that she was about to say anything. Not here. Not when she didn’t know if there were any listening devices.
“You made a copy when you knew it was a classified document,” he said, his look almost pleading with her to shut up. “That’s not exactly telling the truth.”
In this case, truth was subjective. The last thing she wanted to do was get Carillo in trouble over this, so she wasn’t about to mention that he’d made the copy, not her. “An oversight on my part. How was I supposed to know the thing was some national security document?”
“Because I told you so.”
“No, what you told me was a
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