The one that only exists in three places, and two of those places are supposed to be permanently sealed.” He looked at Dad.
“Someone with very high clearance is looking for us.
And I don’t think they’re looking to say hello.”
“Do you have a name?” Dad asked.
Victor’s hand moved on the envelope.
“I have something better,” he said.
“I have a transaction record.
Whoever accessed the files did it through a federal terminal.
The access was scrubbed, but not perfectly.
I have the terminal ID and the timestamp.” He tapped the envelope.
“It’s in here.
Along with everything else.”
“Everything else meaning what?” Director Marsh asked.
“The full operational record for the program.
Every mission.
Every operative.
Every protected family.” He paused.
“And the mission that was never officially logged.”
The diner was very quiet.
Dad looked at Victor steadily.
“You kept a record of that.”
“I kept a record of everything.
That was my job.” Victor met his eyes.
“Including what happened to Flight 1184.”
I didn’t know what Flight 1184 was.
But Director Marsh went very still beside me.
And my father’s hand, resting on the table, curled slowly into a fist.
“That file was destroyed,” Dad said.
“The official copy was,” Victor said.
“I made a second one.
I’ve been sitting on it for thirty years because I didn’t know what to do with it.” He finally pushed the envelope across the table.
“I’m giving it to you because you’re the only person in that file who I know for certain is still on the right side.”
Dad looked at the envelope.
He picked it up.
“I’ll need a few hours with this,” he said to Director Marsh.
“We have a secure room at the field office—”
“I’ll read it here,” he said.
The coffee came.
Nobody drank much of it.
Dad read for forty minutes.
He read the way he did everything — without rushing, without visible reaction.
Occasionally he turned a page back and read something again.
Once he stopped and looked out the window at the dark street for a long moment before continuing.
I didn’t ask.
I waited.
Ray and Victor spoke quietly at the far end of the booth.
Director Marsh made one call, stepped outside, came back.
She sat down and looked at her coffee.
When Dad finished, he closed the envelope and set it flat on the table.
“Tell me what I’m missing,” he said to Victor.
“What do you think you’re missing?”
“The name of the person who ordered the cover-up.
The record shows the decision chain up to a certain point and then it stops.
Someone above that point made the final call and their name isn’t in here.”
Victor nodded slowly.
“Because I didn’t have it when I made the copy,” he said.
“I found it later.
It took me eleven years.” He reached into his coat pocket and placed a folded piece of paper on the table.
“It’s there.”
Dad unfolded it.
He read it.
He folded it again.
“Does she know you have this?” he asked.
“She knows someone has it.
She doesn’t know it’s me.
She doesn’t know it’s in this diner.” Victor looked at him.
“But she knows you’re alive.
She’s known for about two weeks.
I think she’s the one who ran the searches.”
Director Marsh leaned forward.
“Who is it?”
Dad handed her the paper.
She read it.
Her face did something complicated.
“She’s been in her current position for nine years,” she said.
“Yes,” Victor said.
“She has oversight of four federal agencies.”
“Yes.”
“If this is accurate—”
