Chapter 27

Washington, DC – Sunday, May 29th, 1983 – 9:54 AM

Gordon flashed his badge at the first security guard inside the door, then again to the one behind the desk. “Mr. Swan,” the man behind the desk said—Gordon had seen him several times, but still didn’t know his name. “Jack asked me to let him know as soon as you got here, so he could come down and meet you.”

“Jack? Who called Jack in?” Gordon asked, anger flaring again. Who had had the nerve to make sure his personal assistant got called in? On a Sunday? When Gordon hadn’t requested it?

At the same time, he appreciated Jack’s presence, and a quick meeting with Jack before Gordon went up would be good. No doubt, Jack wanted to warn Gordon of the ambush he was already was expecting. And going to prepare for.

Theresa McNaney was going to feel his pain. And she was going to learn not to try to go above him, or pull his strings. Not like the stunt she had pulled this morning.

As soon as the security guard had put down the phone, Gordon asked his name. “Tom Michaels, sir,” the guard replied. “Jack said he was coming straight down.”

“Great. I need two security guards. Anybody you can spare?”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to call them up here?”

“Right away, Tom. Thanks.”

Jack arrived first. He nodded curtly at Gordon. “Theresa McNaney and Harold Voss are up there. They have two other flacks with them. Deputy Director Simmons and Deputy Director Curtis are up there was well.”

“Thanks, Tom, for the heads up. Do you know what Deputy Director Simmons and Deputy Director Curtis are doing here?”

“It’s my understanding that they both got letters—both them and Deputy Director Banning—ostensibly from a Donald Hermann Bernhard. Banning couldn’t come in but had one of couriers bring the letter in—pertaining to the case you were discussing with Theresa McNaney and Howard Voss on Friday.”

Gordon pushed his glassed up his nose, looking straight at Jack. “No shit?”

“No shit, sir. They expect you got one, too.”

“Nice of someone to tell me.”

“Sir?”

“Jack, I need to get Theresa McNaney on board. She’s a bully and she’s got a hell of a mouth. If I have to work with her, and apparently I do, I need her taken down a peg.”

Jack nodded. “Sir, she needs to be taken down several pegs.”

Gordon smiled. “Good man. And here’s our first pass, now,” he said, nodding towards the two security guards who were moving briskly down the hall to the front desk. “I’m going to have McNaney kept out of the conference. Whatever it is, and whoever else is there, I’m having her ejected for the entire meeting. We can put her down in detention, if we need to. It’ll probably piss some people off, but if I’m not having my strings pulled by some hyperbolic bitch for the next four weeks or four months or however long this case takes. And I don’t care who she knows.”

Jack nodded. “You’ve got my full support, sir.”

“—whatever he needs,” Tom Michaels was telling the other two security guards. “Be prepared for a situation. I think he’s going to throw that woman from the DOD in lock-up. You know the one, Charlie,” he said, nodding at the bigger guard.

Charlie cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said, smiling. “Sir.”

Gordon at Jack both looked at Tom, eyebrows arched. “You guys know McNaney?”

“She dressed Charlie down on Saturday. Charlie was doing desk. She wanted in yesterday and didn’t have clearance with anybody. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t just come in and walk around anywhere she wanted.” Tom paused thoughtfully. “I’m surprised she didn’t bite him.”

Charlie smiled. “I think she tried. Twice. Don’t worry, I can handle her. I just don’t make the decision, Mr. Swan, you do.”

Gordon nodded. “I’m going to. Come on, let’s go up.” They headed for the elevators.

“Based on her behavior, I consider McNaney a threat to this investigation. She is a loose cannon and clearly does not guard what she says. As such, at such a sensitive juncture in this case, involving such a diverse group of individuals, as director of this investigation I have an obligation to protect my agents, the interests of the other directors that have been involved, and the confidentiality of the case.”

Jack, Charlie, and the other security guard nodded in agreement. “Good. Just so we’re all the same page. If she’s cooperative, she can remain outside until we’re done. If she’s uncooperative, you may take her downstairs, at your discretion.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, nodding. “My discretion.”

As the elevator arrived and the doors opened, Gordon could already hear her yelling at somebody. She was a loud woman. A shrill woman. He was going to keep her involvement to a minimum, whether she liked it or not.

“—I’ve been here for three hours,” she was saying. “I had to wait for 45 minutes for anyone to even show up. I don’t know how you do things over here—it doesn’t look to me like you do much at all—when there is a critical case and pertinent information has been received and you wait until that evening—” She was looking at Deputy Director Simmons pointedly, who simply looked blankly back at her. “—wait until you were done golfing or puttering in the yard before you even alert anybody. I was working all day yesterday, from 7:00 AM until almost midnight—”

“So I’ve heard,” Gordon interjected, approaching the conflagration in the middle of the hall, in front of the same conference room Swan had used to discuss all this garbage with Voss and McNaney on Friday. “What were you doing here, trying to get past security? With no one to see?”

McNaney turned on her heels, face red and nostrils flaring. “I was trying to get in to see Deputy Director Curtis,” she said, cutting her eyes over to him. “I had been assured he would be in, letter in hand—”

“Who assured you?”

McNaney’s eyes narrowed. “I was assured,” she said.

Gordon blinked, eyebrows arched inquisitively. “I got that. By whom?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” McNaney said, glaring at Swan. “I was assured.”

“By someone you won’t identify, for the purposes of waltzing around FBI headquarters to find Deputy Director Curtis—was he expecting you?” he asked, cutting his eyes over to Bob Curtis. “Was there a meeting scheduled?”

Bob Curtis shook his head, just slightly. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I didn’t get word to come in until last night, around ten. The word was for this morning.”

“You weren’t expected to meet Ms. McNaney?”

“I was not, to my knowledge.”

“Yet Ms. McNaney was here, trying to get into the building, by saying she had a meeting scheduled with you—”

Theresa McNaney’s eyes were thin black slits. Gordon could see her jaw muscles working, her teeth grinding back and forth, back and forth. “I was assured—”

Gordon turned and looked directly at her. “By whom, Ms. McNaney? By whom?”

She clenched her teeth, jaw jutting out, glaring defiantly at Swan. “I am not at liberty to say.”

Gordon nodded. “Which is the same as saying ‘nobody’. Which is the same as saying you came over here and were trying to get into FBI headquarters, on false pretenses, for some reason pertaining to this case that you will not divulge, and your explanations so far have been unverifiable.”

McNaney’s eyes were growing wider. She seemed to have just noticed the two security guards flanking Gordon Swan and Jack Harris. “You wouldn’t dare—” she started.

“You represent a security risk. There is going to be a meeting this morning, just as you insisted. I’m afraid, however, I can’t allow you to participate.”

“Howard!” she yelled. “Would you please explain to these people what they are doing—”

Howard Voss leaned forward and whispered into Theresa McNaney’s ear. She apparently didn’t like what she heard, because her eyes grew wider still. “What? What?”

“Ms. McNaney,” Gordon continued. “You may wait outside the conference room, or, if necessary, be escorted—”

She whipped around, her whole body shaking. Good God, it was amazing she just didn’t have a stroke and drop dead right there. “We will see about this,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “All it’s going to take is one phone call—”

“She is a security risk,” Swan said, nodding to Charlie. “Make sure that she doesn’t use or get near a phone while she’s here.”

She opened her mouth, lower lip trembling. She looked like she was trying to say something, but all that came out were dry clicks. “Swan,” she managed after a moment. “You—you’re going to be very sorry—”

Gordon looked straight at McNaney, head down, peering over his glasses. “You try any more stunts like this morning or yesterday and you’re going to have a whole lot more to worry about than Charlie.” He nodded his head at the large black man standing at McNaney’s side. Charlie smiled broadly. “You could be worried about a Federal prosecution. You could be worried about losing your job. Everybody knows somebody in this business. Most of us are smart enough not to pull every string we’ve got, all the time, because something isn’t going just the way we want it to.”

Theresa McNaney was trembling, blinking rapidly, her left eye twitching. “You—you—this is my—”

Gordon nodded at Voss. “I’m sure Mr. Voss will keep you and your superiors adequately appraised, at his discretion. I consider you a security risk. Given your behavior up to this point, I cannot, in good conscious, let you in to this meeting.”

McNaney looked desperately at Voss, then at Deputy Directors Simmons and Curtis, who looked back at her steadily, without a word. Her shoulders slumped, just slightly. “You’re all going to be sorry for this.”

Gordon frowned. “How are we going to be sorry, all of us, Ms. McNaney? What, exactly, are you planning on doing?”

Flushed up to her scalp—her ears looked like little cherry tomatoes—McNaney just glared at Gordon. “I’m waiting,” he said. “Why are we all going to be sorry?”

“No answer. All right, I’ll assume you misspoke. Ms. McNaney, discretion is extremely important in a case such as this.” Gordon took a step towards her. She shrank back, just a tiny bit. Enough to make Gordon think that maybe, finally, he was getting through. “You have not been discrete. I, and my superiors, are going to be much more concerned about discretion than whose arms you can twist or whose strings you can pull, and if you aren’t careful, you’re going to find yourself completely shut out. Of a lot more than just this case. I trust I’ve made myself clear.”

Theresa McNaney said nothing. She just stood, glaring at Gordon, nostrils flaring. Christ, you’d think she was an eight-year old throwing a temper tantrum. The people you met in this line of work. If there hadn’t been such a large audience, he would have shaken his head and sighed in wonder. As it was, experience told him to keep it all business.

“All right,” Gordon said, nodding to Curtis, Simmons, Voss, and the two other suited flacks that Gordon didn’t recognize. “Let’s go in.”

“Have a seat, Ms. McNaney,” Charlie said, smiling broadly, gesturing at the chair at the other side of the hall. “I’ll keep you company.”

Theresa grimaced, cutting Charlie an icy look. “The letters—” she started.

“I’m sure Mr. Voss will appraise of you of the salient points of our discussions, if he feels it’s appropriate to do so,” Gordon said, no longer looking at her. After the last flack went through the door, Gordon followed, closing the door.

“Mr. Swan, let me apologize for Theresa’s behavior,” Howard Voss started. “I’m afraid she hasn’t been very professional so far.”

“No, indeed,” Gordon said. Curtis and Simmons chuckled. “Or very discrete.”

“No, sir,” Voss apologized. “I think you made the right decision. In all confidentiality, I would prefer it if I had that authority in regards to—well, working with her on this.”

Gordon smiled. “No doubt. That’s why you’re in here and she’s not.”

“Thanks. Let me introduce you to Terry McCord and David Ball. Terry is the Assistant Supervisor of Special Projects at the DOD. He’s immediately under Theresa McNaney. But it was felt that perhaps he should be involved as well, in case Ms. McNaney had to focus on other priorities.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Gordon hummed as Terry shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Swan.”

“David works with me at the NSA. He actually spent a lot more time at Oak Ridge.”

David nodded, sticking his hand out. “I was working on the original team. For the last three months, it was Dr. Tsukishiro Yukito and myself working with the DOD on the investigation of Donald Bernhard. Dr. Yukito is still assisting us, going through materials at Oak Ridge—hopefully you’ll be able to meet him soon. He’s been very helpful so far. It—”

Gordon nodded. “He was the one that indicated Dr. Bernhard might be in Los Angeles.”

David nodded. “That’s right. You actually read the reports you get.”

Bob Curtis laughed. “That’s Swan. He’s always trying to make the rest of us look bad.”

Zach Simmons chuckled politely. Howard Voss spoke up. “As you may be aware, Deputy Directors Curtis, Simmons and Banning all received letters, at their home, on either Friday or Saturday, from Dr. Donald Bernhard.”

Gordon nodded. “Like this one,” he said, opening his own briefcase and pulling out the letter he had received on Saturday. “’I used my super powers of extra-terrestrial ESP to figure out you were going to be in charge of my case’.”

“That’s correct,” Voss said, a small, indulgent smile on his face, as if he was humoring a difficult child. Which rankled Gordon a little bit, but it was a decided improvement over McNaney’s open belligerence. “I expected that you received one, too.”

“So I think we can assume, at least four of us got these letters, that Donald Bernhard didn’t actually use some sort of alien technology to figure out who was going to be taking this case on at the FBI—”

Voss nodded. “I would say that’s a safe assumption.”

“But he obviously got our names. Our addresses. Knew our positions. Do you think he did that with something developed out of the stolen artifact.”

Voss looked uncomfortably at Curtis and Simmons, then back to Dr. Bernhard. “Um—I—”

“You can say anything you wish in front of Deputy Director’s Curtis and Simmons. I wouldn’t have brought them into this case, of course, but I wasn’t left that choice.”

Bob Curtis chuckled. “I’d guess not. Are you saying there’s something to this ‘artifact’ nonsense?”

Gordon breathed in deeply. “Somebody thinks there is. Voss here says he’s seen it do something. Shoot lightning or whatever. But there is something here. Otherwise, Bernhard—or somebody—wouldn’t have written us all this letter.”

Simmons nodded. “It’s a red herring.”

Voss looked at Simmons. “You think it’s a trick?”

“Well, shit, yeah,” Zach Simmons said. “He sent it to all of us and maybe a dozen more. He knew we’d know it was bullshit, right after we got it.”

“What about the political points—?”

Simmons smirked. “It’s a load of horseshit. Political wing-nuts announcing their intention to single-handedly show the world what-for don’t write neat, concise one page letters. They go on. Especially if they know you’re going to know who they are—they aren’t going to be cryptic. This guy—he made sure we all got it, that it all said the same thing, so when Gordon puts his agents on it—or whoever was going to be assigning agents made assignments—they’d have to waste a shitload of time following up political connections. I mean, the guy is talking treason. No matter how easy we all see it’s a load of shit, if this lands in your lap, you’ve got to follow it up and dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’. It’ll be your ass on the line. But, yeah, this is all about throwing us off the scent. So what’d the guy take, exactly?”

Voss spoke up quickly. “Do you agree, Mr. Swan, that these letters are just a diversion?”

Gordon nodded. “Of course I do. He doesn’t even care if we know it’s a diversion. Didn’t care. Whoever wrote it knows we will have to follow up, knew, I’m sure, that just getting those letters would stir up a hornets nest. I just got put on this thing Friday and I’ve already put someone from the DOD under house arrest, and is she going to pitch a fit later.”

“I’ll back you up on that one, Gord,” Curtis said. Simmons concurred.

“I’ll back you up, too,” Voss noted. “She is making this difficult for everybody.” Gordon thought he heard a little just like you’re making this difficult for everybody, unsaid but still hanging over his words. Amazingly, Voss seemed to take all this extra-terrestrial horseshit seriously. McNaney, he could see how she might take investigations involving little green men very seriously. But Voss? Gordon Swan was pretty good at sizing people up, and he thought Voss probably had it pretty well together. But he really believed that Bernhard had stolen something from a UFO, and he really wanted to find it. It was a strange, strange world.

“So how did he get our addresses?” Gordon asked, looking from Voss to David Ball. “Did he build something from the UFO he stole from you guys? I mean, that’s not public information—”

“Well, actually,” David Ball said, “it sort of is for a number of government agencies. There’s an interagency directory on the ARAPANET and those with classified access can actually search on position and agency, and then get additional address information, if available—which for most of the people in the FBI, it is. And Dr. Bernhard and his staff all had classified access to the ARPANET, which would include interagency resources like the interagency directory.”

Bob Curtis’s jaw dropped.

“Well, shit,” Simmons said. “Does the directory include the best time of day to shoot us in our beds? Or the best place to wire our houses with explosives? Who the hell is on the ARPANET except for the FBI and Oak Ridge?”

“Uh, most of our government agencies and most research facilities and most colleges and universities are on the ARPANET—although, the colleges and universities don’t have access to classified government libraries, of course.”

“Uh huh,” Simmons said. “No twenty-year old college kid at MIT would ever be able to outsmart a forty year old bureaucrat at the DOD or the CIA—”

David Ball laughed. “You’re right, you’re right—technology is just moving so fast now, sometimes it’s hard to keep up. Most of the DOD network and the network connecting our military agencies and installations has been moved off ARPANET and onto MILNET, which is a closed network—”

“Most?” Bob Curtis asked.

“But there are locations that have access to both MILNET and ARPANET—Oak Ridge is one of them—and the interagency directory is still available under ARPANET, and there is another directory running on MILNET—”

Bob Curtis shook his head. “For the love of Pete.”

“So, what you are saying is Dr. Bernhard didn’t need to do anything special to get all our home addresses. Find out our names.”

David Ball and Howard Voss nodded simultaneously. David Ball said: “We know he looked your names and addresses up off the network, and then just sent each one of you a letter—the list actually covered forty different people. We assume some of the letters are in the mail, and some of the addresses in the directory are no longer accurate—”

“But no hocus pocus,” Gordon repeated. “No technology ‘synthesized from the alien artifact’, you agree with that?”

“Yes,” Voss interjected. “I think that’s actually part of the smokescreen—he intentionally did something that he could do using nothing more than his computer access, and then attributed it to some advantage afforded him by the artifact in the letter. Then, sent it to an entire list of people—just to drive the point home. To make himself seem like a fake. But he left a text dump of his address search in his personal directory on the mainframe at Oak Ridge. He knew we’d be searching his directory. He’d have to. So he wanted us to find it. Or was leading us to the conclusion, in case we were too stupid to reach it ourselves. It’s all about distraction. He’s trying to distract us from something.”

“He is?” Gordon asked. “I though he was dead.”

“He was trying to, I should say. What’s happening now are the results of things he set in motion, with the intent to mislead and misdirect, while he was still alive—”

“From what?” Gordon interrupted. “Why go to all this trouble? Political screeds? Claiming he did something with your ‘artifact’ that he knew that we’d find out he didn’t do—”

“Actually, I’m sure he left the list there for just that purpose,” Voss said.

“So why? Other than to prove, from beyond the grave, that he was smart and we’re all stupid? What’s the point?”

Zach Simmons was nodding. Bob Curtis was shaking his head.

“To keep us from finding out what he did do with it,” Voss said. “To distract us from looking where he actually hid it.”

David Ball nodded. “Or who he gave it to.”

“Hmm.” Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “And we don’t have any idea who that might be. If there is a who.”

“Not yet. We’re looking into it. I’m afraid most of the obvious leads are too obvious. But, of course, you’ll have them—”

Gordon nodded. “And I’ll have to follow up on them.”

Voss nodded. “But I don’t think anybody on our side of the table would object to you going in the opposite direction. If that’s where you think the answers are. In the end, we want to locate the artifact. That’s all the ass covering anybody will need—the artifact, in our hands. Before it falls into the wrong hands.”

Like whose? Gordon thought. Boris and Natasha? Theresa McNaney? Someone with some damn sense?

“And despite the obvious fakery here, you still think that Bernhard wasn’t just pulling your leg? Going out with a bang? Giving a big ‘up yours’ to the slave drivers that signed his paycheck most of his life? You think he took off with this because, under everybody’s nose, he unlocked the secret code, stole the artifact, and did almost nothing with it—except kill himself.”

Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons joined Gordon Swan in looking at Howard Voss, David Ball, and the so-far silent Terry McCord expectantly. “Nothing that we know of,” Howard Voss said evenly.

Gordon saw Bob Curtis roll his eyes. Bob didn’t think any more of this nonsense than Swan did. And he was probably pissed for being dragged from his house on Sunday for this stupid meeting, to boot. Gordon could hardly blame him.

“So what do you think he did? Why go through all the trouble? Just to get this thing and end up dead? You don’t think he’s a political ideologue anymore than I do, I don’t think—”

“We just don’t know,” Howard Voss said. “We just don’t. Just like we don’t know what he did with it. But just because we don’t know what he might have done or had planned to do doesn’t matter. The fact that you and your colleagues think this is all horseshit doesn’t matter. You can think it’s just a glorified paperweight—you just get it back. And be careful with it.” Howard Voss paused, looking evenly at Swan. “In case it’s not just a paperweight.”

Gordon nodded. “I got that message on Friday. In fact, except for the letters, which tell us nothing about the location and, frankly, seem to argue against the assertion that there is serious value to this thing, I don’t really understand why we are all here.”

Voss looked down. “McNaney didn’t want to wait until Monday, Mr. Swan.”

“All right, I prefer an honest answer. The more of those I get, the more cooperative I can be. What I’m going to do now is ask that, unless they want to stay, everybody be dismissed so they can go and spend their Sundays at home. If you would go ahead and give me the copies of the letters, I’ll make sure they get added to the case file. Then I’m going to put a call into the agents I’m assigning. Then, I’m going home, and I don’t want myself or anybody else here to hear about this case until Monday. All right?”

“That’s entirely reasonable,” Howard Voss replied. “I apologize again—”

“One thing.”

Gordon looked up. It was Terry McCord. “I was working with Dr. Tsukishiro and Kevin McCall—he was our tech guy—the day we saw activity out of the artifact. Dr. Tsukishiro and McCall were closest—I was on the other side of the room, working on the laser.”

Gordon’s brow furrowed. “Kevin McCall. He was the one who went to the hospital.”
David Ball was nodding. “He sure did.”

“There was a projection,” McCord continued. “I couldn’t make out the content at the time, and the video tape system malfunctioned, so I can’t tell you what the projection was of, precisely. Letters. Numbers. Ideographs. Pictures. Symbols. Some English words, some Roman letters. Some recognizable numbers. And a lot more. I don’t know if it was a warning, or what it was supposed to be. If it was a warning, it didn’t give us much time—the laser was running, but at a strength barely higher than the laser in a bar code scanners at the grocery store—and it looked like the whole room went white. It felt like someone had just hammered nails into my eyes. I couldn’t see clearly again for almost an hour. I had held my arms in front of my face—I don’t remember doing so, I certainly don’t know how I had time—but I guess that is why I’m not blind. Unlike Kevin McCall. Or maybe that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

Gordon looked closely at McCord. For the first time, Gordon realized that Terry McCord didn’t have any eyebrows. “It didn’t get me badly,” he said, watching Gordon’s eyes. “Not like McCall, or even Dr. Tsukishiro. But it got me.” Terry McCord undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, and rolled them both up. Then he held out the underside of his arms to Gordon Swan. “And when you have something like this burned into your skin—it made a believer out of me. I’ll say that much.”

Gordon leaned over, carefully examining McCord’s arms. They were scarred, all right—jagged stripes that tapered off at the end near his wrist, a cluster of strips that looked almost like he had been branded with a bar code above that. Near his elbow were more bars, and a shape like a triangle, and what looked like a looping symbol, some sort of cloverleaf design, burned into his arm over his elbow. After a moment of looking at both of Terry McCord’s arms, Gordon blinked. The scars were mirror images of each other. Almost perfect reflections.

“I—“ Gordon started. “This—were you—facing it directly when this happened? Or—?”

Terry McCord shook his head, and lowered his sleeves. “No. I was standing at an angle. About thirty degrees. My right side was closer. It should have scorched me right side a lot worse than it did—“

“The scars—the patterns—they are identical—“
“Mirror images,” Terry McCord nodded. “Perfect mirror images. To the centimeter. Doesn’t make much sense. Maybe it was a message we were supposed to recognize.”

“And nothing else? Like that, I mean? It never did anything else like that?”

Voss and David Ball were shaking their heads. “No,” David Ball said. “Nothing. But we suspect it was shortly after that that Dr. Bernhard substituted his fake artifact for the real thing, which would explain—”

“So, he was so impressed with this thing shooting lighting and burning off people’s skin that he decided to take it home and play with it?”

“Or he may have had something to do with the event,” Voss said, frowning slightly. “On purpose or not. He may have had reasons not to be concerned. Or he may he just didn't care about the potential danger.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. McCord.” Gordon looked at David Ball and then Howard Voss. “Thank you, thank you. I’m sure I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Mr. Voss.”

Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons both stood up as Voss, McCord, and Ball headed out the door. “Thanks for coming, guys,” Swan said apologetically. “I wouldn’t have called you in on Sunday, myself, but I appreciate that you showed up.”

Bob Curtis nodded his head. “Do what we can. Jeannie was pissed off. But what can you do?”

Gordon laughed. “Yeah, I have that same trouble with Helen.”

Bob leaned in, putting his hand on Swan’s elbow and pulling him closer. “You don’t buy any of this horseshit, am I correct?” he said, just loud enough that Simmons could hear him, too, but no one else.

“No,” Swan replied. “I haven’t seen anything yet—not even whatever happened to Mr. McCord’s arms—that tells me this is anything but garbage. But there are some people who take it seriously. And I can’t get out of running this investigation.” Swan smiled. “Unless I quit. Then maybe one of you guys could get it.”

“Uh, no,” Bob Curtis said quickly.

Zach Simmons shook his head. “What a hell of a thing,” he said as he passed Swan on the way out. “I do not envy you.”

Gordon chuckled. “As well you shouldn’t.” Gordon glanced out into the hall as Curtis and Simmons made their way out, where Charlie stood with Theresa McNaney, who was sitting and brooding. Gordon looked pointedly at Charlie. “Charlie, call my office and see if Jack’s down there. If he is, send him in here, would you?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Swan,” Charlie answered, and Gordon let the door to the conference room start to shut.

“Hey,” Theresa McNaney started. “What about—” And the door shut with a click.

Gordon shook his head. He thought about calling Helen, and decided against it. It wouldn’t help, at this point. Between driving in and conducting the meeting, he’d already been gone two-and-a-half hours and would be gone some more still. No, that would just stir things up. Jack was in—he could get calls out to the agents Gordon was assigning and get the paperwork started. Then Jack could go home, too.

“Mr. Swan?” Jack asked, sticking his head in the door.

“Come on in,” Gordon said. “Let’s do this quick so we can all go home. This is for case—” He looked at the top of his own note pad. “Case number 57786886-101. I want you to get the word out to Frank Andrews, Vic VanCleef and Lydia Chelsea that they are assigned as of now, and do the paper for me and I’ll sign off on it Monday. If you could, write a brief on the case—try to emphasize the need for discretion and downplay the ‘alien artifact’ gobbledygook.”

Jack nodded, his own legal pad out, pencil already working as he sat down at the end of the table. “Understood.”

“I’m going to go ahead and head home. Have Charlie show McNaney to the street after you’re done here. But not until.”

Jack nodded without comment, writing.

“And bring in some donuts in the morning for Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons.”

Jack nodded. “Will do.”

Gordon got up and headed for the door. Jack stood up to follow. Swan walked into the hall, where Theresa McNaney sat, glowering. She looked exhausted—probably from carrying around that giant chip on her shoulder—but still angry.

“Charlie, Jack’s got some work to finish up here, and when he’s done, he’s going to call down to let you know it’s all right to let Ms. McNaney leave.”

Gordon noted with a slight smile that Jack took a half-step backwards when McNaney lurched up, eyes wide and almost yellow, face flushing red. “What the hell—?” she started.

Charlie put one large, brown hand on There McNaney’s shoulder and easily forced her down into her seat. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he suggested. “If I need to put you under restraint, it might take a lot longer. You getttin’ out of here, I mean.”

“Swan,” McNaney hissed between clenched teeth. “I’m going to have your job for this.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Who really talked like that? “You’re welcome to it,” Swan replied. “Then you’ll get to deal with people like you.”

“You’ll see,” she said, her voice low. “You’ll see.”

“Your attempt to coerce by threat a deputy director of the FBI in front of two witnesses duly noted,” Swan replied. “I suggest, for your own good, you consider what you say from this point forward a little more carefully, and wait patiently, until Charlie tells you that you can go.”

McNaney just glared. Gordon shook his head, and continued down the hall, parting company with Jack at the elevators. “Try to enjoy the rest of your Sunday, sir,” he said as Gordon punched the call button for the elevator.

“And you don’t stay here too long,” Gordon said, looking back down the hall to where McNaney was sitting, Charlie’s hand still firmly on her shoulder.

“Just long enough,” Jack said, and smiled. “I’m not in that big of a hurry today.”

The elevator doors opened, and Gordon stepped in. “You’re a good man, Jack. See you Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and continued on down the hall. Ah, to be Jack, he thought as the elevator doors closed. Young and energetic enough to work on Sundays without feeling like he had been kicked in the chest by an angry mule. Young and energetic enough not to dread the coming week, and what would, no doubt, be an ongoing conflict with McNaney, waged as much if not more with other people who didn’t want to deal with McNaney as with McNaney herself. Gordon rubbed his temples, leaning against the back of the elevator as it descended, eyes closed.

Four years, he thought. Just four more years.