Chapter 43

43

On the opening day of the film festival, Jillian headed to work at seven a.m., after tossing and turning through her second night in a row.

It was thoughts of what Braun might do to Billy Barnett—if the producer turned out to actually be Teddy Fay—that kept her from any serious sleep. She knew it wouldn’t be good, just as she knew whatever he did to Barnett would be her fault. She was the one who pointed Braun in Barnett’s direction, after all.

She’d been so excited when she solved the difficult puzzle that connected Billy Barnett and Teddy Fay. It was a shot of dopamine straight into her brain.

Unfortunately, Lawrence had walked into her office before she had time to think about the consequences of what she’d discovered, and he had wanted to know why she was so happy.

“I found him!” she’d blurted out, then proceeded to show him what she’d learned.

It wasn’t until he said they needed to tell Braun right away that she realized her mistake.

Today, as she rode the train, she tried to think of something she could do to try to remedy the situation that wouldn’t get her killed. By the time she reached her stop, she had a plan.

When she arrived at her office, she closed the door and woke up her monitor. Using the encryption key Lawrence had given her, she accessed the message inbox.

In addition to the folder that held the messages she had been given access to were several others that were password protected. This would have stymied most people, but Jillian was not most people. The best researchers were also hackers, and she was one of the best of the best.

Within thirty minutes, she had access to all the other folders. There were hundreds of messages from multiple sources.

She performed a keyword search using the name “Teddy Fay” and received hits on a dozen messages. Four of those messages were ones she’d already had access, too, and concerned the rumors of him still being alive.

Interestingly, the remaining eight messages all came from the same source.

She clicked through the messages. Several had documents attached. She opened these.

All were official CIA documents. Most were career summaries of the same people who were on Braun’s list.

The only one that wasn’t a summary turned out to be the mission report for an operation called Golden Hour. She’d heard the name before. Braun had said it to Lawrence the day she’d been brought up to Braun’s office to meet him.

Within the document was a list of the mission participants. It was a match to Braun’s list.

She grinned. These messages were what she’d been hoping to find.

She rolled her head from side to side, rubbed her hands together, then began trying to see if she could trace the messages back to their sender.

Two hours later, she leaned back, triumphant. The sender had not been quite as careful as he thought he had been. Most of the messages were untraceable. Two, however, had been sent from a personal computer belonging to one Richard Pearson. Ironically, both messages were ones questioning when payment would be received.

Breaking into the CIA network took another hour. Once in, she checked if there were any Richard Pearsons working for the Agency. Turns out there were two. One was on the janitorial staff, while the other was a senior analyst specializing in European matters.

“You’ve been a very bad man, Mr. Pearson,” she said.

Jillian decided the best person to contact with what she’d learned would be the person at the top—the CIA’s director, Lance Cabot.

She found an email address for him that appeared to be for priority matters.

She created a dummy email account and wrote a message.

Dear Director Cabot:

Someone in your organization has been selling information. I’ve included copies of the documents that were exchanged. I’ve done a preliminary track back and the sender appears to be a person named Richard Pearson. I advise doing your own investigation.

Also, if you have any ties to the film producer Billy Barnett, please know that his life is in danger, and advise him not to attend the World Thriller Film Festival this evening.

The app she was using would remove all traces of who she was from the email when it was sent.

She was reading through her message to be sure it said what she wanted it to when her office phone rang, the caller ID reading: F. Braun .

She looked around nervously, wondering if cameras had been installed in her office without her knowing.

As the phone rang for a third time, she picked it up. “This is Jillian Courtois.”

“I need you in my office right now,” Braun said.

“Okay, sure. What is this—” She stopped herself when she realized he’d hung up.

She wondered if he knew what she was doing, and whether she should delete the email instead of sending it.

She took a breath to steady herself and hit Send .

“Oh, God,” she whispered as the message disappeared.

She logged out of the app, and then headed for her meeting with Braun.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Lance’s phone pinged.

He’d hitched a ride early that morning on a Strategic Services jet that would be dropping him off in D.C.

The message was from an unknown sender, and he wouldn’t have opened it but for the subject line that read: Golden Hour .

He read the note and looked at the attachments.

His search for the mole had not been going well, and now he knew why. Richard Pearson had not been on anyone’s list of potential leakers. Lance himself could barely remember what the man even looked like. From what he could recall, Pearson was quiet and unassuming and good but not great at his job.

Lance made a call. “Bailey. It’s Lance. There’s something I need you to take care of.”

Ten minutes later, and less than fifteen after Jillian had hit Send on her email, someone rang Richard Pearson’s doorbell.

His five a.m. alarm had just gone off, and he had yet to pull himself out of bed.

The bell rang again.

“Are you going to get that?” his wife asked without opening her eyes.

“Why me?” he asked.

“It won’t be for me. It never is at this hour.”

The bell sounded a third time.

“Get the door,” his wife said. “They’re obviously not going away.”

Pearson grumbled and crawled out of bed. After pulling on his robe, he made his way downstairs.

The visitor pushed the doorbell button again.

“Relax! I’m coming!”

When he reached the door, he took a moment to compose himself, then pulled it open and stared in confusion. Standing on his porch was Deputy Director Bailey Robinson, and behind her were four people he didn’t recognize.

“Good morning, Richard,” the deputy director said. “I apologize for getting you up so early.”

“Good morning, Deputy Director. It’s fine. I was already awake.”

“Oh, good. I was wondering if we might have a word.”

“Um, sure,” he said, trying to remain calm. “Come in.”

He moved to the side and Robinson and two of the people with her entered, while the other two remained outside.

He led them into the living room. “Would you like some coffee? I haven’t started it yet, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already had a cup,” Robinson said. “Shall we sit?”

She motioned Pearson to the couch while she took one of the chairs across from it. Her companions remained standing.

Pearson felt his mouth going dry as he sat, hoping she was just here for his assistance on something urgent.

“What can I help you with?” he asked.

Smiling, she said, “To start, you can tell me when your relationship with Felix Braun began.”

“Oh, shit.” The words were out of his mouth before he even realized he’d spoken.

“?‘Oh, shit,’ indeed,” the deputy director said.