Chapter 7: The Deputy Director Makes His Move
The credentials flag hit at eleven fifty-nine.
Harlan's access card stopped working at the federal building's north entrance at twelve-oh-one.
He was already inside.
He had walked through security at eleven fifty-eight, nodded to the guard he had known for six years, and taken the stairs instead of the elevator.
By the time the system registered the flag, he was on the fourth floor, moving down a corridor that smelled of old carpet and recycled air.
Reyes was two floors below, managing the courier chain.
Ray was in the car outside, which was the only place he could legally be.
Harlan's phone buzzed.
A text from a number he didn't recognize.
*He knows you're in the building.
He's coming down from seven.*
He didn't stop walking.
He typed back: *How long?*
The reply came in four seconds.
*Three minutes.
Maybe less.*
He pocketed the phone and pushed through a door marked RECORDS LIAISON — a small, cluttered office with two desks, a wall of filing cabinets, and a woman in her fifties who looked up from her monitor without surprise.
"Director Webb."
"Janet." He closed the door behind him.
"I need two minutes of your printer and your discretion."
"You've had my discretion for eleven years." She turned her monitor toward him.
"Sit down."
He sat.
He pulled out the drive.
"This needs to print to a physical document and be hand-delivered to Judge Mercer's clerk before twelve-thirty.
Not emailed.
Not faxed.
Walked."
Janet looked at the drive.
"Is this what I think it is?"
"Probably."
She took it without another word, plugged it into a port on her machine, and began printing.
The printer was old and slow and sounded like it was considering each page individually.
Harlan's phone buzzed again.
He looked at it.
A call.
Not a text.
Deputy Director Callahan.
He let it ring four times.
Then he answered.
"Richard."
"Where are you?" Callahan's voice was smooth.
It was always smooth.
That was the thing about him — he never sounded like a man who was afraid.
He sounded like a man who was managing a situation.
"Your credentials were flagged as a precaution.
Standard protocol when an active operation shows anomalous movement.
You understand."
"Of course."
"I'd like you to come up to seven so we can sort this out quickly."
"I'm a little tied up at the moment."
A short pause.
"Harlan.
I want to help you.
Whatever you think you've found — whatever Raymond has told you — I want to make sure we handle it correctly.
Through proper channels.
You know how important that is."
The printer finished its third page.
"I do know how important that is," Harlan said.
"That's why I'm handling it correctly."
"Come up to seven."
"I'll be in touch, Richard."
He ended the call.
Janet was already pulling the pages from the tray, tapping them into order.
She slid them into a manila envelope, sealed it, and wrote Judge Mercer's clerk's name on the front in clear block letters.
"My nephew works in the clerk's office," she said, standing.
"He owes me a birthday dinner and approximately eleven years of favors." She picked up her coat from the back of her chair.
"I'll walk it over myself."
Harlan looked at her.
"Janet—"
"I have been watching that man on the seventh floor for three years," she said quietly.
"I know what he is.
I just never had anything I could do about it." She buttoned her coat.
"Now I do."
She walked out.
Harlan stood alone in the small office.
The printer ticked as it cooled.
Outside in the corridor, he could hear the elevator arriving.
He stepped to the side of the door, out of the direct line of sight from the corridor window.
The elevator opened.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
They stopped outside the records liaison office.
The door opened.
Deputy Director Richard Callahan walked in.
He was sixty-one, silver-haired, and had the kind of face that appeared on agency commendation plaques.
Behind him was a younger man Harlan didn't recognize — not an agent, not staff.
The suit was too expensive and the eyes moved too carefully.
Solis, Harlan thought.
Peter Solis.
He canceled the lunch.
"Harlan." Callahan looked around the empty office.
His eyes settled on the printer.
On the drive still sitting beside it.
"What have you been printing?"
"Budget projections," Harlan said.
Callahan looked at him.
The smoothness was still there, but something underneath it had shifted.
"I'm going to need that drive."
"I don't think you are."
"This is a direct order from a deputy director in an active federal matter.
You are currently operating on suspended credentials.
If you do not hand me that drive, I will have you removed from this building and placed on administrative leave pending a full review."
Harlan picked up the drive from beside the printer.
He turned it over once in his hand.
"The documents that were on this drive," he said, "were delivered to Judge Mercer's clerk four minutes ago." He set the drive on the desk.
"The drive itself is empty.
You're welcome to it."
Callahan's face did not change.
But Solis, behind him, took one small step backward.
"You don't understand what you've done," Callahan said.
"I think I do."
"Voss has people, Harlan.
Not just lawyers.
People.
And when this falls apart—"
"It's not going to fall apart." Harlan's voice stayed level.
"Because in approximately forty minutes, a federal judge is going to review authenticated communications between you and Peter Solis" — he looked past Callahan at the man in the expensive suit — "documenting eight months of contact with Voss's defense team, three wire transfers totaling just under four hundred thousand dollars, and two recorded conversations in which you discuss the specific timing of today's transfer." He looked back at Callahan.
"That's what was on the drive, Richard.
In case you were wondering."
The room was very quiet.
Solis turned and walked out.
Callahan didn't move.
For the first time in the eleven years Harlan had known him, the smoothness was completely gone.
What was underneath it was not anger.
It was the face of a man watching a door close.
"You should have come to me," Callahan said.
His voice was different now.
Quieter.
Almost tired.
"You should have been someone I could come to," Harlan replied.
Callahan straightened his jacket.
He looked at the empty drive on the desk.
He looked at Harlan.
Then he walked out.
Harlan stood in the quiet office for a moment.
The printer ticked.
Somewhere down the corridor, an elevator opened and closed.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Reyes.
*Judge Mercer has the documents.
Fitch has been notified.
Warrant request is being drafted now.*
He typed back: *Good.*
Then he typed: *How's Marcus?*
The reply took a moment.
*Eating a sandwich.
Asking about his uncle.*
Harlan looked at the empty drive on the desk.
May you like
He did not pick it up.
He walked out of the office, back into the corridor, and took the stairs.
