Out on the street he mixed in with a few pedestrians. By the time they reached the corner, the disheveled vagrant in the dirty, dark trench coat had disappeared like a lethal wisp of smoke.

It’s tricky to know how good a job the government does at keeping secrets since the only ones we know about are the ones that leak. This morning Zeb Thorpe, assistant director for the FBI’s National Security Branch, is trying to wedge all four fingers and his thumb into the cloak-and-dagger dike, which is starting to drip.

Thorpe has us closeted in the federal building out near Miramar for what appears to be a session of truth and consequences.

“Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds, Mr. Diggs. I appreciate all of you coming out here this morning.”

“I didn’t know we had a choice,” says Harry.

Harry Hinds is my law partner. He doesn’t like cops and had developed a terminal aversion to the FBI when he discovered several months ago that they had wired our office and tapped our phones.

“Nonetheless, we appreciate your cooperation,” says Thorpe.

The best he gets from Herman Diggs, our investigator, is a dark-eyed nod. Herman is African American, about six foot four, so Thorpe has to look up at him as he smiles.

“Please come in, take a seat. Can I get you anything-coffee, soda, bottled water?” He directs us toward the long, dark conference table in the center of the room, where a court reporter is already set up behind his stenograph machine. Seated at the table is James Olson, the new United States attorney for the Southern District of California. Seated beside him is a slender, austere man in a naval uniform.

“Just what I wanted for breakfast, coffee and a transcript,” says Harry.

“We could have done it surreptitiously, digital tapes and microphones,” says Olson.

“That would have felt like home,” says Harry. “Just like my office.”

Ordinarily Olson would not be doing this himself. He would have assigned it to one of his deputy U.S. attorneys. But given the sensitive nature of the inquisition, I am surprised they haven’t dispatched Olson’s boss from Washington to conduct it.

“I would apologize for the wiretaps and the surveillance,” says Thorpe. He ushers us inside and closes the door, and then motions us toward the three chairs closest to the court reporter. “But we didn’t have much choice. You have to understand that at the time, we had no idea who you and Mr. Madriani were working with, where your loyalties lay, or for that matter what you knew. We did what we had to do.”

“As I recall, that was the defense at Nuremburg,” says Harry.

“And we’d do it again,” says Olson.

“You mean the gassing or the wiretapping?” says Harry.

Olson gives him a mean-eyed stare.

“I know you’re new to the job and you probably need to practice your law enforcement hard-on for Mr. Thorpe and the court reporter. So feel free to jump right in,” says Harry.

The court reporter looks up. “Should I be taking this down?”

“No.” Olson fires at him a stony-eyed stare from across the table.

“Gentlemen, please. Let’s try to keep this civil and brief.” Thorpe tries to moderate. “Mr. Madriani, how about some water for you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mr. Diggs?”

“Depends how long we’re gonna be here,” says Herman.

“That depends on what you have to say.” Olson speaks before Thorpe can open his mouth.

“A bottle of water would be nice,” says Herman.

Harry, Herman, and I take our seats and Olson nods toward the court reporter. “Now,” he says.

He has each of us identify ourselves for the record and state our home addresses. The stenographer has us spell our names.

“I suspect you gentlemen know what this is about,” says Olson. “The events outside the North Island Naval Air Station earlier this year, what the media now refers to as the ‘Coronado Assault.’”

For about eight months, Thorpe and his minions have managed to maintain wraps on the central missing detail surrounding the gun battle outside the gates of the North Island Naval Air Station.

“There is no secret to the fact that a group of terrorists were thwarted in their attempt to detonate a bomb-laden vehicle near the naval base at Coronado.” Olson looks up to make sure we’re all singing from the same page.

“And that in the ensuing gun battle the terrorists, all of them, were killed along with three law enforcement officers. At some point the bomb was defused and the vehicle was removed. Are we in agreement with regard to these basic facts?” asks Olson.

“If you say so,” says Harry.

“Do you have some other version of the facts?” Olson looks at him.

“This is your party,” says Harry.

“Fine, let’s start with you, Mr. Hinds. Have you spoken to anyone in the media, or anyone else for that matter, concerning the events in question?”

“I might have mentioned it to my barber,” says Harry. “People want to know. What can I say?”

“But as I understand it, you weren’t there that day,” says Olson. “You weren’t actually near the truck or at the scene, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“So where did you get your information?”

Harry glances at me.

“So whatever you think you might know concerning the shoot-out and the truck, and whatever was on the truck”-Olson puts the emphasis on this last point-“is nothing but hearsay. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. So why don’t I just go?” Harry starts to get up.

“Sit down,” says Olson.

“How about you, Mr. Madriani?” Olson looks at me. “Have you talked to anyone, besides your partner, concerning the events that day and what you think you might have seen?”

“No.”

“No one? You haven’t mentioned it to other employees in your office?”

“No.”

“What about your family? You must have said something to them?” says Olson.

“No. There’s just my daughter. And I want to keep her out of it.”

“What is her name?” Olson sits poised with his pen over a yellow legal pad.

“Stay away from her,” I tell him. “She’s not involved.”

“Her name?” he says.

“Sarah Madriani.”

He writes it down. “Does she have an address?”

“She lives with me. She’s just graduated from college.”

“Congratulations,” he says. “Has anyone from the media tried to contact you concerning the events at Coronado?”

I laugh. “You must be kidding. We’ve had to change our business phone number four times. For three months we had to move the location of our practice to another office in another city to avoid the horde camped outside our door. That answer your question?”

Olson looks at Thorpe, who nods as if to confirm these details.

“So you’re telling us you haven’t divulged any information concerning the details of what happened that day?”

“By details, do you mean the fact that the device on board the truck was nuclear?” I say.

“You don’t know that,” says Thorpe.

“So what do you think it was?” says Harry.

“According to the information I have, it was an IED, an improvised explosive device,” says Thorpe.

This is the official line, and technically correct. After all, it was a forty-year-old nuclear bomb originally designed for the belly of an obsolete Russian cruise missile and modified sufficiently to be loaded into the bed of a rental truck. The government has offered no other details and has blunted further inquiries on the grounds of security and because the device is the subject of an ongoing investigation. No doubt the investigation will be ongoing in perpetuity. Nobody wants to explain how close we came to a moon-size crater at the north end of Coronado or the annihilation of most of the inhabitants of the city.

“The fact of the matter is,” says Thorpe, “none of you has anything but suspicions.”

“Then why are we here?” I ask.

“To make sure you haven’t spread those suspicions to the media or to anyone else,” says Olson.