Bradley turned to the table and turned on his laptop. He placed a case on top of the table next to his laptop and opened it. Inside was a Nikon digital SLR camera with several lenses, mostly macro. He looked at the sky to see the likelihood of direct sunlight, which he preferred when photographing metal. A large cloud was passing over the sun but was unlikely to last.

Rachel asked him, "How could we ever find little washers within a mile or two radius of a particular spot if we can't find them with a metal detector?"

"With determination, diligence, and luck."

Rachel looked around and considered the likelihood of finding a couple of washers in several square miles of woods. "Doesn't sound very likely to me."

"Nor me. But if we use our brains, perhaps we'll think of something they didn't."

"Like what?"

Bradley breathed deeply. "Well, for example, the NTSB is convinced the blade came off a mile or two away from here and just landed next to the helicopter in one of those weird things that happens in many accidents."

I was listening to every word and stopped fiddling with my camera to make sure I heard him.

He continued, "That is probably right, as I see it. I don't think the blade came off right here, on the way down. But it is an assumption. You see how an early assumption can lead you astray? Anyway, the additional assumption is that the tip weights came off before the blade came off and therefore are 'out there' somewhere, miles from here."

I jumped in, "Well, if their tip-weight theory is true, wouldn't that make sense?"

"Make sense? Sure. It would make sense. But does it make it true? A certainty? Not at all. Physics determines what happens, not theories. Tip weights can stick, they can fracture and loosen those outside of them and come off later, all kinds of possibilities. What I think, ladies and gentlemen, is that the answers lie in this cathedral." Bradley waved his arm around over his head toward the canopy of trees that surrounded the accident scene. "The answers, and perhaps even the tip weights, are right here."

We stayed at the site until dark. We climbed out of the ravine on the now solid and easy-to-follow dirt road and headed home, only to eat, sleep, rise, and head to the office again before dawn.

One night on my way home later that week, Byrd called. "Hey. What's up?"

"Been pushy on our reluctant witness. You know the one."

"Good. He ready to meet?"

"He wants to go the other way. Suddenly he has no idea who I am. Won't even return my calls."

"That's not good."

"Not. But get this. Tonight I got a visit. Not a call, a visit. I was on the throne, so my wife, Cherie, answered the door. I always tell her not to, but she does anyway. She's human. I come into the family room and there's a guy in my house by the door. Not really a threat, distinguished-looking, older. Like the IRS or something. I ask him who the hell he is and what he's doing in my house. He stares at me and says that he wants a meeting with you."

"Me?"

"You."

"Why didn't he call?… Who is he?"

"Exactly what I wanted to know."

"What did he say?"

"He said he wanted to meet with you, and he wanted me to set it up."

"So who is he?"

"You're not going to believe it. Head of security for the State Department."

"The State Department?"

"Yep."

"What does he want to talk to me about?"

"Wouldn't say."

"Well, shit, Tinny. What do you make of this?"

"I thought it was a joke. Another one of Hackett's head fakes. I checked him out. He's legit."

"So now what?"

"So now you tell me whether you want to meet with him. But I've got to say, I didn't feel like we had a lot of choice here. We're going to hear what he has to say no matter what."

I looked out my window, down the dark street. "Set it up."

We met the next night. It was to be at my office at 10 PM. Byrd arrived at nine thirty. "Michael," Byrd said, extending his hand.

"Tinny. How are you doing?"

"Good. So here we are."

"Yeah. To quote Dustin Hoffman, 'Is it "safe"?' "

Byrd smiled. "Good flick. I don't know if it's safe. We're dealing with the government, and they aren't going to do anything too stupid. But here we are at ten o'clock at night meeting someone from the State Department in Annapolis. Can't say I've done that before."

"Why the late hour?"

"Don't know for sure. I expect they want to be able to deny they ever met you if this goes south."

"If what goes south?"

"Well, we're about to find out," he said, looking over my shoulder at the phone as it lit and rang. "Here we go."

I turned and answered it.

A man said, "We're out front. Please let us in."

"It's open. Come on up to the second floor."

The line went dead.

We heard the door below open and two men walk up the stairs. I went to the door of my office, from which I could see the top of the steps. "Over here," I said.

They walked into my office. The first man extended his hand to Tinny. "Mr. Byrd, good to see you again."

"Likewise. This is Mike Nolan."

The man turned toward me. "Thank you for coming. I'm Chris Thompson."

I shook his hand. "And who is this?" I said, watching the other man approach.

"This is my associate Joe Galvin." Thompson was about my size but at least ten years older. Dark hair, cut short with gray throughout, and definitely in shape. He had dark eyes and an intense look. He said, "Thanks for meeting with us. I know this is a little out of the ordinary, but so are the circumstances. May we sit down?"

"Of course." I indicated the two seats in front of my desk. Byrd sat on the arm of the couch slightly behind them. Galvin didn't like that at all, but couldn't do anything about it.

Thompson said, "First, before I go on, I want to ask you both for your personal guarantees of confidentiality. May I have your assurance?"

"Why should I?" I asked.

"Because what I have to say to you is for your own good, and frankly for the good of the country. If you cannot keep the contents of our conversation confidential, then I cannot say what I need to say to you."

"Why would that concern me?"

"Because you need to hear it."

"Okay. For now."

Thompson looked at me sharply. "I need your assurance that you will keep it confidential forever."

I looked at Byrd. "Okay. Unless I don't like the way it's going; then I'll stop listening and we'll be done."

Thompson looked at Tinny. "And you, Mr. Byrd?"

"Sure."

"Do you have any recording devices on you?"

"No."

"You wouldn't mind if Joe checked, would you?"

"Yes, I'd mind."

"Well, I insist."

Joe checked Tinny for a tape recorder.

Thompson said, "Let me get right to the point-"

"Before you do," I said, "who are you?"

"I work for the State Department. My boss reports directly to the secretary. We're in INR."

"Sorry?"

"Bureau of Intelligence and Research."

"Intelligence?"

"Yes. For the State Department."

"Didn't know there was such a thing."

"Few do. My role is really more about security."

"So what can I do for you?"

"Very simple." Thompson looked at Byrd, then back at me. "You've been talking to a certain Secret Service agent. He seems to have a soft spot for other former Marines." He looked directly at Byrd. "I'm a former Marine too. Grunt. Retired, twenty years as a lieutenant colonel. I saw a lot. Spent a lot of time floating around with MEUs. So I get the idea of camaraderie between former Marines."

"Go on."

"Well, this Secret Service agent overstepped his bounds. He has been considering talking to Mr. Byrd and may have mentioned a document he isn't even supposed to have. It was a breach of protocol and security for him to keep a copy. It is a State Department document."