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The reporter studied Kurt’s Department of Homeland Security badge, then asked, “Why is a Secret Service agent looking into a murder? I thought you did financial crimes?”
Kurt inwardly winced, realizing that the man in front of him probably knew much, much more about the mandates of the Secret Service than he did. If he wasn’t careful, he’d really raise the hair on the back of the old guy’s head.
He said, “Blame yourself. You guys report so many stories that we spend more time trying to stay ahead of them than on our real jobs. The administration just asked me to check, because the last guy Breedlove spoke with was my boss. The secretary of Homeland Security.”
The man looked at his badge again and said, “Kurt Hale, huh? Well, Agent Hale, I don’t know what you want me to say. The police have already been over here questioning everyone. Have you talked to them?”
“Yeah, I did. Look, I’m just building a two-slide update briefing. Nothing major. I just want to confirm a few things.”
What he didn’t say was that the police had given him nothing to help his quest. They had few leads and were actively focusing on gangland affiliations based on a recent unflattering story Breedlove had printed, which had apparently aggravated some serious gangbanger kingpins. That might well have been the case, but Kurt felt it was something more. Something he could use to find Kylie. Pike now had a team and was actively working the problem, but he’d come up with precious little from the safe house in Paris. An address in County Cork, Ireland, which might or might not be anything at all.
This fishing expedition might come to nothing as well, but it was worth the look.
The old reporter said, “What do you want to confirm?”
Another man wandered to the cubicle, standing behind Kurt.
Kurt asked, “The night he left here, he was going to meet a source, correct?”
The man behind him said, “Dwight, I’ll take this.”
Kurt turned and saw a twentysomething guy in chinos and a button-down, with the wispy three-day-beard look the younger generation now sported. Either a statement of his lumberjack qualities or a statement of his laziness. The man stuck out his hand, saying, “Kincaid Butler. I was here when Grant left.”
Dwight rolled his eyes and said, “Okay, Kincaid, he’s all yours. I need to get back to work.”
Without another word, Dwight turned to the computer in front of him and ignored them both.
Kincaid said, “Follow me. I’m the one that spoke with the police.”
They wandered to another cubicle, Kincaid talking as they went. “Yeah, Grant was here, and he was working on some bombshell story, but nobody outside of our editor knew what it was. Maybe not even him.”
Kurt said, “And he left here that night because of it?”
“I think so. He was pretty close-lipped about it, but it was getting big enough that he was going to ask for my help.”
“So you were working the story as well?”
They reached another cubicle, and Kincaid took a seat, putting his hands behind his head. “Not yet. Just background stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Emails, research, that sort of thing.”
“So what was the story?”
Kincaid said, “I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you.”
Kurt backed off, not wanting it to appear that he was interested in anything but Breedlove’s disappearance. He said, “Okay, I really don’t care about it. I just have to brief the administration that this had nothing to do with them. You know how it is. Twenty-four-hour news and all that. Trying to stay ahead of the game.”
Kincaid said, “Well, I’ll be picking up the ball, so if you want help, I’m your man. What do you know about it?”
The statement was aggravating. Kincaid was now pumping him for information, and it was getting Kurt nowhere.
There was one primary question Kurt wanted answered: If Breedlove was killed by a terrorist tied to the kidnappings, how did the killer learn that he was on the story? There had to be a leak that allowed the terrorist to specifically target Breedlove, and it meant the group had somehow penetrated The Washington Post, gleaning the information when even the people on the floor didn’t know what Breedlove was doing.
Kurt redirected the questioning, saying, “You mentioned the editor. Would he have more information about where Breedlove was going?”
“Brittle? Doubtful. He let Breedlove run because of his past history, but he was getting fed up with the waiting. Honestly, I’m not sure Breedlove even knew what he was hunting. Outside of talking to the secretary of Homeland Security, most of his work was with low-level insiders.”
“How did you know he spoke to the secretary? If it was all so hush-hush?”
Kincaid stood up, saying, “Come here. I’ll show you.”
They walked to an office, paned in by windows with a view onto the newsroom floor. The desk was littered with papers, stacks overflowing an inbox, but the chair was empty.
“That’s Brittle’s office. See the whiteboard behind him? He kept track of anyone who was meeting a whale.”
“Whale?”
“Just what we call big shots. Political figures, entertainment figures, anybody that could come back to bite us in the ass. If you were meeting them, you had to keep Brittle abreast of the time, place, and outcome.”
Kurt peered through the glass and saw a list of names, most he recognized. The undersecretary of defense for acquisition, a couple of senators, a music mogul. To the right were the reporters’ names, and next to it, the story. National Defense Authorization Act, Patriot Act, charity event for Africa, and other news items. He scanned down and saw the secretary of Homeland Security’s name. Next to it was Breedlove. The story was listed as “compartmented.”
“So you read this and knew that Breedlove was meeting the secretary of Homeland Security?”
“Well, yeah, but Breedlove was all set to give me the dump on what they discussed. I mean, before . . .”
“And this board stays up all the time? Where anyone can see it?”
Looking confused, Kincaid said, “Yeah. So what?”
Kurt felt the trickle of an idea. He said, “I might be able to get you that data dump firsthand. If you keep me out of it.”
Kincaid’s eyes lit up, then just as quickly returned to nonchalance. He said, “I’m all ears.”
“It’s not me. But the secretary is my boss. I’ll see what I can do. You’re the man for this? Should I talk to Brittle?”
“No, no. That’ll just clog up the gears. He’s still dealing with Breedlove’s death.”
“But won’t the whale get posted? Won’t it say ‘Breedlove’s story’ or something?”
Kincaid said, “Yeah, yeah, but Brittle won’t care if the interview is already locked. He’ll just want to know it’s going on. Here, let me give you a card.” He pulled one out and said, “That’s got all my contacts. Cell, office, email. Call anytime.”
Kurt studied it, pretending to make a decision, but in reality wondering how he was going to trick Kincaid into thinking he was meeting the secretary of Homeland Security. Wanting that on the board. Wanting to stake the young Kincaid in a field, bleating for the terrorist.
Beyond that, he was wondering how he was going to break every federal surveillance law in existence by tapping all of the phones on the card. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to make him the bait if Kurt didn’t have the means to capture his prey.
He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kincaid beamed, not understanding the meaning of his words.