The diner in Bethesda was exactly as Marcus Kincaid had described: nondescript, with peeling vinyl booths and a faint smell of stale coffee and burnt toast. I slid into a booth at the back, ordering a plain black coffee. It was late, past ten, and the place was almost empty.
Marcus arrived ten minutes later, slipping into the booth opposite me. He looked even more stressed than usual, his tie slightly askew, his hair disheveled. He ordered nothing, just nervously tapped his fingers on the table.
“Thanks for meeting me, Marcus,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.
He gave a quick, anxious nod. “Couldn’t talk there. His office has microphones in the vents. Seriously.”
My eyes widened slightly. Julian’s paranoia ran deep.
“He’s been… difficult,” Marcus continued, his voice hushed. “Especially since you, uh, left. He’s been screaming at staff. Accusing everyone of disloyalty.”
“He accused me of financial paranoia and burnout,” I supplied.
Marcus snorted, a bitter sound. “That’s his M.O. Blame everyone else. He called me in yesterday, demanding I draft a press release about your ‘temporary leave of absence due to health issues’.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I refused. Said it was unprofessional.”
“You refused?” I asked, genuinely surprised. Marcus always seemed so deferential to Julian.
He gripped his hands together under the table. “I’m sick of it, Clara. I’m sick of the lies. He made me scapegoat a junior staffer last month for a budget leak that came from *his* desk. He just uses people up and throws them away.”
He glanced around the empty diner, then pulled a small, silver flash drive from his pocket. He slid it across the table. It bumped against my coffee cup. Twist 5.
“What’s this?” I asked, my fingers brushing the cool metal.
“His private communications,” Marcus whispered. “Off-books. Encrypted messages with Genevieve. Wire transfer records he tried to hide from the official ledger. Dates of their off-site meetings.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The direct evidence.
“He’s preparing to execute the $4.2 million wire within 48 hours,” Marcus added, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and urgency. “He’s been rushing everything since you started asking questions.”
“How did you get this?” I asked, looking at the tiny device.
“I managed his calendar for years,” he said, a grim line to his mouth. “I know his habits. I got access to his encrypted tablet when he left it in the green room after a late-night show. He never changes his password, just makes it ‘more complicated’ by adding a number to the end.”
He leaned in further. “He’s planning to push it through as ‘consulting fees’ for a new ‘economic development initiative’ in offshore shell companies. All signed off by him, not you.”
Marcus suddenly stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape. “I have to go. Someone might see me. Just… please, be careful. He’s dangerous.”
He tossed a few dollars on the table for my coffee, though he hadn’t ordered anything. Then he walked quickly out of the diner, not looking back.
I stared at the flash drive. It felt impossibly small, yet it held the key to Julian’s entire scheme. Marcus, the timid press secretary, had become an unlikely ally, disgusted enough by Julian’s ruthlessness to risk his own career. The clock was ticking. Forty-eight hours.
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