The administrative offices of Holbrook Dynamics were quiet at 8:00 PM, the fluorescent lights humming softly. I wore a borrowed custodial worker’s coat, its fabric stiff and smelling faintly of disinfectant.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I slipped past a cleaning cart and into the secondary records archive on the fourth floor. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light filtering through the blinds.
The rows of filing boxes stretched endlessly, each one labeled with years and contract names. “1969 Navy Contracts,” one read, and I pulled it down, the cardboard gritty under my fingers.
I moved quickly, my flashlight beam sweeping over manifest logs and procurement orders. Julian’s lot numbers, the M-119 fuses, they had to be here.
Then I found them. Carbon copies of bank transfers, dated two weeks before the final M-119 shipment. The sum: $65,000.
The recipient: Colonel Curtis Albright. The memo line: “Consulting fees – Project Nightingale.”
My breath hitched. Albright, the same man Salinger had mentioned, the Pentagon inspector who signed off on the clean logs. This was the proof. A direct bribe, meticulously documented, hidden in plain sight.
I slid the copies into my coat pocket, the crisp paper rustling against my side. My hands were slick with cold sweat.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall outside the archive. My body went rigid.
“Double the guards around the home study safe tonight,” Arthur’s voice, distinct and resonant, cut through the silence. “Especially around the floor safe. Nothing leaves that house.”
He was here. My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against a stack of boxes, listening to his retreating footsteps, a chilling wave of fear and resolve washing over me.
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