For the first time, the perfectly ordinary counterintelligence officer looked irritated.
Good.
I wanted pressure.
Pressure exposes cracks.
I faced Cole.
“Stand up.”
He did.
Briggs immediately said, “Chief—”
“Quiet.”
I stepped toward Cole.
“Turn around.”
He obeyed.
I inspected the outside of his tactical jacket.
Nothing.
Then the collar.
Nothing.
Then the inside seam.
My fingers stopped.
A tiny thread had been disturbed.
Fresh stitching.
Someone had opened the lining.
I tore it slightly.
Inside was a second object.
Not a transmitter.
A strip of paper.
I pulled it free.
Cole turned.
“What is it?”
I unfolded the strip.
Three words were written in black ink.
COLE IS CLEAN.
Underneath was the three-line symbol.
Briggs stared.
“That could be planted misinformation.”
“Yes.”
“Then why trust it?”
“I didn’t say I did.”
Cole looked at me.
But something in his expression had changed.
The arrogance was gone.
So was embarrassment.
There was only focus.
“Whoever planted the transmitter also planted that note?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I intend to discover.”
The aircraft began descending.
Rain hammered the fuselage.
The pilot’s voice came over the speaker.
“Ten minutes.”
I looked out through the small window.
Below us was not Whidbey.
