When the elevator doors opened again, a man was waiting for us in a wide corridor. He looked to be in his late sixties, his hair gray, his face showing signs of many years of wear. He wore slacks and a button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone. He adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses on his face and stepped forward and extended his hand to me.
“Elijah Shepherd, I’m Roger Davidson. It’s an honor to meet you.”
First the President of the United States, now this guy. It felt not only strange but somehow also wrong under the circumstances. I shook his hand anyway.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Davidson.”
“Roger—please, call me Roger.”
I motioned at Sanchez.
“This is Hector Sanchez.”
Roger hesitated, staring at Sanchez.
“Agent Njeim, what is Mr. Sanchez doing here?”
I said, “I made her bring him.”
Roger said, “He doesn’t have clearance.”
“Neither do I.”
Sanchez said, “I’m standing right here, you know.”
Roger shook his head as if to clear it.
“I apologize, Mr. Sanchez. It’s just after what’s happened, we’re on high alert.”
He extended his hand, and after a moment, Sanchez shook it.
Roger said, “I’m glad you were both able to arrive safely—or at least as safe as can be considering.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about the men you lost.”
His face went all at once solemn.
“As am I. Agent Njeim, thank you for escorting them here.”
She nodded. She slipped the cell phone and its battery and tiny chip from her pocket, held the pieces out to Roger.
“Mr. Shepherd managed to take this off the copilot of the Black Hawk.”
Roger took the pieces from her, gingerly, as if they were live explosives.
“Thank you, Agent Njeim. I’ll have Taylor take a look. We’re headed that way now.”
Agent Njeim cleared her throat.
“Sir, about Agent Palmer—”
He held up a hand, cutting her off.
“Yes, I know. I’ll take care of the notification. I’ll do it for all the agents who lost their lives today.”
Agent Njeim only nodded.
Roger motioned us down the corridor.
“Now, shall we?”
We followed him down the corridor into a large, expansive room. Long tables scattered about, people sitting at the tables on computers. Many tables had more than one computer set up. On the wall facing the tables were several large screens, and one massive screen, maybe ten feet tall, twelve feet wide. Currently on it was aerial footage of the attack’s aftermath at the end of the Manhattan Bridge.
A few stares greeted us as we entered the room. A couple seconds, nothing more, and then the men and women shifted their focus back to their computer screens.
Roger spoke as he led us to the back of the room.
“This is our control center. We have a dozen analysts working at any time.”
Sanchez asked, “Working on what?”
“We’re Homeland Security. They work on whatever keeps our country safe. But their main focus is—or I should say, was—on tracking Temple.”
He shuffled over to a table occupied by just one analyst. She looked to be in her late twenties, short blond hair, a nose ring. A half-dozen empty cans of Red Bull were scattered next to the monitors.
Roger made the introductions.
“This is Taylor. Taylor, this is Elijah Shepherd and Hector Sanchez.”
Taylor didn’t acknowledge us. She stared at her computer screen, typing at a rate that was almost inhuman.
Roger stepped forward, tapped his knuckles briefly on the table beside her.
She jumped. Looked at us. Stared for a long moment, then recognition filled her face and she quickly extracted the earbuds in her ears and stood up.
“Sorry.”
She wiped her palms on her jeans.
“You’re Elijah Shepherd.”
She stared at me with a kind of awe, which I found very unsettling. Before, when nobody knew who Temple was, I never had to deal with people treating me like a hero. She wiped her hands again and extended her hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you.”
I shook her hand.
“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”
Taylor’s gaze shifted over to Sanchez. There wasn’t as much awe in it, but there was still excited recognition.
“And you’re Hector Sanchez.”
Sanchez shook her hand, and tilted his head to whisper in my direction.
“Nobody ever says it’s an honor to meet me.”
Roger set the pieces of the copilot’s phone on the table beside her.
“This was the only salvageable item from this morning’s attack. It was taken from the copilot of the Black Hawk. Agent Njeim will fill you in.”
Agent Njeim said, “Whatever’s on there, it’s no doubt encrypted.”
Taylor nodded.
“If anybody can break the encryption, I can.”
Roger said, “Then we’ll leave you to it.”
He patted her on the shoulder and started past her, motioning for Sanchez and me to follow.
“Are either of you hungry?”
Sanchez said, “I’m starving.”
“We have a chef on staff. He’ll make you whatever you want within reason. When we get to my office, I’ll call and order us breakfast.”
We left the control center and entered another corridor.
Roger motioned at the doors ahead of us.
“We have a conference room, a medic station, a small arsenal. We also have quarters for our analysts, as well as showers. Most of them work twelve-hour days, sometimes longer, and some never have a chance to go home. They crash here, grab a few hours of sleep, and then get back to work.”
A staircase was off to our right. Roger started up it.
“There’s an elevator to my office, but I prefer to take the stairs. At my age, any exercise helps.”
The stairs led to another corridor, this one shorter than the one below. Roger went to the first door and placed his thumb on a scanner on the wall. The red button on the panel turned to green, followed by the sound of the door unlocking. Roger pressed down on the handle and pushed open the door and waved us through.
A large wooden desk dominated the room with a trio of chairs placed in front of it. Behind the desk was a two-way mirror. From up here Roger could watch the control center without the analysts down below knowing.
Roger closed the door, and all at once his body seemed to go through a transformation: the forced smile faded, his shoulder went back, his face became more severe, and his voice, when he spoke, took on an edge.
“There’s a mole in this organization, gentlemen, and I need to find it before more of my people die.”