“I told him the truth doesn’t need to shout,” I said.

“It only needs to show up.”

The truck reached sixty as we went by the sign for the inlet bridge.

The Atlantic Ocean lay flat and gray off to our right, stretching away to the horizon under low morning clouds.

Kenneth reached into his pocket, took out the little aluminum canister with the bomb’s firing pin, and set it on the dashboard between us.

“If Wyler wants proof you got held up on an operational call,” Kenneth said, “this pin has the base incident stamp on the side.”