A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
The Mercedes pulled off the gravel and swung toward the officers’ quarters, and the dust rolled after it down the road.
My radio clicked at my shoulder before the dust settled.
“Sergeant Conroy.” Salas, breathing hard.
“That drawer’s got a second padlock on it now, and I never saw a soul come through this counter.”
Ahead of me the white car turned at the officers’ quarters and was gone.
I keyed the radio and told him to write down the time and speak to nobody.
The airfield list came off the fax at twelve forty, still warm in my hand.
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